#V; Every light needs a shadow { Every shadow needs a home }

[hatethysinner]

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

[mssalo]

worship Part: 2

A week ago, Joel finally gave you everything you’d been missing—passion, desire, and the attention of a man who truly craved you. Now, you’re ready to leave your husband behind, but before you can make your move, a garden party at your home pushes everything to the brink.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, cheating, explicit sexual content, possessive Joel, fingering under table while people are there, hitting your husband (deserved), oral (m receiving) while driving, divorce, angst, rough sex (P in V), dirty talk, body worship, breeding kink, emotional tension, secret affair, neglectful husband, explosive confrontation, soft moments with sarah and Joel, 11k words.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

It had been a long, exhausting week since that night with Joel—since everything between you shifted. His touch, his voice, the way he had made you feel seen and wanted, lingered in your mind every waking moment. You hadn’t seen him since, though you’d spoken in hushed tones on the phone, voices low as you discussed the delicate plan of how to leave your husband. It had to be done carefully. One wrong move could make everything fall apart.

Today, though, you were still stuck playing the perfect wife. Your husband had thrown together a garden party for his work colleagues, eager to show off the life he liked to pretend was flawless.

But, of course, he hadn’t lifted a finger. The pressure of preparing the garden, arranging the food, and making everything look effortless fell entirely on you. The weight of it clung to your shoulders like a heavy coat, but you did it anyway. Even now, you couldn’t shake the need to make everything look perfect, even if he didn’t care.

As the guests arrived, you moved between them with a forced smile, offering drinks and making small talk, though your mind was somewhere else—waiting.

Joel was coming.

And the thought of seeing him again, of having him close, made your pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with the party.

The garden was bathed in golden light as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the lawn. You were pouring a glass of wine when you saw him slip in quietly, unnoticed by most.

But not by you.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as your eyes found him, his presence steady, grounding, but also full of that same heat that had lingered between you since that night. And maybe longer.

Joel moved easily through the crowd, shaking hands, nodding politely, but it was obvious—he wasn’t here for all that. His eyes kept finding yours, flicking toward you even as he spoke with others, his gaze lingering a little too long, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile every time you caught him staring.

You tried to focus on your tasks—pouring drinks, offering food—but every time you turned, Joel was closer, his presence weaving around you like an invisible thread pulling you toward him.

You could feel his gaze on you even when you weren’t looking, the heat of it warming your skin. The tension between you was palpable, and you could barely breathe as it thickened the air.

Finally, as you set down a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Joel was there, standing beside you, his presence sending a wave of warmth through your body. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was close—his scent, that familiar, earthy mix of soap and pine, filled the space between you.

“Hello, darlin’,” Joel’s voice was low, just for you, the deep timbre of his Texas accent sending a ripple of awareness through you. He stepped closer, his breath brushing your ear as he leaned in slightly. “Need any help with all this?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you glanced around, trying to make sure no one had noticed how close he was standing, the intimate way he was speaking to you. “You don’t have to do that,” you said, your voice barely steady. “You’re a guest.”

Joel’s lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes dark with something unspoken. “I’m not here for the party, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with meaning. “I’m here for you.”

His words sent a rush of heat through you, making your knees feel weak. You glanced around again, nerves buzzing under your skin, but no one seemed to be paying attention. His fingers brushed lightly against your arm as he reached for the tray you were holding, the touch sparking a fire beneath your skin.

“Let me help,” Joel said softly, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. His touch was firm, comforting, but there was something beneath it—a quiet intensity, a need that neither of you could ignore.

You watched, breathless, as Joel moved through the party, gathering glasses and plates, his strong hands working with quiet efficiency.

He moved like he belonged there by your side, taking over tasks you’d been doing alone for far too long.

The sight of him—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with that quiet confidence—made your pulse race. There was something undeniably sexy about the way he did it, the way he moved with purpose, his gaze flicking back to you every so often, checking in silently.

At one point, as you both cleared another table, his hand grazed yours again—this time, he didn’t pull away. He let his fingers linger, his touch light but full of meaning. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low whisper meant only for you. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, his lips just inches from your ear.

The compliment sent a shiver down your spine, your skin tingling under his gaze. You glanced around quickly, making sure no one had heard, but the words lingered, hanging in the air between you. His eyes flickered with something deeper, something that made your breath catch in your throat. 

He wasn’t just talking about how you looked—he was talking about you. The way you held everything together, the way you moved with quiet strength, even when you were on the verge of crumbling.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your eyes met his. The connection between you was electric, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away—there was no party, no guests, no husband.

Just you and Joel, standing there in the golden light of the garden.

Before you could say anything else, your husband’s loud voice cut through the moment, pulling you back into reality. 

“Hey! More drinks over here!”

You flinched at the sound, the familiar sting of frustration building inside you as your husband continued barking orders like you were nothing more than a servant. You opened your mouth to respond, but Joel was already moving.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with a protective edge. He shot you a quick glance, his eyes dark with something that made your heart pound—a promise that he wasn’t going to let your husband keep treating you like this. Not anymore.

You watched as Joel moved across the garden, grabbing a bottle and refilling your husband’s glass without a word. Your husband barely even acknowledged him, too absorbed in his own conversation to notice anything, but Joel didn’t seem to care. When he returned, his gaze softened again, his eyes locking with yours as he stepped closer.

And the way Joel looked at you… it wasn’t just admiration. It was desire—deep, simmering beneath the surface, barely held in check.

Every glance felt like a secret, a silent confession of the things he couldn’t say aloud. Every time his hand brushed yours, it wasn’t accidental. Each fleeting touch sent warmth spiraling through you, igniting something raw and undeniable.

When he returned to your side, his hand grazed the small of your back, lingering longer than necessary, the pressure just enough to remind you that he was there, close. The touch was so simple, but it sent a pulse of heat through your body, making your breath catch in your throat.

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” he murmured, his voice low, the rich warmth of his breath skimming across your neck. “You’re always the one carrying everything.”

The words weren’t just kind. They were a gentle rebuke to all the years you’d spent doing just that—being the one who did it all, with no one ever truly seeing the weight of it.

You glanced up at him, your chest tightening at the softness in his eyes, the concern etched in his features.

“Joel…,” you whispered, the words barely audible, your voice unsteady.

The lump in your throat grew as you looked down, overwhelmed by the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But Joel wasn’t finished. He moved even closer, his hand lifting to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb sweeping tenderly over your skin, grounding you.

“You do all this,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “workin’ yourself to the bone and yet you’re still the most breathtakin‘ woman in this entire place.”

His words hit you hard, your breath faltering as your heart raced, threatening to burst from the emotion building inside. His touch was firm, steady, but underneath it, you could feel the undercurrent of something deeper—something that made your pulse quicken, that made you lean into him just a little more.

You could feel the tension building between you, the air thick with all the unspoken feelings that had been growing between you for months.

You couldn’t do this out here—not with people around. You needed to be alone with him, somewhere you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding back.

“Come with me,” you whispered, barely audible over the sound of the party.

Joel’s eyes darkened with understanding, and he nodded subtly. He followed you quietly as you slipped through the garden, making your way toward the house.

You led him into the kitchen, the noise of the party fading behind you as you closed the door, shutting out the rest of the world.

The kitchen was dimly lit, with the sound of the party outside fading into nothingness as you led Joel inside, closing the door behind you. The soft glow of the light cast shadows across his face, making his already dark eyes seem even deeper, more intense. Your heart pounded in your chest, the air thick with everything left unsaid.

When you turned to face him, Joel was already stepping closer, his gaze locked on yours. His hands reached out, pulling you toward him with a quiet intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

His touch was firm, possessive, as if he had been waiting too long to feel you again, and now that you were alone, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked up at him, feeling the heat of his body so close to yours.

He didn’t respond at first—he didn’t need to. His eyes, full of longing and unspoken need, told you everything. He cupped your face with both hands, his touch gentle but with a restrained intensity, like he was holding back the full force of what he wanted to do.

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, his breath warm against your lips.

“I can’t get you outta my head,” he finally murmured, his voice rough, low, filled with raw need. His hands moved down, wrapping around your waist as he pulled you closer. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s you. The way you feel… the way you sound when I’m inside you. It’s all I think about, baby.”

His words sent a rush of heat through your body, your breath catching in your throat as the memory of last week flooded back.

The way he had touched you, the way he had made you feel, was seared into your mind too. You’d been replaying it over and over, the ache for him growing stronger with every day that passed.

“I’ve been missin’ you so much, pretty girl’,” Joel whispered, his lips grazing your jawline as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips.

“Every damn night… fisting my cock thinkin’ bout you. Thinkin’ about how perfect you feel wrapped around me. How good you taste.”

You gasped softly at his confession, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer. His words sent a shiver through you, the raw honesty in them making your pulse race.

You could feel his breath hot against your neck, the roughness of his beard brushing against your skin as he kissed you softly, each touch of his lips making your body tremble.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” Joel growled against your neck, his voice thick with desire as his hands roamed over your body, sliding up your sides, feeling every curve as if he were memorizing you all over again. “You don’t know what you do to me, baby. I’ve been countin’ the days ‘til I could have you like this again.”

His mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you firmly against him.

The kiss was filled with the desperation of everything he had been holding back—the weeks of restraint, the nights spent thinking of you, wanting you, needing you.

You kissed him back just as eagerly, your body pressing into his as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.

Before you could kiss him deeper or let your hands explore more of him, your husband’s voice cut through the kitchen, calling everyone outside for dinner. 

The spell was broken, and with a shared glance, you both knew you had to split, to act like nothing had happened. You quickly adjusted yourselves, smoothing over the moment to avoid suspicion.

You followed the crowd out to the garden, still flustered from what had just unfolded with Joel.

Joel walked beside you, his hand brushing against yours as you sat down. You were still reeling from the intensity of what had happened, and you couldn’t shake the way his rough voice had whispered filth into your ear just moments ago. Your body was still buzzing with unspent desire, even as the cool evening breeze washed over you.

You sat beside Joel, your heart racing, trying to calm the thrum of desire that had been simmering between you both since you entered the garden.

The tension was almost unbearable, his presence electric, every glance in his direction making your body prickle with awareness. It was impossible to focus on anything else—not with Joel so close, not with the hunger that had been left hanging between you both.

Just as you thought you might regain control, Joel’s hand found your thigh under the table, his touch possessive, like he was claiming you all over again. The warmth of his hand against your bare skin sent a jolt of electricity straight through you, and your heart raced as he slowly dragged his fingers higher, inching closer to where you were already soaked and aching for him.

He acted like he had every right to touch you—like your body was his to explore and own, and the intensity of it made your pulse pound in your ears. His fingers grazed your inner thigh, teasing, deliberate, and you fought to keep a straight face, knowing everyone else at the table remained oblivious to what was happening beneath the tablecloth.

Your husband, as usual, was too busy talking loudly, bragging about work and drinking far too much to even notice. But you noticed. Every move Joel made had your body clenching, anticipation building as his fingers slid higher.

With a low, growling whisper, Joel leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You think about me all week, huh? Think about my cock stretching out that tight little pussy?” His words were so filthy, they sent heat flooding between your legs, your panties already damp from the thought alone.

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as Joel’s fingers inched closer, slipping under the fabric of your dress like it was the most natural thing in the world. His touch was agonizingly slow, his fingertips barely brushing your soaked panties.

“I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” Joel whispered, his voice dark and possessive. “This pussy’s beggin’ for me. I could take you right here, couldn’t I? Fill you up right under his fuckin’ nose, and he wouldn’t even notice.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively, trying to stop the flood of arousal that was pooling in your core, but Joel wasn’t having it. His hand gripped your thigh tightly, prying your legs apart, his fingers teasing along the edge of your panties. “Don’t you dare try to hide from me,” he growled. “You know this pussy’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching as his fingers finally slipped under the thin fabric of your panties, dragging over your slick folds with a slow, deliberate motion. Your body trembled as he teased you, parting your lips with his fingers, slicking them through your wetness.

His thumb found your clit, pressing down just enough to make your legs shake, his fingers spreading you open and slipping inside with agonizing slowness. You bit down hard on your lip to stifle a moan, your body begging for more even as you tried to stay quiet.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Joel growled, his voice thick with lust. “So fuckin’ needy for me. Bet you haven’t felt this good in years, have you?”

You could barely breathe, your body trembling as his fingers pumped in and out of you, curling just enough to brush against that perfect spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit, slow and teasing, keeping you on the edge but never letting you tip over.

“Look at you,” Joel muttered, his voice low and dark as his fingers fucked you under the table. “So fuckin’ desperate for me. This pussy’s mine. You’re mine. You belong to me now.”

The sound of his voice, so full of ownership and desire, sent another wave of heat rushing through you. You clenched around his fingers, your walls tightening as he worked you over, pumping harder, faster, the wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of you barely hidden by the noise of the party.

Your husband’s voice droned on, oblivious to what was happening right in front of him, while Joel’s fingers fucked you mercilessly under the table. The sheer filth of it, the forbidden thrill of being taken like this in such a public space, made your pulse race.

“You love this, don’t you?” Joel growled, his breath hot against your ear. “Love how I finger fuck this needy little cunt. You’re gonna cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like a good girl.”

His words sent you over the edge, the pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave. You bit down hard on your lip, your body trembling, legs shaking as you came, your pussy clenching around his fingers as the orgasm hit you.

Joel didn’t stop, his fingers thrusting deeper, harder, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a quivering mess, barely able to stay upright in your seat. His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, sending aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through you.

As you tried to catch your breath, Joel slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, bringing them to his lips. He groaned, a low, filthy sound that made your whole body tingle.

“Damn,” he said loudly, smirking as he sucked his fingers clean. “That cake is good.”

Your heart nearly stopped as he spoke, your eyes widening in shock, but the rest of the table didn’t seem to notice the double meaning behind his words. They all laughed, assuming he was talking about the dessert in front of him, while you sat there, still trembling, trying to recover from the intensity of what just happened.

Joel’s eyes flickered to you, dark with satisfaction, and when he leaned back in his seat, his hand settled possessively on your thigh once again. “Good girl,” he whispered, his voice rough with approval. “You did so fuckin’ good. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

And the look in his eyes promised that the night was just beginning.

· · ────

As the party finally wound down, the last guests said their goodbyes, spilling out into the cool evening. You stood by the door, forcing a tight smile, thanking them for coming while your mind buzzed with unspoken tension. Every fleeting glance toward Joel made your pulse quicken, a stark contrast to the exhaustion and bitterness that had built up throughout the night.

The garden was littered with empty glasses, plates, and discarded bits of the party, the chaos that your husband had insisted on throwing but, unsurprisingly, had done nothing to manage.

You sighed deeply, already dreading the cleanup. Your husband, now a few drinks past his limit, stumbled through the garden, slurring words to whoever was still unfortunate enough to be in earshot. He hadn’t lifted a finger all night, as usual, letting you handle everything while he made sure to drink more than anyone else.

Joel, in contrast, moved through the garden like a quiet force. Collecting glasses, stacking plates, helping with the cleanup in a way that felt so natural. His movements were purposeful, calm, and magnetic, making even the simple act of clearing a table seem like an extension of his strength. You couldn’t help but watch him, your body tingling at the sight of his rolled-up sleeves, those strong forearms flexing as he moved. 

Every quiet glance he sent your way only deepened the longing inside you, a silent acknowledgment that he saw you—really saw you.

At one point, Joel leaned in close to hand you a tray, the scent of him—earthy and masculine—surrounding you as he whispered, “You’re not alone anymore, darlin’.” His voice was low, gravelly, a promise woven through every word. 

A shiver ran down your spine, the quiet intensity of his words wrapping around your heart like a protective shield.

But as Joel disappeared inside to use the bathroom, you felt the air shift. The moment he was gone, your husband’s drunken presence loomed closer. 

He had been stumbling around for the past hour, barking slurred orders at no one in particular, too drunk to even realize what an embarrassing display he was putting on. He was more than drunk—he was a ticking time bomb.

You stacked the last few plates when you felt it: the heavy, uneven footsteps approaching from behind. The hair on the back of your neck stood up as his presence pressed down on you.

“What the hell are you doing?” your husband’s voice slurred, thick with irritation and resentment. “Why is it taking you so goddamn long to clean up? Can’t even do something simple.”

You ignored him, focusing on the task in front of you, but it only made his frustration mount. His voice turned sharper, dripping with condescension. “Oh, I see. Just gonna ignore me, huh? Like you always do. After everything I’ve done for you, and you can’t even handle one fuckin’ party.”

He staggered closer, his breath sour with the stench of alcohol, the air between you heavy and tense. “You ungrateful bitch,” he spat, his voice louder now, full of venom. “You think you’re too good for me? Is that it? You can’t even look at me now?”

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as the rage in his voice twisted tighter, crueler. His words felt like a slap, a reminder of how he had always managed to make you feel small, worthless. You kept your eyes down, trying to focus on anything but the suffocating tension, trying to keep your composure. But the anger in him was rising, boiling over.

“I said look at me when I’m talking to you!” he barked, his voice turning ugly as he stepped even closer, his body looming over yours. His face was flushed red, eyes wild with drunken rage. “Can’t even manage that, can you? Useless… that’s what you are. Always have been. Can’t do one fucking thing right.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp and venomous, and before you could react, he raised his hand slightly, a dangerous glint in his eyes that made your stomach drop. The fury in his expression was like nothing you’d seen before, and for a moment, the fear that he might actually hit you became very real.

Before he could do anything, a shadow loomed behind him, and you felt the shift in the air. 

“Back the fuck off,” Joel’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, sharp and filled with restrained rage that sent a shiver down your spine.

His words were laced with a fury so thick it felt palpable, filling the space between the three of you. He stepped up behind your husband, towering over him with an intensity that made it clear—Joel wasn’t here to talk.

He was here to protect, to claim, and he would destroy anyone who stood in the way.

Your husband turned, stumbling slightly, his drunken swagger faltering as he tried to stand his ground. But there was no mistaking the fear that flickered in his eyes when he looked up at Joel—who, in contrast, was a force of nature.

His fists were clenched, his body coiled with enough tension that you knew it would only take one wrong move for him to snap.

“This isn’t your business,” your husband slurred, his voice wavering as he tried to sound tough, but the bravado was weak, and it was clear he knew it. He might have tried to act like he had control, but one look at Joel’s seething expression, and that confidence faltered.

Joel’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as his nostrils flared. His eyes, dark and burning with fury, didn’t leave your husband’s face for a second.

“It became my business the second you thought you could put your hands on her,” he growled, stepping even closer until the two were nearly nose to nose. His voice, thick with raw protectiveness, made your heart race. “If you ever touch her again, I swear to God, I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.”

Your husband let out a bitter laugh, but it was shaky, his attempt to save face pathetic in the face of Joel’s quiet, simmering rage.

He staggered back a step, shaking his head before sneering at you both. “Oh, I see what’s goin’ on here,” he spat, his voice laced with venom. 

“You’ve been fucking her, haven’t you? That’s what this is about?” His eyes darted between you and Joel, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. 

“Tell me, Joel, did you feel how loose and boring she is? I bet she was a real disappointment, huh?”

Before you could even process his disgusting words, Joel’s fist connected with your husband’s face with a sickening crack. 

The impact was swift and brutal, and your husband stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood dripped down his chin. Joel stood there, fists still clenched, chest heaving with anger, the air around him charged with a lethal energy.

“Stop!” you yelled, stepping forward, your voice sharp, cutting through the thick tension. 

Joel froze, his eyes flicking to you, still blazing with fury but full of concern for you. 

Silence fell over the garden, the only sound the shallow, ragged breaths of your husband as he staggered, dazed from the hit.

You walked slowly toward your husband, his eyes filled with confusion as he held his bloodied nose, clearly assuming you were going to stop Joel, to protect him. 

But when you reached him, your face set in stone, you didn’t hesitate. 

With all the pent-up anger and frustration that had been festering inside you for so long, you pulled back your fist and punched him—hard.

The sound of your fist connecting with his face echoed through the quiet garden, and your husband reeled, stumbling backward as shock registered in his eyes. 

He stared at you, dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. 

His hand shot up to his cheek, his mouth hanging open as he tried to process the fact that you—the woman he had treated like a doormat for so long—had just hit him.

“You… you hit me,” he stammered, his voice weak, his face twisted in disbelief.

“That’s right,” you spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and adrenaline. “I did. And you’re damn lucky that’s all I did after everything you’ve put me through.”

Your husband blinked, still stunned, and you took a deep breath, the years of silence finally cracking open inside you like a dam breaking. 

The words poured out before you could stop them, raw and trembling.

“You have no idea how lonely I’ve been,” you whispered, your voice shaking as the weight of it all hit you. 

“You don’t know what it’s like to feel invisible. To wake up every morning next to someone who doesn’t even see you. I used to beg for you to notice me—just a smile, a touch, anything to make me feel like I wasn’t completely alone. But you never did. Never once.”

Your voice broke, and you fought to keep the tears from spilling over, but the dam was already gone, and the hurt kept pouring out. “I gave you everything. Every part of me. And you just… took. You took until there was nothing left of me. Do you know what that’s like? To feel so empty that you don’t even recognize yourself anymore? To look in the mirror and not know who you are because all you’ve been doing for years is trying to keep someone else’s life together?”

You took a step closer, and your husband stumbled back slightly, the confusion and shock still etched on his face, but you didn’t stop. The words kept coming, like a wound that had been festering for years finally being ripped open.

“I used to think it was my fault. That if I could just be better, or prettier, or more fun, you might actually love me again. But I realize now… you never loved me. Not the real me. You loved the idea of me, the version that made your life easier. The one who cleaned up your messes, who stayed quiet while you drank yourself into oblivion, who pretended not to see when you looked at other women, when you lied to my face.”

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “Do you know what it’s like to go to bed every night wondering if this is it? If this is all your life is ever going to be? Wondering why the person who’s supposed to love you the most can’t even bring himself to ask if you’re okay? I’ve spent years screaming inside, trying to get you to see me, but you never did.”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unchecked, but you didn’t wipe them away. The pain was too raw, too suffocating to hold back any longer. Your voice trembled, your words thick with heartbreak as you finally let the truth spill out. “I was empty. So damn empty, and you never noticed. Not once.” 

The ache in your chest deepened as the words left your lips. “You were so wrapped up in your own world, your own needs, that you never saw me breaking apart. I would lie next to you in bed, feeling more alone than I ever did when I was by myself.”

You swallowed hard, the tears making your voice hoarse but stronger. “I used to be alive. I used to have dreams. And then… you. You came in and made me believe that love meant sacrificing everything. That love meant shrinking myself, staying small so you could feel big.”

The tears continued to fall, but there was no stopping now. “I gave you everything, and you gave me nothing but empty promises and cold shoulders. I waited for you to see me, to really see me, but you never did. You didn’t even try. You never looked past what you wanted and into what I needed. I stayed up nights waiting for you to come home, hoping this time you’d talk to me like a partner, like someone who mattered. But all I ever got was silence. Silence and empty space where love was supposed to be.”

Your husband’s face went pale, the blood still dripping from his nose, but you didn’t care. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, your voice sharp, cutting through his pathetic attempts to muster an excuse.

“And the worst part?” you continued, your voice cracking with the weight of your sorrow. “The worst part is how long I convinced myself this was normal. That this was what love looked like. I thought that if I worked harder, if I could just be more patient, more understanding, that maybe you’d love me again. Maybe you’d remember who I was. But no. You just kept taking and I kept fading away until there was nothing left of me but a ghost in this house.”

You took a step closer, staring him dead in the eyes, the pain burning in your chest. “You made me feel like I wasn’t worth fighting for. Like I wasn’t worth anything. I was so fucking lonely, screaming inside for someone to save me, but you never came. You never gave a damn.”

His mouth opened again, but you weren’t finished. “No. You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to tell me it wasn’t that bad, or that I’m overreacting. Because you weren’t there. You never were. I’ve been doing this alone for so long, I forgot what it felt like to have someone who actually gives a shit. And now… now I’m done pretending.”

You wiped your eyes, your voice steadying as you spoke the final words that had been weighing on you for years. “I’m done living this half-life. I’m done waiting for something that will never come. You don’t own me. You never did. I’m not your shadow, I’m not your convenience, and I’m not your victim anymore. I deserve more. I deserve love. And you… you’ll never be capable of giving that.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Your husband stood there, shell-shocked, his face twisted in disbelief, his hand still clutching his bloodied nose. He had no words, no defense for what you had just said.

For the first time, he looked small, like the empty, hollow man he had always been.

You took one last deep breath, your heart racing with both fear and relief. “I’m leaving, and there’s nothing you can say to stop me. I’m reclaiming my life, and I’m not looking back.”

As you reached the end of your words, something raw and unfiltered clawed its way to the surface. The years of frustration, of being neglected not only emotionally but physically, boiled over. You stopped in your tracks, your body trembling with the last surge of anger that had been buried for too long.

You turned back, eyes blazing, your voice rising with a mix of fury and bitterness as you screamed, “And you never once made me cum! It’s hard to be fun when you’ve been looking for my clit for four fucking years!”

The words hit him like a slap, and for the first time, you saw him truly speechless—stunned, humiliated. His face paled, his mouth hanging open, but he had nothing. No snarky comeback, no excuse. Just the weight of your truth hanging in the air, cutting through the night like a knife.

Without waiting for his response, you turned and walked toward Joel, who had been standing nearby, his face dark with anger but softening as you approached. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his strong, steady embrace, his hand resting firmly against your back, grounding you in the reality that you were no longer trapped.

“You ready?” Joel asked, his voice a low rumble filled with both protectiveness and admiration.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper, but filled with a sense of freedom you hadn’t felt in years. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

You walked away with Joel, leaving behind the remnants of your broken past. With each step, the weight lifted from your shoulders, lighter and lighter, until you could breathe again.

The pain was still there, the scars from years of neglect and loneliness etched into your heart, but now—finally—you were free. Free to be seen. Free to be loved. Free to be whole again. And as Joel’s arm wrapped around you protectively, you knew you were walking toward something new, something real.

And you weren’t walking alone.

· · ────

You and Joel walked toward his truck, the night air felt cooler, like a breath of relief after the storm. The intensity of everything that had just happened lingered in the air between you, heavy and electric. 

Joel hadn’t said much, but his presence was solid, grounding you as your emotions swirled inside—rage, heartbreak, and an overwhelming sense of freedom.

When you reached his truck, the reality of the moment hit you all at once. You were leaving it all behind—the years of loneliness, the pain, the person who never saw you. 

And here was Joel, the man who had seen you, stood up for you, fought for you. He had protected your honor without hesitation, and now, as he opened the door to his truck for you, the weight of his quiet strength was impossible to ignore.

The emotions welled up inside you—gratitude, relief, desire. You turned to him, your heart pounding, and before you could think, you stepped toward him, your hands reaching up to pull him closer. Joel’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch gentle but firm, and in that moment, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

You kissed him. Deeply. Fiercely.

It wasn’t a soft kiss; it was full of everything you had been holding inside for so long. The passion, the desperation, the need to feel alive, to feel wanted. Your lips pressed against his, and he responded instantly, his other hand wrapping around your waist, pulling you tightly against him. The kiss was a collision of all the emotions you both carried—his protectiveness, your desire, the mutual recognition that this was right.

Joel kissed you like he had been waiting for this moment forever, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your heart race. You could feel the tension of the night melt away, replaced by the heat building between you, his breath mingling with yours as he deepened the kiss, his grip tightening slightly around your waist.

The world around you faded, the only thing that mattered was the feel of his lips, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. Your hands moved up into his hair, pulling him even closer, not wanting the moment to end. It was more than just a kiss—it was an affirmation, a promise that you weren’t alone anymore.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his, both of you still holding each other tightly. Joel’s eyes were dark, filled with a mixture of desire and something deeper—something that made your heart swell.

“I’ve got you, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Always.”

· · ────

As Joel drove down the dark, empty road, the tension between you was thick and electric. You couldn’t stop thinking about him—how fiercely he had defended you, how protective he had been. Every inch of him radiated strength, and the need inside you was unbearable. You needed to feel him, taste him, let him fill the aching void that had been growing all night.

Without a second thought, you leaned over, your lips pressing against the side of his neck. You could feel his pulse quicken under your touch, his skin warm and rough with stubble. “Baby,” Joel growled, his voice low and strained as he kept his eyes on the road. “Slow down, you’ve been through so much tonight.”

But you couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t resist the heat building between you. “I don’t care,” you whispered, your breath hot against his neck as your hands moved down, trailing over his chest and then lower to his lap. “I need you, Joel. Please, let me take care of you.” Your voice was full of need, thick with desperation as your lips trailed down to his collarbone.

Joel groaned softly as you kissed down his neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his body tense under your touch as your lips continued to explore every inch of skin you could reach.

“Fuck, I can’t wait anymore,” you whimpered, your voice thick with urgency as you pressed your lips against the hard bulge straining against the rough fabric of his jeans. The heat of him was intoxicating, the pressure of his cock beneath your lips sending a fresh wave of arousal through your body. “Please, Joel… I need you. I need to taste you, to feel you on my tongue.”

You kissed him again, harder this time, your lips dragging over his clothed cock as you looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Let me suck your cock, Joel. Please. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll take you so deep, baby. I need it so bad, I can’t stand it anymore.”

Your breath was hot against him, your lips moving up and down his clothed length as you kissed and licked over the thick bulge, tasting the rough fabric but craving the feel of him, hot and heavy, against your tongue. “Please, baby,” you begged, your voice almost a whimper. “I need it. I need to feel you in my mouth, to taste every inch of you. Let me make you feel good.”

Your hands roamed over his thighs, squeezing gently as you continued to kiss and worship his cock through his jeans. “I’ve been waiting for this,” you whispered between kisses, your lips brushing the head of his clothed cock. “Dreaming about having you in my mouth, tasting you. I need to feel you filling my mouth, baby. Please. Please let me suck your cock.”

You could feel him twitch beneath the fabric, his restraint slipping as you licked him through his jeans, teasing him, your breath hot and needy against him. “I’ll be so good to you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “I’ll take you deep, I promise. Let me feel you on my tongue, Joel. I’ll make you feel so fucking good. Please… I need it so bad.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as your hand slipped inside his jeans, finding his thick, hard cock waiting for you. “Jesus, darlin’,” he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to focus on the road. “You’re gonna drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

You licked your lips, not wasting a second as you freed him from his jeans, his cock thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking precum. You leaned down, licking the head, tasting the saltiness of him as you swirled your tongue around the tip. Joel groaned loudly, his hips jerking slightly as you teased him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice strained. “You really want this, don’t ya?”

“Fuck, look at you,” Joel groaned, his voice full of filthy praise. “Suckin’ me so fuckin’ good, just like you said. You love this cock, don’t you? Been waitin’ to taste it, to feel it stretchin’ that tight mouth of yours.”

You whimpered in response, taking him deeper, your lips stretched tight around his thick length as you bobbed your head, sucking harder, your tongue flicking over the sensitive underside of his cock. His groans filled the truck, dark and full of possession, as if he couldn’t believe he had you like this, your mouth worshipping him.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” Joel panted, his hand slipping from the wheel to thread through your hair, guiding your movements. 

You moaned softly in response, taking him deeper into your mouth, sucking him in slow, deliberate strokes. You hollowed your cheeks, letting your tongue tease the sensitive underside of his cock as you moved up and down, your hand stroking the base in time with your mouth. The weight of him felt perfect, and you wanted to taste every inch.

“Goddamn, baby,” Joel growled, his voice thick with need. “You feel so fuckin’ good. Keep goin’, just like that.”

“That’s it, darlin’, fuck, you’re so good at this,” Joel growled, his hips bucking slightly into your mouth, fucking your throat just a little harder now. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya? Every last fuckin’ inch. This cock is yours now, baby. You gotta take care of it.”

His grip tightened in your hair as he guided you, pushing you down further, groaning as he felt the head of his cock hit the back of your throat. You gagged slightly, but it only spurred you on, your tongue swirling around him as you took him deeper.

“You’re so fuckin’ dirty, beggin’ for it like this,” Joel grunted, his voice thick with possession. “You love it, don’t ya? Love feelin’ me fillin’ that sweet mouth of yours. You’re mine now, baby. No one else is ever gonna touch you again. You’re all fuckin’ mine.”

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him twitch in your mouth. You wanted more—you wanted to take all of him. Without hesitating, you moved lower, letting your tongue trail down his shaft to his balls, licking and sucking them gently. Joel’s breath hitched, his body tensing as you lavished attention on his balls, your hands still stroking his cock as your tongue teased the sensitive skin.

“Shit,” Joel gasped, his voice rough as his hips bucked. “You’re fuckin’ incredible… that mouth of yours…”

You sucked one of his balls into your mouth, letting it fill your cheeks as your tongue swirled around it slowly, savoring every second. Your hand still worked his thick cock, stroking him steadily, feeling him pulse in your grip as his body tensed. 

Joel’s breathing had turned ragged, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he tried to keep the truck steady. The raw desire that radiated from him only made you hungrier for more.

You moved your lips lower, taking his other ball into your mouth, your tongue gently massaging him, your mouth hot and wet as you worshipped him. “Fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, your voice muffled by the weight of him. “I love the way you taste… I want all of you in my mouth. Let me feel it. Let me swallow it all, baby. Please, I need to taste you.”

Joel groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking slightly as your tongue traced the sensitive skin of his balls. “Goddamn, baby… you’re so fuckin’ filthy. So desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, strained, and dripping with satisfaction. “You’re finally mine now, huh? That sweet mouth of yours… all fuckin’ mine.”

You moaned around his balls, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through him, making him twitch in your hand. You stroked him faster, your fingers curling around the base of his cock as your mouth worked him over, licking and sucking every inch of him. The scent of him, the taste of him—it was overwhelming, and you couldn’t get enough. You wanted him to fall apart for you, to feel how much you craved him.

You pulled back for a second, pressing wet kisses along the length of his cock, trailing your tongue from the base to the tip before dipping back down to his balls. “Please, Joel,” you begged again, your voice trembling with desperation. “I want to feel you cum in my mouth, baby. I need to swallow every drop, to taste all of you. I need you so fucking bad.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his cock throbbing in your hand as you sucked his balls back into your mouth, gently massaging them with your tongue, taking your time to worship every inch of him. He let out a low growl, his voice filled with lust. “You want me to fill that pretty little mouth of yours, don’t ya?” he rasped, his hips lifting slightly, pressing himself deeper into your mouth. “Fuck… you’re finally all mine, baby. Gonna make sure you never forget it.”

You moaned around him again, your hand pumping his cock faster as your tongue worked over his sensitive head, wet and hot. The weight of him in your mouth, the taste of his skin—it made your whole body ache with need. You wanted to please him, to make him lose control, to take him over the edge. You needed it, craved it like nothing else.

“You love this, don’t you?” Joel groaned, his voice thick with possession. “Suckin’ my balls like a good girl… takin’ my cock so fuckin’ deep. You’re mine now, aren’t ya?”

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes, Joel. I’m yours. All yours. I’ll do anything for you.”

Without waiting for his response, you wrapped your lips around his cock again, taking him deep into your mouth, your hand working the base as your tongue swirled around the head. You sucked him harder, your mouth moving in perfect rhythm with your hand, and you could feel the tension building in his body, his cock throbbing as he neared the edge.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel growled, his voice thick with need. “I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna fill that perfect mouth of yours, and you’re gonna swallow every fuckin’ drop.”

You moaned in response, your mouth working him faster, your hand stroking him harder as you felt him pulse in your mouth. His grip tightened on your hair, guiding your movements as he bucked his hips, fucking your throat in short, sharp thrusts.

“Take it all, baby,” Joel groaned, his voice rough with pleasure as he came, his cock throbbing as he spilled into your mouth, hot and thick. You swallowed greedily, your lips wrapped tightly around him, taking everything he had to give, your tongue swirling around the head as you drained him completely.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and full of satisfaction. “That’s it, baby… take every last bit.”

Joel’s breath was still ragged as he came down from the high, but when you tried to move, his hand stayed firm in your hair. “Not so fast, baby,” he growled softly, the dark possessiveness in his voice making your heart race. “Clean me up real slow, now. Real gentle.”

His cock, still glistening and sensitive, twitched as he guided your head back toward it, his fingers threading through your hair. “Yeah… that’s it,” Joel muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Lick up every drop, baby. You’ve gotta take care of what’s yours now, huh? This cock’s all yours, so show me how good you can be.”

Your tongue flicked out, gently running over his shaft, cleaning him up just like he wanted, savoring the musky taste of his release. Joel’s grip on your hair loosened slightly, but he was still guiding you, his voice low and filthy as he watched you work.

“Hmm, yeah… now the balls again,” he whispered, his tone coaxing, yet commanding. “You love those, don’t you? Go ahead, baby. Show ‘em some love.”

You eagerly obeyed, sucking one of his balls into your mouth, rolling it gently with your tongue, while your hand continued to stroke his still-hard cock. Joel groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair as he let out a deep, satisfied growl.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” he rasped, his breath heavy with desire. “Takin’ care of me so fuckin’ good. You’re such a good girl, aren’t ya?”

You hummed in response, letting your mouth worship every inch of him, moving between his balls and his cock, savoring the way he throbbed under your touch. Joel’s low grunts of approval sent shivers through you, making you ache for more.

“Good job, baby,” he murmured, his voice husky as you finished, licking him clean. “Such a good girl, makin’ sure this cock’s taken care of. This is yours now—every inch of it. No one else’s. Gotta make sure it’s ready whenever you need it.”

You pulled back slowly, meeting his gaze with a breathless smile. His cock was still wet from your attention, twitching slightly, and you could see the fire still burning in his dark eyes.

Joel reached down, brushing his thumb across your lips, smirking at the sight of you kneeling before him. “All clean, baby. You did good. So fuckin’ good,” he said, his voice filled with possessive pride. “This is what a real man gives you, huh? What you deserve.”

His thumb slipped inside your mouth, and you sucked on it gently, your eyes never leaving his, still drunk on the power of what you’d just shared. Joel’s hand slid down your cheek, cupping your face, his voice dropping to a possessive murmur.

"Yeah… you’re mine now. Gonna fuck you whenever I want, fill you up however I want," Joel growled, his voice dark and full of lust. “Don’t forget—you belong to me now, baby. This cock’s yours, but you’re mine.”

As Joel’s breath finally steadied, his hand released its tight grip on you, and a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. His eyes flickered down to you, dark with a mix of lust and admiration, while his other hand remained firm on the steering wheel, still guiding the truck along the winding road.

“All that,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “while I’m still makin’ sure we survive this damn drive.”

You wiped the corner of your mouth, smiling up at him, the taste of him still fresh on your tongue. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic pulse of the road beneath the tires kept you grounded in reality, but the fire between you burned even brighter.

Joel shifted slightly in his seat, his cock still twitching from the aftermath. “You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he growled softly, his hand brushing against your thigh possessively, fingers lingering just to remind you that this was far from over. “But I ain’t done with you yet. When we stop, I’m gonna make sure you feel every inch of me. All night.”

You smiled to yourself, knowing full well that the night was far from over. The tension still hummed in the air, thick and heady, as Joel drove on, the road stretching out ahead of you like the beginning of something you both had waited far too long for.

· · ────

8 months later.

The sun had just started to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden light across Joel’s living room, illuminating the soft textures of the couch beneath you as you lay there, soaking in the quiet comfort of your surroundings. The room felt peaceful, but there was something more—something that wrapped around you like a blanket of gratitude. You had never felt this kind of peace before, this kind of contentment.

You lay back, resting your head against a cushion as you watched Joel and Sarah from across the room, both of them caught up in some playful argument over something silly. Sarah was laughing, her face bright with amusement as she playfully swatted at Joel’s arm. Joel, pretending to be exasperated, let out an exaggerated sigh, but you could see the smile tugging at his lips as he grabbed a pillow and tossed it gently in Sarah’s direction.

“Watch it, old man!” Sarah teased, dodging the pillow as she laughed.

“Old man?” Joel shot back, his eyebrows raising in mock offense. “I’ll show you ‘old man,’ kid.”

The two of them wrestled and teased each other, their laughter filling the room, and you couldn’t help but smile as you watched them. This was your life now—this warmth, this love. It still felt surreal, like you were living in a dream you hadn’t quite woken from yet. How had you gotten here? How had you found something so precious after so many years of feeling lost and unseen?

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from sadness, but from pure gratitude. This was everything you had ever wanted—family, love, and the feeling of being seen. You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, letting the joy wash over you as you continued to watch them play fight, their laughter like music in the background.

Eight months ago, this life had seemed impossible.

Eight months ago, you were trapped. The woman you were back then was unrecognizable now—desperate, aching for a way out, for someone to see her, for someone to care. You had spent years in a marriage that had drained you, years trying to be someone you weren’t, trying to make something work that had been broken from the start.

The divorce had been a long time coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. You remembered the fear that had clawed at you as you walked into that courtroom, the uncertainty of leaving behind something that had been your entire life for so long. But Joel had been there with you, steady and solid. He had never wavered, and just knowing he was there had made the difference.

The memory of that day was still so clear. You had walked out of that courthouse feeling lighter, feeling free. And then—Joel. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over you like a wave.

You had barely made it out of the courtroom, the finality of the judge’s ruling still ringing in your ears when the weight of everything hit you. It was like a rush of adrenaline, a mixture of relief and fear and something electric that sparked deep inside you. You had glanced at Joel, his steady presence grounding you, but the look in his eyes—dark, full of unspoken things—had sent a shiver down your spine.

Without thinking, you had grabbed his hand and pulled him into the nearest bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you. Your heart had been pounding in your chest, the rush of emotions swirling in your mind, but it had been the desire—the need—that took over. The need to feel alive, to feel like you had control over your life again.

Joel hadn’t hesitated. His hands had been on you in an instant, pulling you against him as his lips crashed into yours. “Fuck, baby,” he had growled against your mouth, his voice thick with lust. “You’re finally mine.”

His words had sent a bolt of heat through you, your fingers already fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. You hadn’t cared that it was reckless, that anyone could walk in. All you had cared about was the way his hands gripped your waist, the way he pressed you up against the bathroom stall, his breath hot against your neck.

You whimpered as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt up in one swift motion. His touch was rough, urgent, but filled with a possessive tenderness that made your head spin. “He didn’t deserve you,” Joel muttered against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as his hands yanked your panties down. “Never fuckin’ deserved you. But I do. I’m gonna show you what it feels like to be with a real man.”

Your breath hitched as he spun you around, pressing your chest against the cold metal door, his fingers slipping between your legs to find you already soaking wet. “Fuck, baby,” Joel groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You’re so wet for me already. Bet you’ve been waitin’ for this.”

“Please,” you whimpered, pushing your hips back toward him, desperate for him to fill you. “I need you, Joel. I can’t wait anymore.”

He chuckled darkly, his fingers teasing your slick folds before pulling away. You heard the sound of his zipper, then the heat of his cock pressing against your entrance. “You were too fuckin’ good for him,” Joel growled, his breath hot against your ear as he gripped your hips. “But now you’re mine, baby. You belong to me.”

Without warning, he thrust into you, filling you in one deep, rough stroke. You gasped, your hands bracing against the door as Joel’s cock stretched you, his pace immediately hard and fast. He wasn’t holding back, and you didn’t want him to.

“Goddamn, baby,” Joel groaned, his voice rough and low as he fucked into you. “You feel so fuckin’ good. So tight around me. No one’s ever gonna touch you again. You understand?”

You moaned, your body trembling as he drove into you harder, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “Yes,” you gasped, your voice breathless. “Joel—oh God, you feel so good. No one’s ever—”

“Damn right,” Joel growled, cutting you off as his hand slid down between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. “He never touched you like this, did he? Never fucked you like you deserved. But I’m gonna make you cum so fuckin’ hard, you won’t remember his name. Everyday.”

His fingers rubbed tight, deliberate circles on your clit, and your body arched against him, your legs trembling as you felt yourself getting closer and closer. “Joel,” you whimpered, your hands gripping the door for support. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

“Cum for me, baby,” Joel groaned, his voice rough and demanding. “Show me who this pussy belongs to.”

With a cry, you came hard around his cock, your entire body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Joel didn’t slow down, his pace becoming erratic as he chased his own release.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with possession. “I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna fuckin’ pump you full. Make sure you never forget who owns you now.”

With one final, deep thrust, Joel groaned loudly, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his cum. The heat of him filling you made your head spin, your body still trembling as he leaned against you, catching his breath.

His hands slid up your sides, his touch softer now, his lips pressing gentle kisses to the back of your neck. “You’re mine now,” he murmured, his voice thick with both lust and something deeper, something softer. “No one else is ever gonna touch you. I’ll treat you so fuckin’ good, baby. You’ll never want for anything again.”

The memory faded as you blinked back into the present, the warmth of the room bringing you back to the reality of now. But the echoes of that courthouse moment still lingered, like a secret you shared with Joel, one that shaped everything between you.

You realized, belatedly, that both Joel and Sarah had stopped their playful banter and were looking at you, concern in their eyes. Joel stood there, his brows furrowed slightly, and Sarah had that soft, inquisitive look she wore when she was worried.

“Everything okay?” Joel asked, his voice low and gentle as he took a small step toward you.

Sarah shot him a quick look before turning back to you, her eyes wide and warm. “You look sad,” she said softly. Then, without another word, she launched herself across the room, flopping dramatically onto the couch and onto your lap, her arms wrapping around you in a tight hug.

The sudden weight of Sarah’s embrace, the way she was trying to comfort you in her own dramatic way, made you laugh, and the sound broke through the heaviness of the moment. “I’m not sad, honey,” you said, your voice soft and warm as you hugged her back. “I’m just… thinking.”

Joel’s eyes softened as he watched the two of you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. He crossed the room, sitting down beside you on the couch, his hand finding its place on your thigh as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Sarah, always the observer, sat up and shot Joel a mischievous grin. “You better cuddle her too, Dad,” she teased, though the way she said it made it clear she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Joel chuckled, his arm sliding around your shoulders as he tugged you closer, his lips brushing lightly against your cheek. “She’s right,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, darlin’? You seemed miles away.”

You leaned into the warmth of Joel’s body, resting your head on his shoulder as you let out a soft sigh. “I was just… thinking about everything. About the day we finalized the divorce,” you admitted, your voice quiet. “About how different everything is now.”

Sarah wiggled herself into your lap, cuddling into your chest as she peered up at you. “You’re happy now though, right?” she asked, her voice small but sure.

You looked down at her, a wave of emotion swelling in your chest as you ran your fingers through her hair. “So happy,” you whispered, the words thick with truth. “I wouldn’t change this for anything.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, his arm tightening around you. “You don’t ever have to look back again, baby,” he said softly, his voice full of the quiet reassurance you’d come to love so much. “You’re right where you belong now, with us.”

You smiled, feeling the overwhelming warmth of their love wrap around you, and you pressed a soft kiss to Sarah’s forehead before turning to Joel. “I know,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him, your lips brushing against his in a slow, tender moment.

Joel kissed you back, soft and lingering, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin, and when he pulled away, he smiled, his eyes searching yours with a warmth that made your heart swell. “You’re our family now,” he murmured, his voice soft but filled with conviction. “And we’re gonna keep makin’ sure you’re happy. Always.”

Sarah squirmed between the two of you, giggling at the closeness, clearly teasing but with a smile that lit up her entire face. “Okay, okay! I get it, you guys love each other,” she laughed, wriggling out of your lap and stretching her arms out. “But don’t go all mushy on me now.”

You and Joel both chuckled, the sound blending with the easy warmth that had filled the room. You reached out, ruffling Sarah’s hair playfully, and her mock annoyance only made you smile wider. Joel’s deep chuckle rumbled next to you, his arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you a little closer.

But as the moment settled, Joel leaned in, his voice dropping low so only you could hear, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Later tonight, though,” he whispered, his tone thick with promise, “I’ll remind you just how much I love you. Can’t wait to get you all alone, baby.”

You felt a flush of heat bloom over your skin, your heart racing at the teasing edge in Joel’s voice. His hand slipped down to your hip, squeezing gently, and though his gaze was soft, the intensity in his words sent a shiver through you.

But as the warmth of the moment settled around you, a wave of emotion washed over you, deeper than anything physical. Tears welled up in your eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming happiness you never thought you’d feel again. It wasn’t just about desire—it was about being seen, about being loved in a way that made you feel whole.

You blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they weren’t tears of pain or regret. They were the kind that come when you realize you’ve found the place you belong, the kind that make you feel grounded and safe. You felt Joel’s arm tighten around you, as if he could sense your emotions without you saying a word, and when you glanced up at him, his eyes were filled with nothing but love.

“You okay, baby?” Joel asked softly, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek again, the warmth in his gaze steady and comforting.

You nodded, smiling through the tears, your heart swelling with gratitude for the life you had now. “I’m more than okay,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m just… so happy. I didn’t think I could feel like this again.”

Sarah, still nestled beside you, glanced up, catching the tearful look on your face and frowning in concern. “Are you crying?” she asked, her voice soft but curious.

You let out a small laugh, ruffling her hair again as you quickly wiped away a tear. “I’m crying because I’m happy,” you assured her, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m so lucky to have you both.”

Sarah’s face brightened with a smile, and she wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug, her warmth spreading through you like a blanket. Joel leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, and the quiet, comforting presence of him grounded you even further.

In that moment, surrounded by the two people who had become your everything, you knew this was what it meant to be truly loved, to be seen. And you couldn’t imagine your life any other way.

Joel’s hand squeezed yours gently, his eyes filled with that same warmth that always made your heart race. “We’re the lucky ones, baby,” he said quietly, his voice low and tender. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Sarah, sensing the emotional weight of the moment, smiled up at you before wrapping her arms around you again. “You’re stuck with us now!” she teased, her tone light, but the meaning behind her words was clear. She meant it, and you felt it—this was where you were meant to be.

You let out a small laugh, feeling a deep warmth settle in your chest. For so long, you had been lost in a life that didn’t belong to you, stuck in a marriage where you felt invisible, forgotten. But now, sitting here with Joel and Sarah, you realized just how far you’d come. You had broken free from that prison, taken control of your own story, and allowed yourself to be loved and seen in a way you never thought possible.

Life can change, you thought. Sometimes, all it takes is one decision—a choice to put yourself first, to demand more, to refuse to settle for anything less than what you deserve. You had once believed that you were trapped, that your life was set in stone, but you now knew better. You had the power to change things, to rewrite your story, and to choose happiness.

Joel’s arm tightened around you, pulling you even closer as Sarah continued to chatter about her day, her laughter filling the room. You smiled, feeling the love in the air, the sense of belonging that had once felt so foreign to you.

“Situations change,” you whispered softly, almost to yourself, but Joel heard you. His lips pressed gently against your temple, a quiet reminder of his unwavering presence by your side.

“They do,” he murmured, his voice warm and filled with pride. “And you had the strength to change yours.”

You nodded, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the weight of those words settle deep within you. You had the power to make the change—to walk away from what no longer served you, to embrace the love and the life you knew you deserved. And now, as you sat there with the two people who meant the world to you, you realized that every struggle, every tear, had been worth it.

It wasn’t always easy, and there had been moments when you doubted yourself, moments when you wondered if you were making the right choice. But looking at Joel and Sarah now, you knew—without a doubt—that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

This was your new beginning. And it was beautiful.

As the evening light continued to fade, wrapping your home in a soft, golden glow, you closed your eyes and smiled. You had the power to shape your future, and this… this was just the start of something wonderful.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head (find the rest here). They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option. 

-

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

-

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need. 

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need. 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear. 

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

- 

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

-

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[astra-ravana]

Easy Curses for Beginners

Here are some simple yet unusual curses for beginners. These curses are low-energy, easy to perform, and require minimal tools. They are subtle and perfect for those just starting their baneful practice, but still pack a punch. Always be mindful of your intentions—curses can carry karmic or energetic consequences. Always start the curse process by protecting yourself and end it by cleansing yourself. Remember to do your own research before using baneful magick.

The Rotting Fruit Curse

Causes a person’s luck, relationships, or finances to decay over time.

Needed:

• A piece of fruit (apple, orange, etc.)

• A slip of paper

• A black pen

• A dark place (cupboard, drawer, or under the bed)

Instructions:

Write the target’s name on the paper. Place the paper inside or beneath the fruit. Hold the fruit and focus on your intent—imagine the person’s life slowly rotting just like the fruit will. Place the fruit in a hidden, dark place and leave it to decay. Once fully rotted, dispose of it far from your home.

The Knotted Thread Curse

Traps a person in misfortune, confusion, or stagnation. The target experiences obstacles, delays, and problems that keep them from progressing in life.

Needed:

• A piece of black thread or string (12 inches long)

• Your voice and breath

Instructions:

Hold the string in your hands and focus on the target. With each knot you tie, say a phrase like:

• "With this knot, I trap your fate."

• "With this tie, your plans fall apart."

Tie nine knots while envisioning the person becoming stuck, unable to move forward in life. Hide or bury the thread somewhere secret.

The Echo Curse

Makes a person’s words return to them, causing gossipers or liars to suffer their own consequences. Their own words work against them—exposing their lies, making people distrust them, or causing them to face social backlash.

Needed:

• A mirror (small handheld one works best)

• A marker or lipstick

• The person’s name (or just "liar," "gossip," etc.)

Instructions:

Write their name (or a word representing their offense) on the mirror. Hold the mirror and say:

"What you say returns to you, every lie and every word untrue."

Place the mirror facing a wall or inside a dark drawer, so their energy is reflected back to them.

The Cracked Egg Curse

Causes a person’s stability to fall apart—relationships, money, confidence, or mental clarity. The target experiences instability, whether emotional, financial, or personal.

Needed:

• A raw egg

• A marker

• A place to smash the egg (outside, near their path, or a trash bin)

Instructions:

Write the person’s name on the egg. Hold it and whisper your curse into it, such as:

"May your life crack like this shell."

Imagine their stability shattering like the egg will. Smash it on the ground or in a trash bin.

The Slipping Shadow Curse

Causes a person to lose focus, forget things, or make mistakes. They struggle with their memory, lose track of things, and make more mistakes.

Needed:

• A black candle

• A piece of paper

• A pencil

Instructions:

Write the target’s name on the paper. Light the black candle and hold the paper over the flame (don’t burn it yet). Whisper:

"Like a shadow slipping through the cracks, your mind stumbles, your focus lacks."

Let a few drops of wax fall on the name, then crumple the paper. Blow out the candle and throw the paper in a busy place (so their energy is scattered).

The Splitting Roads Curse

Causes confusion, indecision, and emotional instability. The target struggles to understand what's happening and make the right choices.

Needed:

• Two twigs or sticks

• A piece of string

• A crossroads or a place where two paths split

Instructions:

Tie the two sticks together at one end, so they form a V shape (symbolizing a forked path). Hold them in your hands and say:

"Your choices split, your path unclear, may confusion follow near."

Leave the sticks at a crossroads or place where two paths meet.

The Ink Spill Curse

Causes a person’s words (spoken or written) to be misunderstood, ignored, or turned against them. Everything they say becomes misinterpreted, loses power, or backfires.

Needed:

• A pen

• A piece of paper

• A cup of water or ink

Instructions:

Write the person’s name and a word representing their harmful speech (ie: “lies,” “gossip,” “manipulation”). Hold the paper and whisper:

"Your words twist, your message lost, what you say will bear the cost."

Drop the paper into the water or ink and let the words dissolve. Dispose of the soaked paper in running water (sink, river, or toilet).

The Cold Shoulder Curse

The person experiences social isolation—people ignore them, avoid them, or lose interest in them. This will eventually lead to profound loneliness.

Needed:

• A small ice cube

• A photo of the person (or just their name written on paper)

• A freezer

Instructions:

Place the ice cube on top of their name or photo. Whisper:

"Like ice, you freeze in place. No warmth, no friends, no welcome space."

Wrap the paper/photo in a piece of cloth or plastic and place it in the freezer.

The Crumbling Foundation Curse

Causes a collapse in a person’s relationships, home life, or work environment. The target experiences instability in their personal life making it harder for them to maintain relationships or stability.

Needed:

• A small handful of graveyard dirt

• A piece of paper

• A black pen

Instructions:

Write the person’s name on the paper. Hold the dirt in your hand and whisper:

"Your foundation weakens, your roots unsteady. That which holds you crumbles already."

Sprinkle the dirt over the paper and then fold it, with the dirt inside, like a little packet. Throw into running water or the rubble of a collapsed building.

[swordgrace]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jon snow x female northern reader.

SYNOPSIS: you reunite with your beloved childhood friend, jon snow, at the edge of the world. the both of you have changed, but your feelings certainly haven’t.

note: season six jon, follows s6 ep4.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 10.5K (not sorry).

warnings: SMUT (mdni), ramsay bolton warning, friends to lovers, confession of feelings, reunion sex, description of scars, jon is definitely more of a switch, horny reader (valid), lots of groping, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, jon loves to munch, body worship, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, lotus position & missionary position, reader is on top and on bottom, light biting & tit sucking, soft ending + aftercare

author’s note: I don’t know where this came from, but I’m glad because I had so much fun with his one! I’m a Jon girlie until the very end <3 I would honestly love to write more of him if you guys enjoy this! thank you so much for the love and support!

𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.

Direwolf sigils were replaced with that of flayed men, befitting for the screams that often emerged from the bowels of the Keep or the kennels, where enemies were fed to Ramsay Bolton’s pack of slavering hounds. Old faces that you had grown up with as a girl were gone — removed or slaughtered.

Your father, once loyal to House Stark and to Eddard himself, was strung-up and butchered for all to see, flayed alive by the Bolton men who now controlled Winterfell. You grew numb to the pain, numb to the shifting environment around you. It wasn’t the home that you had grown up in.

When you had caught sight of Sansa Stark in the courtyard, auburn tresses like searing embers against the backdrop of endless gray and snow, tears on her face, you knew that you needed to act.

You hadn’t known Sansa very well, but you did know her brother, Jon Snow. A beloved friend in your youth and teenage years, you had watched him go to the Night’s Watch. Any letters you’d written were likely thrown to the wayside, given the oaths that Men of the Watch swore, but you had longed to see him again.

Sansa recognized your face, no longer that of a young maiden with her head in the clouds. The both of you were women grown, trapped within Winterfell, and you wholly intended on escaping.

Fleeing Winterfell was perilous — dangerous, especially with the winter so biting and icy that it threatened to freeze away your extremities. Aided by Theon Greyjoy, once a captive of Ramsay, the three of you escaped into the harshness of the Northern woodlands.

Much of your time spent was in constant peril, with the looming threat of Bolton hounds nipping at your heels, search parties sent sprawling across the Wolfswood and beyond. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, distant scream of the wind made your steps quicken.

It was only when your lives were spared by Brienne of Tarth and her squire that you knew you were truly safe.

Castle Black had stood the testament of time, the last line of defense against whatever monsters lurked outside of The Wall. When its massive gates had opened, making way for your caravan, you felt shrewd in the presence of strangers. You hadn’t left Winterfell for much of your life, and only now, the world seemed so much larger.

When you saw Jon Snow again, more a man now than a boy you’d left behind in Winterfell, your heart nearly shriveled up within your chest. Youthfulness had left him, replaced with a permanent twinge of melancholy. A scar circled around his right eye, seemingly newer, and his mound of curled tresses remained tugged into a half-bun.

You stood in Brienne’s shadow, shuddering from the gnawing bite of the cold, feeling it slowly eat away at your bones. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder — and you couldn’t fault her for it. The viciousness she suffered at the hands of the Boltons was some of the worst cruelties one could imagine.

It was only when you caught Jon’s eye that he felt his breath hitch within his throat, and he felt like a young man again — freshly eight-and-ten, watching as he introduced you to Ghost for the first time. The sound of your curious laughter had filled the courtyard of Winterfell, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday.

You were from a distant dream, somewhere close yet far away, slipping in and out of his thoughts.

The last thing that you wanted was to detract from Sansa’s reunion with her brother, and so you kept quiet, bringing yourself into the shoddy shelter of your cloak. Your visage was icy, stung by the bitter wind of the far North, and your hands ached.

“You are safe here,” Jon murmured, brown hues glistening with appreciation as he looked upon Brienne of Tarth. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister. Whatever you need from Castle Black, you’ll have it.” He nodded, finding his gaze drifting towards you, begging for you to look his way.

Perhaps you didn’t recognize him, but that seemed far-fetched. Edd beckoned for Sansa to follow him at Jon’s command, hoping to find warmth in the guest chambers in the Lord Commander’s suite. The burden and duty no longer belonged to him.

Brienne bowed, hand atop the pommel of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel sheathed within its scabbard. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would keep her daughters safe — and I shall keep it.” She replied, cerulean hues flickering towards you. “Lady Sansa’s escape wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

Jon gazed at you as if you had brought down the sun and stars themselves, moved mountains with will alone. Gods, he missed you terribly. His departure for the Night’s Watch had left a gaping hole in your heart, never to be filled, but seeing him again only seemed to make it ache with something painful.

Wordlessly, your feet carried you before logic could stop you in your tracks, and you flung yourself into Jon’s embrace, feeling his arms wrap around you. Brienne’s countenance glistened with the realization that you knew Jon, and she seemed to steer Podrick away, allowing the both of you some privacy.

“You’re alive,” You whispered into his shoulder, feeling hot tears trickle down your cheeks. Part of you worried that he might’ve perished, but here he stood, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a man. “It has been so long, Jon Snow.”

He hadn’t been alive days ago — death had claimed him once before.

The scars that littered his body seemed to ache and throb with the mere thought of his own demise, and the anguish of betrayal that came with it. His dark brows furrowed together, visage one of gentle joy as he released you from his grasp. “You look older.” Older in the eyes — not in the face.

You were still just as beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen — your appearance hadn’t changed, and he hoped that your heart hadn’t, either. Your friendship kept him afloat for many years during his time in Winterfell, living as a Stark. You never cast your judgment upon him for being a bastard — and you never would.

“So do you,” Concern crept into your voice as you looked over his rugged beard and the scar upon his brow. “What happened to you, Jon?” There was so much he wished to tell you — from the Wildlings to the White Walkers, and his death. You could see it in his face — the maturity, the weight of duty, an abundance of stoicism.

“It’s a long story.” Jon huffed, Northern timbre crackled with a bout of faint amusement, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. He gestured for you to follow him, striding across the courtyard of Castle Black in-search of his own quarters. He no longer held the Lord Commander’s chambers, and for good reason.

The men of Castle Black weren’t accustomed to seeing a woman — it evoked his streak of protectiveness when it came to you. He ensured that he kept close to your side during the lengthy trek to his chambers. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Jon knew that she would be well looked-after in the Lady’s stead.

Ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, Jon led you to his quarters. Smaller, but he preferred his solitude. His brothers had stabbed him, tore away his mantle of Lord-Commander, killed him — as soon as he could, he intended on leaving.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the gust of a raging hearth, warming your brittle bones as you rubbed your hands together, “Gods,” You whispered, immediately moving toward the crackling fire, extending your hands to the flames, eyes closing in satisfaction. “I nearly thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Jon’s brows furrowed together, and he pulled up a wooden stool for you to sit, and so did he, firmly planted at your side like a dutiful guardian. “You’re safe here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” Dirt stained your visage, clothes tattered and worn from travel, hem shredded and covered in snow and mud.

Something forlorn reached his eyes, a distant glimmer of melancholy that you immediately recognized. He was still Jon, but something else seemed amiss. You lowered your hands into your lap, basking in the lick of the firelight. “All my life, I longed to see beyond Winterfell. Here I am — and here you are.” Your smile was threadbare.

The both of you had endured unimaginable hardships during your time apart, yet the warmth and fondness of your friendship remained, strong as ever. If Jon told you what all had happened, what he saw, what he went through — he wondered how much of it you would believe.

“Do you remember the night of the feast, when King Robert came to Winterfell?” Jon remembered — he remembered you, most of all. Gods, you looked so beautiful that night, bringing him a heaping plate of foodstuffs from the banquet, keeping him company throughout the night’s festivities.

“Of course,” It was one of the last days you had spent with Jon before he departed for the Night’s Watch. You had a plethora of regrets, and not kissing him that evening was one of them. The opportunity had dangled itself before you, and you never acted on it. “They sheared your face clean. A disservice to you, truly.”

A brief huff of laughter escaped him, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s what you chose to remember?” He remarked, planting his forearms against his knees. Admittedly, he chose to remember you — the way your dress clung to you, the vibrancy of your smile, tenderness in your eyes.

Your nose wrinkled in amusement before you waved him aside, a smile stretched across your features — happier this time, full of warmth. “I remember more than just that, but yes. You weren’t so dour, then.”

Jon chuckled, effectively shattering his stoic mask as he looked at you, head canting to one side. “I still was, always sulking about in some corner,” He mused, peering toward the hearth. “The things I’ve seen — the things I’ve been through …” His jaw tightened, and the wound to his heart seemed to ache.

Empathy tugged at your countenance, one that dissipated from something lighthearted to seriousness. You reached out, resting a palm against his bicep. “What happened to you, Jon? You don’t seem the same.” You asked, glancing toward the scar on his face.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you about his death and resurrection — not yet, anyway. It was still too fresh a wound to speak of, left gaping and open, one that would take time to fully heal. “I went beyond The Wall.” Jon stated, as if that would answer all of your questions.

Silence drifted between you both, and you exhaled, brows creasing in contemplation as you looked toward the fire. You let your hands drift closer again, hoping to absorb any lick of heat that you could find. Jon stared at you, unbeknownst to you, studying the intricacies of your visage, the way your tresses framed your face.

Abandoning the rank of Lord-Commander had been a liberating thing. He was done fighting for men who had countered him at every turn, men who slaughtered him. He was unsure of his next course of action, but he wanted you there with him, regardless.

Hunger and famine gnawed at your stomach, chewing you up and spitting you out. Even Jon could hear the violent lurch of your stomach, see the exhaustion etched into your features. He didn’t want to keep you, but he didn’t want to leave you, either.

“You should clean up, join us for supper,” Jon prompted, melting away the tenuous silence. “I’ll see about finding you something proper to wear.” He wanted to continue to reminisce with you, but you deserved a moment of solace, a chance to bathe and warm yourself without his intrusion.

You nodded, offering Jon an amiable smile. “I want us to continue our conversation,” You insisted, your voice soft and tender, a silky resonance. Instead, you reached for his hand, finding the calloused, roughened plane of his palm. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” If he hadn’t realized it by now, then he might’ve been blind.

Jon’s breath hitched within his throat, reduced to a mere boy in your presence. Whatever he thought of at that moment, it was inappropriate — it transcended all bonds of propriety and proper friendship, yet he couldn’t help it. How long had he thought of you? Yearned for you, dreamed of you whenever he was laying on the cold earth somewhere beyond the Wall?

If it weren’t for his uncertainty, he would’ve kissed you then and there.

He never stopped to consider what your life was like now — perhaps you had a husband and a family, a life that had moved on from him, no longer frozen in the time of your youth. Jon always feared that being a bastard would’ve stopped you from courtship, but he knew now that you didn’t care. You never did.

Years of letting yourself toil over Jon Snow had amounted to this — to this unspoken affection that permeated the fringes of your friendship. In his absence, you hadn’t taken a husband, you hadn’t wed. Part of you thought you would become a spinster and live out your days caring for your ailing father.

Tension simmered, sparking to life in the wake of your intertwined hands. “I missed you, too.” His accent seemed deliciously thick, noticeably huskier with the rougher pitch of his tone. Those earthly-brown hues of his bored right into you.

Your stare became doe-like, able to feel his calloused digits, how strong his hands had become, careworn from holding a sword. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you let your hand recoil, placing it back into your lap. Your fingers curled tightly into your dress.

With a brief clearing of his throat, Jon decided to give you privacy. “I must speak with Sansa,” He murmured, standing up from his stool with an abruptness. His heart thumped madly within his chest, throat becoming thick as he gathered his bearings. “Come to supper when you’re finished.”

“Of course. Thank you, Jon.” You smiled, and he stepped out to give you your solace. His quarters were noticeably smaller yet homely, and you immediately decided to go to the washroom to clean yourself. Endless dirt and grime stained your flesh, making you feel worse than you already did.

As soon as you disrobed, sinking into the steaming-hot waters of the metal tub, you submerged your head beneath, coming up for a gasp of air. You glanced toward the hearth, scrubbing yourself down with a bristle brush and sponge, using the scarce amount of herbs and soap given to you.

You thought of Jon — thought of his hand, the firmness of it, the rough-hewn texture of his skin, the hardened muscle of his bicep beneath your grasp. You thought of the dismal, tempestuous storm of emotions raging war within his gaze when he spoke of being beyond The Wall.

It gave you much to dwell on as you scrubbed away the dirt from your skin, smoothing handfuls of hot water across your face. A simple Northerner’s dress and a furred cloak lay on the chair beside you, something suitable to wear that weren’t your tattered rags.

Sloshing around within the steaming water for a moment longer, you finished cleaning up, feeling the continuous gnaw of hunger strike at your stomach. The air was brusque and still bitter with a noticeable chill, the hearth continuing to roar in spite of being left with little attendance.

Tugging on the coarse, linen dress, you retrieved your boots, having thoroughly cleaned them off of hardened dirt. You let your hair dry by the fireside, swaddled in the cloak given to you by Jon. It swallowed you whole, yet it smelled like him — woodlands and scented smoke, the musk of a battle-hardened man.

By the time you joined the others for dinner, you felt cleaner than you had in some time, liberated from the weight of grime and hard travel. Exhaustion still clung to you like a shroud, but you assumed that a proper meal would make it easier to deal with.

Sansa greeted you with a thin smile, moving aside for you to sit next to her. There was never a fondness you shared between one another in your youth — you were always Jon’s friend, a girl who preferred mucking about in the outdoors and watching him fight with steel instead of any ladylike endeavors.

You had become quite proficient with an embroidery needle, and a dagger. They were one and the same for you at-times.

Jon’s silent admiration of you continued, hues fluttering over your form, now rid of soot and dirt. A warm plate of heaping food sat before you, helpings of potatoes, stewed vegetables, and roasted venison. You ate as if you hadn’t consumed a bite in years, the richness of it filling your belly.

“We are to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Sansa stated, her tone resolute and assured. “Do you think that there are still allies in Winterfell who might help our cause?” She inquired, her question directed towards you. You knew Winterfell — you’d been there this whole time.

“If Ramsay hasn’t flayed them all alive, then yes,” You murmured, thinking of your father’s corpse, strung-up on some wooden cross, muscle and flesh peeled away to reveal his bones. You shivered, masking your discomfort through a bite of vegetables. “There are still denizens inside who remember the Starks.”

Tormund Giantsbane, Jon’s ally and the leader of the Wildling forces, noisily bit into a haunch of meat, juices spraying across his ginger beard. Brienne’s discomfort and bewilderment was palpable as she turned away, blonde brows furrowing together.

“Could you find your way back in?” Tormund grunted, and you understood the insinuation of his proposal. If you were to rally those who still supported House Stark to Jon’s cause, staging a coup from the inside, it might assist his chances of taking the Keep.

“I suppose I could, but the Boltons rarely let anyone in or out, save for those bearing the Flayed Man sigil,” Jon seemed visibly apprehensive at Tormund’s suggestion, jaw tightening as he stuck his fork into a piece of meat. “It is dangerous now — one wrong move, and they string you up on the banisters, flay you for all to see.”

Tears glistened within your eyes at the harrowing memory of your father — you watched him be pinned to that post, screaming for mercy, men with knives cutting him apart as if he were a pig for slaughter. You hastily wiped them aside, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

Jon’s gaze never wavered from you whenever you spoke — Sansa could see it, Edd could see it.

“That is the fate that befell my father.” With a sharp exhale, you continued to eat, momentarily meeting Jon’s sullen-eyed stare, full of sympathy for your loss. His condolences were unspoken, but he didn’t have to say the words to convey meaning.

“We will find another way,” Jon murmured, brows knitting together. “You’ve risked enough to save Sansa’s life. I won’t let you risk it again. Out of the question.” There was a finality to his words, wrought with a glaring overprotective nature.

Sansa remembered the day they left your father out to bleed in the courtyard — Ramsay’s sickening smile remained emblazoned in the back of her mind. She reached to squeeze your hand, and you nodded, the both of you returning to the food.

She plucked at hers, turning a piece of meat over along her fork. Edd stifled a brief chuckle through a mouthful of hard rations. “Sorry about the food, m’ladies. It’s not what we’re known for.” He stated.

“That’s alright. There are more important things.” Sansa smiled, but you were in the throes of consuming everything that you could. Foodstuffs had become scarce in Winterfell, especially to those who weren’t Boltons — just residents. You had to scrounge and work for every scrap — this meal was the best you had in ages.

A brother of the Watch entered the Great Hall, carrying a scroll of parchment for Jon, one that was marked by the wax seal of Ramsay Bolton. “For you, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon uttered, yet he took the scroll, anger seething within his eyes when he realized whose sigil held the parchment together. He unraveled it, jaw tightening as he began to read it aloud.

“To the traitorous bastard, Jon Snow, you allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard — come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon …” Jon trailed off, breath quickening as he looked at Sansa.

Her countenance was one of shock and horror, tears welling within her eyes as she nodded for him to continue reading. The Hall was eerily silent, and you listened, brows furrowing together.

“His direwolf’s skin is on my floor — come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me bastard, and I will not trouble you and your Wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living, you will …” He stopped.

“Go on.” Sansa murmured, but Jon refused, rolling up the parchment with a despondent, rageful expression. He felt it blossom throughout his chest, the very same anger that consumed him when he sentenced his brothers to die.

“It’s just more of the same.” Jon quipped, preparing to tear it asunder, but Sansa reached over to take it from his hands, unraveling the parchment.

“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and your Northern bitch. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother — then I will spoon your eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She read, a shudder within her voice.

You shivered, feeling a pang of disgust and fear rattle through you, goosebumps cascading along your spine. Ramsay knew of you — knew that you helped Sansa to escape, and knew of your affiliation with Jon Snow.

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon grit out through clenched teeth, fists tightening around Ramsay’s missive. He would kill him for what he did — to Sansa, to you, to his brother. He swore it by whatever Gods were willing to listen.

“Roose Bolton is dead — Ramsay killed him. Now, he has our brother — he has Rickon.” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she remained stalwart, even if she knew what a monster Ramsay was. She used to think that Joffrey was the root of all evil — she was wrong.

“We don’t know that.” Jon protested, but Sansa stopped him.

“We do. He has five-thousand men, at least — I overheard him talking about it when he prepared for Stannis’s attack.” She replied, folding her arms together. You felt nothing but admiration for her — sorrow, perhaps, but you admired her strength in the midst of this.

“How many men do we have?” Jon looked to Tormund, desperate for answers, for a shred of something positive. They were lesser in numbers than the Boltons — they would need allies, and they would need them swiftly.

“Ones that can march and fight? Two-thousand.” Tormund replied. They had a Giant — that had to count for at least fifty men, if they were lucky.

“Jon,” You spoke up at long last, finding your voice as you sat soundly at Sansa’s side. “You are the last true son of the Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal, and they will fight for you if you ask it of them.” The gentle encouragement you offered gave him much to think about.

Sansa reached across the table, seizing Jon’s arm. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell, to save them both.” She pleaded, auburn brows furrowing together. It was the right course of action — it had been years since a Stark had truly sat in Winterfell.

Jon nodded, determination tempering his anger, and the desire for justice. He remembered wanting to ride North to help Robb’s cause, and he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if he did — if his brother might’ve survived. There was no time for inaction, not anymore.

“We will reconvene at first light, to discuss our next move.” He briefly squeezed Sansa’s hand before glancing at you. “You need to rest — both of you.” It wasn’t a request — more of a command, really. You and Sansa had been running from Winterfell for days before Brienne happened across you.

You took your leave, hoping to pray about your father alone before dusk settled in.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

Brienne had taken Sansa back to her chambers for the evening, and you had gone to the ramparts after finishing your supper.

The death of your father was still an unsightly wound, something that had cut you right to the bone. He was your only family left — the last tether that you had, the last one to truly care for you. It left you with a gaping void of loneliness, one that had only felt healed in Jon’s presence.

Flickering torchlight danced along the wooden bridge that connected two sides of Castle Black, and despite the chill of the air, you remained outside. Rest eluded you, and you knew that you would be up all evening, tarrying around to try and occupy your mind.

Darkening skies twinkled with stars, partially obscured by large wisps of gray clouds, and with it, a light snowfall. The fur-lined cloak you wore kept you warm, shrouded from the gnawing chill as you listened to footsteps resonate from your left side.

The pale shadow of Ghost trotted alongside him, those crimson eyes glowering through the encroaching dusk. The last time you had seen Jon’s direwolf, he was the size of a small dog — now, he was massive, nearly coming up to your shoulder with the tips of his ears.

“What did you feed him?” You mused, kneeling down to greet Ghost as if he were an old friend. You recalled the day that Jon had brought the albino pup home, nothing more than a scraggly runt hidden in his cloak. Ghost nudged your hand, silently asking for a scratch along his ears.

Jon smiled, coming to stand near your side as he peered down into the silent courtyard of Castle Black. It was quiet, save for the occasional soldier scurrying across the dirt or the distant howl of the wind. “He’s much larger than I expected him to be,” He confessed. “Seems he remembers you.”

Ghost whined, ruby eyes studying you intensely, as if he recalled your last meeting. The pale direwolf allowed you to dote on him for a moment longer, padding off to lay outside of Jon’s chambers. You watched him go, a smile spreading across your face.

Your countenance softened at the sight of Jon, tousled curls still tugged into a loose half-bun, a smile toying at either corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you cold?” He questioned, noticing the way your form quivered beneath the cloak he’d given you.

“Quite,” A brief chuckle left you as you wring your hands together, letting them sink into the thick fur that you tugged tighter around you. “I don’t believe that I will be able to sleep tonight, given the circumstances.” You confessed, and he seemed empathetic.

“I don’t sleep much — not anymore.” The night that he had found himself resurrected from the black shroud of death, he did not sleep. Instead, he lay waiting for his brothers to burst through the door, knives drawn, waiting to send him to the cold, hard earth.

Jon slept with Longclaw at his side — he imagined that he’d never feel safe again without it by his hip.

A comfortable silence of understanding drifted between the both of you, and you felt him lean closer, brows furrowing together. “I am sorry about your father,” Jon murmured, knowing what it was like to lose his own. “I am sorry for what they did to him.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, yet you refused to let them fall, jaw tensing before you shook your head. “He is with the Gods now,” You whispered, mustering a threadbare smile despite the melancholy of your talks. “I hope that Ramsay Bolton is not shown any mercy.”

Jon hadn’t heard you speak like that before — so full of pain, an agony in your soft tone that he wished he could rip away from you, place the burden on his shoulders. “We will take back Winterfell — for my family, for yours, for the North. I promise.”

“You’re a good man, Jon.” The two of you remained huddled close together, and you very nearly reached for his hands again, but decided against it. “You always have been, despite what insults you’ve been hurled. They are half the man that you are.”

He was a good man, despite what he thought of himself — an honorable man, the very best of them. His shining qualities were often diminished in the face of being a bastard, and you wished it weren’t so. Jon had long been ostracized for it, even if it was no fault of his own.

Jon hadn’t believed it, that he was truly good. He had done plenty of wrong — broke his vows to the Night’s Watch, killed many men, killed a boy, and for what? What good had come out of it all, other than being sent to an early grave for his actions?

You had always believed in him steadfastly, and he often felt undeserving of your praise. Nonetheless, Jon offered you a forlorn look, smile not reaching his eyes as he bowed his head. “I wish I could believe you.” Through a softly-spoken confession, he turned to face the cutting bite of the Northern winds.

As darkness hovered, the cold beginning to bite at his flesh, Jon gestured toward the doors to his chambers. “It’s getting cold,” Even he had his limits, hardiness tested by the harshness of winter. “Come on.” His hand hovered near the small of your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

The warm sanctuary of his chambers offered you a much-needed relief, hearth roaring beside his bed, lined in countless furs. The furnishings were scarce, and he placed Longclaw at his bedside, never very far from his grasp. An orange glow permeated all it touched, encompassing you in its gentle heat.

Ghost stayed outside, furs able to outlast the encroaching winter. He was the watcher tonight, ensuring that no strangers or brothers disturbed his friend.

You moved to sit against the large, rustic footlocker that sat at the end of his bed, closest to the hearth. The cloak you wore swallowed you whole, allowing you to descend right into the pile of furs, warming your icy flesh. Jon sat beside you, keeping a comfortable distance, one that many might’ve labeled as prudish.

Jon’s lack of subtlety became brazenly clear, dark hues shamelessly fluttering across your face, absorbing the finer details of your form. You had grown into your beauty, and even then, he was at your mercy — you were incomparable in his eyes.

The sting of embarrassment rippled through him, his behavior akin to a young man with an unrequited affection. His one experience with a Wildling woman had been in an effort to feel something, anything — a retaliation against the Night’s Watch.

You were different — you were his friend, a girl he’d known since childhood, now grown into the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. It was as if you reduced him to a mere pup without even trying, unbeknownst to you.

Jon carried a flagon of honeyed mead, the warm liquid churning about within its leather confines. It tasted stale, but it was better than he expected it to be, taking a brief swig. He hoped that it would quell his nerves, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

“I’ve never been so far away from home before,” You sighed, breaking the comfortable silence with an amiable smile. “I used to always dream of going elsewhere, an adventure away from Winterfell. Now that I’ve gone, I want nothing more than to go back.”

“Has it changed much?” Jon inquired, voice dropping into a husky lull that made you shiver. His tone had become rugged, gruff — that familiar Northern timbre always filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. He hadn’t been to Winterfell in years.

“No,” Your visage grew forlorn, tinged with a peculiar sadness as your lips wavered into a half-frown. “Just those who command it.” The homely stone and Stark banners were all you knew for the longest time — and you hoped that it would be so again.

You wanted to cease dwelling on all things bleak and dreary, and instead, you smiled at Jon, countenance melding into one of genuineness. He caught your eye, features growing unbearably hot beneath the ardor of your gaze. Something passed between the both of you, something that caused you to look away; smitten.

Jon exhaled, taking a swig of the mead before offering it up to you. Liquor wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed, but it did take some little edge off — for now, anyway. He watched with a faint smile as you took it, giving the cork a brief sniff, nose wrinkling.

Nevertheless, you took a drink, stinging liquid burning your throat on the way down. You sputtered, your expression one of clear distaste as you handed it back to him. “Gods, what is that supposed to be? The Night’s Watch isn’t known for their ale, either.” You huffed.

A huff of laughter tore past his lips, and at last, you could see the glint of his pearlescent teeth, a smile that could melt The Wall itself. “Still can’t handle your drink after all this time?” Jon remarked, corking the flagon of mead as he placed it aside. He didn’t want to drink himself into a stupor with you present.

“There were never any occasions that called for it,” You retorted, a warm playfulness permeating your tone. You leaned forward atop the footlocker, gazing into the flickering flames, its heat basking your visage. “Winterfell wasn’t the same after your family left. Everything seemed so dour, so hopeless.”

Jon hung his head, hands folded together as he contemplated your statement. “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left.” He confessed, tone slipping into something silent, as if he were sharing his greatest sin with the septa. There were times where he missed home — missed what might’ve been.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to look at him, hues swimming with a wet sheen. Reminiscing often brought about plenty of sentiments for you, sentiments that you thought you’d buried. “Sometimes I wish that you hadn’t left, either.” You whispered.

None of this felt real.

There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a tension that had risen from the lingering flames of a longstanding friendship. Jon felt an unusual swell within his stomach, the onslaught of boyish nerves, yet he pushed them aside for the sake of the moment. It all seemed to feel so right, as if this had been long in the making.

Jon stared at you, absentmindedly tilting closer, enough to where you could feel the heat of his honey-tinged breath fan across your face. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?” He murmured, hoping that you would confirm whatever it was that he felt, too.

“I am not sure,” Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, hands beginning to reach for one another, even if you hadn’t fully realized it yourself. “I would like to think that I would’ve gained the courage to tell you how I truly felt about you.” There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety present — you knew what you meant, he knew what you meant.

I love you — it was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released, to let his confession take wing into the open air. He should’ve told you that night of the feast, when you took his hand and told him that you would always defend his honor and his name.

“Jon.” Your voice was nothing more than a saccharine whisper, eyes wide and doe-like, a wordless plea to act on whatever it was he felt. Before you could say another word, Jon’s mouth was on yours, hot and rugged, everything that you imagined it would be.

His calloused hand rose to cup your face, rough pads of his digits tracing across your cheek, your jaw — you felt like velvet, an unblemished plane that had eagerly awaited his touch. Jon had always fantasized about kissing you, and the reality of it far exceeded any expectations he might’ve had.

The sudden intensity of the kiss had grown, as if throwing kindling onto an open flame. You weren’t prepared for it, but you needed more. A moan stirred within your throat as you pressed forward, hands reaching for the front of his leather-studded tunic.

Jon kissed you as if you were the air itself, every breath he drew consuming you, dragging you in until you were intertwined. He seized your waist, rough palm sinking into the coarse material of your dress, nearly shuddering at the feeling of your body beneath his palm.

“I love you,” He uttered against your mouth, forehead briefly bumping into yours as he held you close, the weight of his confession beginning to sink in. “I never wish to be parted from you — from this day, until my last day.” Jon promised, voice rumbling and solemn, knowing that he would keep his vow.

Incredulously, you gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to escape the feeling of complete and utter joy you experienced at his confession. Breathless, you took a moment to compose yourself, gather your bearings before you smiled. “Don’t leave me again, Jon Snow.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jon murmured, eagerly seeking your mouth again, tugging you in for a heated kiss. Gods, your mouth was so disarmingly soft, pliant and plush against his lips, giving him everything that he ever imagined and so much more.

A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. You shrugged the cloak aside, letting it pool around you, partially strewn across the footlocker.

Desperation laced your kisses, as if something might threaten to rip you away from the excitement of the moment, or that you might wake up from a distant dream. Jon was lost in your mouth, a grunt blossoming from his chest when he hauled you closer, until no sliver of space remained.

He stood up, bringing you with him, standing atop the sprawling furs of slain stags, closer to the lick of the hearth. It allowed him to better hold you, hands respectfully roaming your body, never allowing himself to slip below your hips. “Wait.” He rasped, removing his mouth from yours.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, fearing that you had vastly overstepped. This was all somewhat unfamiliar, the territory new and unexpected. You had been with a man before, but it never crossed a certain threshold — you wouldn’t allow it.

“Is this what you want?” Jon questioned, dark brows knitting together as he regarded you with caution, a devotion reserved only for you. He couldn’t continue without hearing the certainty escape your mouth — he hadn’t done this in some time, himself.

Gods, you loved him. There was a lack of hesitation in his movements, but instead, a desire for clarity. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or trapped in some corner — he wanted you to want him. A twinkle of ardor glistened within your warm gaze as you brought your hands together at the nape of his neck.

It’s what you’ve wanted for such a long time — a terribly long time, at that. Everything felt as if you were wading through a dream, one that would shatter at any moment. “Yes,” You whispered, longing to unfasten the leather buckles and straps that held his tunic together. “More than anything.”

Jon’s breath hitched, a subtle noise, desire beginning to blossom throughout his chest. His grasp on you became innately protective and needy, hands gingerly kneading into your curves. He bent down for another kiss, arms caging themselves around you, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest.

Soft fingertips raked through his dark curls, bringing him to heel as he kissed you, unashamed of his clear desperation. It no longer felt like the ghost of a distant thought — this was a blissful reality. He helped you to remove the bulky leather of his jerkin, but part of him feared fully removing his clothes.

His scars would reveal the abhorrent truth — that he died, brought back to life from the twisted magic of a Fire Priestess. Jon’s hesitation was palpable, especially when your digits sank into the coarse material of his tunic. The leather fell to the wayside, and you were closer to seeing him disrobed.

Jon sluggishly reached for the linen ties that held your dress together, and you gave him a nod, subtly encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugged upon the tie, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, stepping out of it altogether.

A strangled gasp caught within the depths of his throat, manifesting as a sharp exhale that consumed his ribcage. You were every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined you to be — such fantasies had clung to the fringes of his mind out in the frozen wastelands beyond The Wall.

The plane of your flesh was velvetlike, bathed in the flickering firelight of the hearth, dancing across your body with its incandescent glow. Jon’s jaw visibly tightened, restraining himself from touching you as he pleased. The longer he stood, gawking at your body like some clueless boy, the more emboldened you became.

Careworn digits gingerly wrapped around his vambrace, unfastening the buckles there before you guided his hand to your chest. “There isn’t a need to be bashful,” You whispered, noticing the way his pupils dilated when his calloused palm embraced your pliant breast. “I want you to touch me.” You gently encouraged him.

Jon appeared a touch forlorn, attempting to mask his gnawing fear at the idea of you seeing him. “It’s not you,” His smile was humorless — pensive, even. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” He huffed, hand drifting toward your hip, shuddering at the satiny texture of your skin.

Warmth crept across your spine in the wake of his breathless compliment, prompting you to unfasten his other vambrace. He aimed to distract you, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw met your neck, beard scratching ragged against your flesh.

He palmed your breast, reveling in the softness of you beneath his rough-hewn hand, tracing along your hip until he squeezed your derrière. Everything about you was plush and inviting, as if you were a goddess incarnate.

Jon’s kiss became hungry, wanton and passionate as his mouth peppered itself along your throat, from your jaw to jugular. He treated you kindly; gracious hands that melded themselves to your form, like a sculptor to his masterpiece.

Saccharine soaps and hints of underlying flora clung to your flesh like a springtime haze, powerful enough to melt this ice he felt. You brought with you such warmth that it threatened to swallow him whole; he delighted in it, letting you shake the frost from his bones.

Lips danced together with a long-repressed passion, now exploding like crackles of fire within a hearth, spontaneous yet heated. You kissed Jon as if he might slip away from you, turning into dust between your fingertips.

A low moan stirred within the depths of your throat when his fingers toyed with your pebbling nipple, prompting you to grip his tresses with an unexpected harshness. You mumbled a sheepish apology, yet he paid little mind to it, dusky hues swirling with an ardent adoration that made your stomach churn.

As your hand drifted to the hem of his worn, linen tunic, he very nearly stopped you — yet, part of him wished for you to see him without a spoken word. Jon’s chest tightened with quickened breaths as you kindly maneuvered the clothing away, and he watched, hues fixated upon your bewildered countenance.

A battlefield — innumerable scars, so fresh that you nearly held your hand over them to stop the bleeding, gouged across his pallid flesh. One that seemed to sting the most rest over his heart, curved and garish, the stroke of a vengeful knife that ended his life.

Wordlessly, you lifted your hand, fingertips tracing across his chest, feather-light and disarmingly gentle; the opposite of the knives that had left their mark. Your brows furrowed together, and you wondered how he could’ve survived something like this — if he survived something like this.

Jon shivered at your embrace, as sweet as the maiden’s grace, caressing him with your resplendent touch. He held you close, arm caging you in, his other hand stroking beneath your breast, above your ribcage. “I didn’t make it,” He rasped, noticing the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “I’d like to think that the Gods wanted me to see you again.”

His smile warmed you, more than any blazing hearth could, more than that of summertime. A fluttering sensation spread throughout your chest, followed by a hitch in your throat that you stumbled over. “Jon,” You whispered, stroking across his chest with a peculiar tenderness. “I am so sorry.”

It wasn’t the time for condolences — such sentiments could wait. Jon didn’t want your coupling to be soured by what had happened, and instead, he shook his head. His yearning for you trumped that of any sorrow and mulling over death, prompting him to press his mouth against yours once more.

The kiss seemed to convey the unspoken message, his desire to tend to you before discussing the intricacies of his scars. Jon dutifully dipped down to kiss your throat again, and then your collarbone, guiding you towards the fur-laden expanse of his bed.

As you lowered yourself onto your back, Jon kicked his boots aside, crawling across the thick mound of pelts to cover your body with his. You sluggishly spread your legs, allowing him to reside in the space between, palms planted on either side of your head.

Each heated kiss blossomed across your flesh, as he peppered his lips along your shoulder and collarbone, descending toward the valley between your breasts. It was flesh he’d longed to grace, savoring every second spent; his mouth smoothed across the silken flesh beneath your breast.

“Jon,” A sigh of passion tore past your lips, gooseflesh coalescing along your spine as he continued his descent, knowing exactly what he sought. The heat between your thighs sang to him like a siren’s song, and you weren’t about to intercede. “Please, please.”

Who was he to deny you?

The ragged scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against your skin, the sort of burn that left you aching for more. He kissed across your stomach, inch by agonizing inch, hand reaching back to caress along your calf. It was slow, exploratory — he wanted to learn every curve, every dip and expanse of flesh.

A hazy heat gripped your surroundings, as if everything had become feverish, touched by a fog of warmth that permeated you, sank into him. Doe-eyed hues flickered toward the taut muscle of his back, the blackness of his curly tresses, the scar around his eye.

Planting a kiss against your hip bone, Jon sighed into your thigh, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. His belly churned with an excitable heat, having waited for such a terribly long time to finally have you. He smoothed his calloused palm along your leg, ascending until he held your haunch.

Gods, you were in ruins — Jon hadn’t even placed his mouth upon you, and you writhed in anticipation. No man had been courageous enough to treat you this way, yet Jon lacked hesitation, settling onto his stomach as he bullied his way between your thighs.

Raking hot embers across your cunt, Jon lapped along your slit, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of your euphoric whimpering. He hadn’t heard a sound quite like that before, and from your lips, it was abhorrently sinful.

He sighed your name; reverent, a prayer only spoken between Gods and men — and you are no man. It made you shiver, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, soothed only by the sweet laps of your lover’s tongue.

Jon’s mind reeled with the sight of you — flushed with pleasure, visage contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss. He continued without pause, nose brushing across your mound as he buried his tongue into you, greedily lapping at your cunt as if he were a man starved.

Your heart hammered beneath your breast, that of sheer excitement, consuming you like a tidal wave as you brazenly reached for his tresses. Sinking your digits into the crown of his tousled curls, you tugged, showing your appreciation in an unorthodox manner.

“J—Jon!” A strangled moan tore past your mouth, wisps of air being ripped from your lungs. Jon was inherently greedy, consuming you in the way that you deserved, finding his solace between your thighs. His dutiful lapping continued, from the pearl of your cunt to your aching entrance.

Akin to ice against your skin, Jon’s palms glided along your thighs, moving to trace your hips. His mouth was like a wave of fire, beard searing the silky flesh of your legs as you involuntarily squeezed his head. You hadn’t intended to suffocate him, but it was a worthwhile demise, in his perspective.

One hand fisted the furs, digging in until you threatened to rip it apart, hips occasionally jerking and jolting forward into his mouth. He hadn’t tasted something as sweet as you, like a fine stout coating his tongue, leaving him intoxicating; craving more.

His eyes had nearly fluttered shut, half-lidded slits that occasionally flickered to catch a glimpse of your blissful countenance. Your back arched from the furs, seeking his mouth with reckless abandon as he lapped along your cunt, tongue briefly flicking over your clit.

It was as if you’d been struck by lightning, body bristling with a long-repressed pleasure, something that only he could cure. The sensation of his calloused skin against your plane of silk was a satisfying juxtaposition — he never wanted another’s touch again.

Jon burned for you in every way imaginable, a sonorous groan ripping through the depths of his throat as he moved to lap at your cunt again. His ministrations were slow, made to explore and to savor you instead of letting it all become rushed.

Your fingertips brushed across his scalp, untangling his curls from the half-bun he’d placed them into. They fell across his head, dark and somewhat cropped. He groaned at the sensation, feeling you pull and grip his tresses, guiding your hips closer.

Rough-hewn hands gingerly kneaded into the pliant flesh of your thighs, caressing their way up and down in a soothing manner. Jon savored your taste, letting your nectar find its purchase against his chin, glistening along his lips. He kissed your clit, evoking a breathy sigh from you.

It had been such a long time for the both of you, intensified by feelings of a long-seated desire and carnality, friendship transcending all bonds of propriety. Jon felt his cock twitch within his trousers, incessantly throbbing and straining against the thicker material, longing to be inside of you.

A cry of delight tore past your mouth as you involuntarily jolted forward, grinding yourself into his mouth. Jon treated you to a barrage of eager laps of his tongue, from your entrance to the sensitive pearl of your cunt.

Dragging his tongue in languid circles around your clit, he watched as you quivered and moaned, mouth agape, back arched off of the furs. Knowing what path to follow, he showed attention to your neglected pearl, nose buried into the softness of your mound.

“Jon,” You sputtered, thighs molding themselves to either side of his face, feeling the scratch of his beard rake itself against your silky skin. He listened, dutiful and with a burning desire to please you, continuing to lap at your clit. “Gods, don’t stop.” A trembling exhale left you.

It was then that he melded his lips around the aching bud, beginning to suck on your pearl with a pang of vigor. You shuddered, rattling like a leaf as you haplessly tugged on his mane of curls, hips tilting upwards into his mouth. You whined, fisting the furs at your side.

Jon did not relent, feeling the ironclad grip you assumed, knowing that he was bringing you close to your release. White-hot sparks fluttered across your vision, body singing his praises, collarbone glittering with the first inklings of perspiration.

A strangled gasp tore through your throat, followed by a myriad of moans and pleading whimpers, seeking friction against his mouth. Your release was fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat, flooding across your body with its intensity. Jon’s name emerged from your lips as if it were the only word you knew.

The pinnacle of your release made you feel as if you were floating, legs shaking in the blissful aftermath, feeling Jon lap at your core a few times over. You exhaled, chest heaving from exertion as you loosened your hold upon his tresses.

“You’ll have to let me do that again.” Jon murmured, and that seemed to ensnare your attention. Seven Hells — you would let him do that for as long as he pleased, whenever he liked. He pressed a few soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, crawling up to be near you.

“Whenever you would like, I will never protest.” You mused, gaze sparkling with mirth and adoration, inviting him back to being on top of you. Though, your impulses had other plans, as your palm pressed against his shoulder. “There is something I wanted to try.”

The softness of your suggestion seemed to placate Jon, who felt you push his shoulder until you guided him onto his back, hooking a leg over his lap. Gods, he would’ve stayed like that for an eternity if you asked it of him. As you situated yourself on top of him, Jon sat up enough to reach you, kiss you if he wanted to.

He felt your fingers move towards the laces of his breeches, and he didn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitched, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” Jon’s confession emerged as a husky sigh, murmured against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. It came as a surprise, a wonderful one, and it only made your hands move in a borderline frenzy.

Freeing his cock from its confines, you moved yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your derrière. The flushed tip of his length nudged against your cunt, prompting you to sigh with passion.

“Jon,” A pleading moan tore past your mouth, mind becoming fuzzy as you attempted to absorb the genuineness of his words. The Northern timbre of his hoarse baritone made you tremble, hands steadying themselves upon his shoulders. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he gently lowered you onto his cock, the both of you shivering in-tandem. The low, throaty groan that escaped him made your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He was bigger than you imagined, filling you perfectly.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

Your cunt was tight around him, slick with arousal as you continued to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch until he was fully sheathed inside of you. Jon’s heavy pants fluttered across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw.

Jon was captivated by you, inhaling a gust of your soap-laden scent, beard ragged against your soft skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. His hands were resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your skin.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

A burning sting began to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you rode him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock speared you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly drew yourself out, and back down again.

“Gods,” You sighed, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry-red crescents against his pale skin, you didn’t want the feeling to end. “Jon, please — don’t stop!” With a simpering moan, your head began to roll back slightly.

Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.

He kissed his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remained pleasantly buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He held you steady, greedily kissing at your pert breasts.

One of your hands fisted into his dark curls, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppered warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he let you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises left you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Jon groaned with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxed you down towards the furs, not wanting to place you there unless you consented.

With a brief bob of your head, you found yourself beneath Jon, his musculature covering you, content between your legs as he hitched one around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm wrapped around your calf, causing you to shiver at the foreign contact.

He could look upon your face, see the way your visage contorted into pure pleasure when he rocked forward, cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin was flushed, expression somewhat doe-eyed and awestruck, even if you were too lost to notice.

Your hands moved, one finding its purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace began to intensify. It was a chase, galloping after his release as he bent to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you rolled your hips forward.

The wooden frame of his bed began to creak, groaning in protest from the vigor of his ministrations. You didn’t care if he was a touch rougher with you — Gods, you needed him. Heat swirled within your stomach, gnawing at your bones, making your toes curl in delight.

“Jon!” You cried, and that nearly sent him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost made his resolve shatter into two. He lost count of how many times his cock sank into you — it was all blurring together.

The inevitable rush of euphoria reached him when his release came, hot and blistering, making him see stars as he groaned your name. Your nails were digging into his bicep, a gasp emerging from your throat when he thrust into you again.

Ropes of warm spend painted your insides, and he very nearly collapsed on top of you. He had the decency to hold himself afloat, hand tracing along your calf and to the crook of your knee, letting you unhook your leg.

Jon removed himself from you, attempting to gather his breath as he laid at your side, gazing at the dark ceiling above. Your breathing was just as unsteady and erratic as you drifted down from your buzzing high, wiping beads of perspiration from your brow.

Once he recuperated, Jon looked at you, noticing the smile on your face, the unrestrained delight you were experiencing as you rolled over. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He murmured, watching as you began to shamelessly crawl into his arms.

“Quite the opposite,” You hummed, feeling him adjust the furs, drawing them both around you. Despite the feverish pitch of the room, the frost would settle in again soon, especially at the hour of the bat. “Were you jesting when you said you dreamed about this?”

Bewildered, Jon cast his eyes toward you, canting his head to one side. “Of course I was serious,” He huffed, surprised that you would think otherwise. “You were all I could think about, north of The Wall.” His confession was genuine, sweetly-spoken.

“You don’t have to dream about it anymore,” Your voice soothed him, a sound that he had yearned for with a blistering ache. He felt as if you would slip away from him if he let you go. “I won’t leave you.” Your smile was warm enough to melt even the hardiest of frost.

Jon’s lips tugged into a smile, one that you rarely saw beneath the brooding curtain of his visage. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, allowing you to get comfortable against him. The silence that followed allowed for some contemplation, absorbing all of what had transpired.

His scars seemed so fresh when they caught your eye. With a forlornly look, you dragged your fingers over the scar above his heart, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. Your body still felt as if it were caught in some haze, coming down from the blissful aftermath of your coupling.

“If you hadn’t come back …” You trailed off, attempting to refuse to think of some painful reality where Jon perished, but the thought briefly crossed your mind. If he had, none of this would be happening — he wouldn’t be holding you in his arms.

“But I am here,” Jon’s husky timbre shook you to your core as he planted his palm against your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you.” It was a promise — insistent, spoken from a man who now fully understood the weight of love, the weight of sacrifice.

You nodded, wordlessly reaching to hold his hand, feeling the arm he had caged around you plant itself against the small of your back. He drew circles there, brows knitting together as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard and warm, so real — he made sure that you understood exactly what he meant.

Within the warm embrace of his arms, you let your head recline against his chest, feeling him draw you closer, until there was no space left between the both of you. He listened to the steady, shallow sound of your breathing afterwards.

At the edge of the world, he had you — and that was all he would ever need.

[simplygojo]

Cheater! ⸺ Suguru Geto

author's note ⸺ Wrote a cheating fic!! WHOOPS! lmk your thoughts on this!! I hope you all enjoy cheating on your deadbeat husband with your daughters sexy ass teacher <3 pairing ⸺ teacher!Suguru Geto x parent!reader word count ⸺ 4k content warnings ⸺ 18+ only - mdni!, adultery!, grey morals, reader uses female pronouns, reader has a vagina, fingering, p in v intercourse, nipple play, rough grip?idk, not edited teaser ⸺ "You’re a married woman, after all. You’re loyal, and I respect that. But..." He pauses, his lips curling into a knowing smile, the hint of something far more dangerous in his eyes. "It would be wrong of me to let you leave here tonight without telling you... that you deserve more than this. You deserve to feel wanted, to feel desired." Something inside you snaps.

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Your husband wasn’t always like this.

Or maybe he was, and you just didn’t notice it at first.

There was a time when you believed in the love you shared—the way he used to pull you close without needing a reason, the way he promised that no matter what, it would always be both of you against the world. And for a while, it felt real. Then life happened. Then the baby came.

And slowly, little by little, you started doing everything alone.

At first, it was small things. He worked late, so you handled bedtime. He forgot to grab the groceries, so you took care of it. He stayed home when your child had a fever, but somehow, you were the one up all night, holding them while they cried.

Then, the little things became everything.

You started managing schedules, meals, school functions, doctor’s appointments, PTA meetings—every single thing that kept your child’s world turning.

And your husband? He was there, technically. He existed in the house, he took up space in the bed, but he was more like an afterthought in your life than a partner.

You’d hear other moms talk about how they split responsibilities with their husbands—how he got up for night feedings, how he packed lunches in the morning, how they took turns being the “fun parent” so the other could have a break.

You stopped talking in those conversations.

Because what would you even say?

That your husband doesn’t even know your child’s teacher’s name? That you’ve gone to every parent-teacher night alone for the past three years? That sometimes, when you wake up next to him, you feel more alone than if the bed was empty?

You tried to fix it. You really did. You asked him to come to school events—he always had an excuse. You asked him to help with homework—he’d forget. You asked him if he was happy—he shrugged.

And eventually, you just stopped asking.

Instead, you did what you always did: you handled it.

You got up every morning and made breakfast. You checked backpacks, signed permission slips, scheduled playdates. You listened when your 6 year old came home talking about her day. You made sure they felt loved, seen, safe. You gave them everything you never had.

And you told yourself, this was enough.

You told yourself you didn’t need to feel wanted.

You told yourself you didn’t need someone to look at you the way that he used to.

You told yourself you didn’t need more than this—but you knew that none of that was true. 

The clock ticks past 9 PM. The school halls are eerily quiet now, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights, casting long shadows along the walls. It’s well past the usual time for parent-teacher conferences, and once again, you’re the last parent left.

The usual scenario.

You check your phone for the fifth time—no texts, no calls. Your husband’s absence from this school event doesn’t surprise you anymore, but it still stings in ways you can’t shake. There’s a lingering resentment there, buried beneath the routine, hidden in the cracks of your patience.

You tap your foot against the tiled floor, feeling the exhaustion deep in your bones. It’s been a long day of running from work to school pick-up, to soccer practice, to dinner, to bedtime—only for your husband to still be nowhere to be found. 

He’s present physically, but emotionally? Mentally? Nowhere.

You’ve long since stopped asking him to show up at these meetings, to participate in the day-to-day, to even make an effort. You’ve grown used to doing it all, but some nights, like tonight, the weight of it feels like too much. 

The door to the classroom finally opens.

And there he is. Suguru Geto.

His eyes soften when he sees you standing alone in the hallway. It’s nearly 9:30 now, and he has that gentle look on his face, the one he always wears when he’s speaking with you. There’s a warmth there, but tonight, you can’t help but feel like he’s been watching you for longer than you realize.

"You’re the last one," Suguru says, his voice smooth and calm, as though he’s already made peace with the late hour. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

You offer a tired smile, trying to mask the fatigue that’s clearly weighing on you. "It’s no problem," you say. "I’m just used to it."

He steps aside to let you into the classroom.

The soft glow of the desk lamps and the smell of chalk and paper fill the air as you sit down, the worn-out chair creaking slightly under your weight. Suguru takes his usual spot at the desk, but instead of diving into the paperwork, he looks at you with a level of attention that makes you feel like the only person in the room.

“Everything going okay?” He asks, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of concern. You think he’s been asking you that for weeks now, and for weeks, you’ve given the same nonchalant answer.

“Yeah, just the usual,” you reply, keeping your gaze steady on the desk in front of you. “Busy. You know how it is.”

Suguru nods, but his eyes don’t leave you. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you feel exposed, like he sees more than just the tired mom who’s barely holding it together. He watches you as if he’s picking up on the subtle cracks in your composure, the ones you’ve been trying to hide for so long.

“I’ve noticed,” Suguru says, his voice steady, yet his eyes seem to soften with understanding. “You’re here for every parent meeting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your husband at one.”

You stiffen slightly, but not enough to make it obvious. Of course, Suguru would notice. He’s always been observant, always so aware of the details. He’s never commented on it before, but the fact that he does now makes something inside you ache.

Your gaze flickers to the side, focusing on anything but him.

“Well,” you start, your voice quieter than usual, “he’s always… busy with work.”

Suguru’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I get it,” he says, his voice even, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. "Work can be demanding."

You feel a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, and you try to laugh it off. “Yeah, it’s just... me, really. I handle everything at home, too.”

There’s a long pause as Suguru silently assesses you. His eyes narrow slightly, not in judgment, but in a way that makes you feel seen. Really seen.

“You’ve been doing it all alone for a while, haven’t you?” He asks it softly, like a statement more than a question.

The words hit you harder than you expected. You swallow, the pressure in your chest growing heavier. It’s not like you haven’t noticed it yourself. You’ve been doing this on your own for a while now—balancing everything, carrying the weight of your family’s responsibilities while your husband remains detached. But hearing Suguru say it, hearing him acknowledge it, makes you feel more vulnerable than you care to admit.

You nod slowly, avoiding his gaze as your throat tightens.

"Doesn’t seem fair, does it?" Suguru continues, his voice still calm, but his eyes darken ever so slightly, an intensity that wasn’t there before.

You don’t know how to respond. All you can do is sit there, feeling the weight of his words hang in the air between you.

“Sometimes, people don’t realize what it means to be present,” Suguru murmurs, his tone laced with something more than just professional concern.

And in that moment, you realize just how much you crave someone to acknowledge the effort you’ve been putting in—to see you as more than just a mother, more than just someone who’s keeping everything together by sheer force of will.

The silence stretches between you two, but Suguru doesn’t look away. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for you to say something.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re on the verge of saying something that you definitely shouldn’t.

The weight of Suguru's gaze is palpable, drawing you in like a magnetic force. For the first time, you're not looking for validation from the outside world, from your husband or anyone else. You’re looking at him, and his presence seems to fill the entire room, suffocating yet somehow liberating.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, all of it. The constant doing, the giving... but it’s never enough. It feels like I’m just... waiting. For someone to notice. For someone to... care."

Suguru’s expression shifts, and he leans in just slightly, as though he’s pulled by some invisible thread. There’s something in his eyes that’s far from the calm teacher you’ve known. It’s deeper, darker—filled with a quiet understanding that makes the air between you both thick with unspoken emotions.

"You deserve more than that," he murmurs, his voice low, almost intimate. “You deserve someone who sees you. Not just the mother, not just the wife. But you.”

You take a shallow breath, feeling the rush of emotions swirl inside you. 

You’ve heard those words before, but from him, they hit differently. The way he’s looking at you, the way his words seem to reach right inside you, it’s too much to ignore.

Without thinking, your gaze flickers down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. And you see it then—the shift. The barely perceptible tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders tense as if he’s fighting some invisible current pulling him toward you.

You stand abruptly, the sudden movement shaking you from the haze of desire that had slowly clouded your mind. Your pulse races in your ears, and you feel a rush of heat flood your face, the intensity of the moment unsettling you.

You attempt to gather yourself, your mind a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. 

“Is there... anything my daughter needs to work on—uh, outside of school?” You ask, your voice lacking the usual certainty, the question tumbling out awkwardly as if to distract yourself from what’s happening between you.

Suguru stands slowly from his chair, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he glides around the desk with measured steps, his gaze never leaving you. Every movement of his feels deliberate, calculated, and yet somehow fluid, like he’s in complete control of the space around you.

He comes to stand directly in front of you, just close enough that his presence fills the air, thick and charged with an undeniable tension. 

You can’t help but notice the way his body moves, the subtle power in the way he stands, shoulders broad, chest rising and falling in time with his deep, steady breaths.

“Your daughter?” Suguru repeats, the corners of his lips curling up slightly as he leans in just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. “You’re not really thinking about her right now, are you?”

You want to pull away, to say something, anything that could snap you out of this, but his presence is overwhelming, and your body betrays you with every passing second.

"I..." you try to say something, anything to pull yourself together, but the words falter in your throat. The part of you that knows better, the part of you that remembers you’re married and committed to someone else, is struggling to assert itself. 

But the other part of you, the one that’s been ignored for so long, is screaming to be heard, to finally feel seen, to be touched like how he could touch you, to have someone care.

Suguru watches you carefully, sensing the internal conflict as his fingers twitch at his sides. He takes a small step closer, his hand brushing against your arm just lightly enough to send a ripple of heat through your skin.

"I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do," he says softly, his voice almost a caress. 

You notice the way his body towers over yours, his broad chest just inches from yours, making you feel small in comparison. The warmth of him radiates against your skin, and it’s hard not to notice how much bigger and stronger he is than you. 

The sharp, intoxicating scent of his cologne wraps around you like a blanket, mingling with the faint trace of cigarette smoke that clings to him, adding a dangerous edge to the allure of his presence. 

It’s impossible to ignore how every inch of him feels commanding, even in the way he stands so close to you.

"You’re a married woman, after all. You’re loyal, and I respect that. But..." 

He pauses, his lips curling into a knowing smile, the hint of something far more dangerous in his eyes. "It would be wrong of me to let you leave here tonight without telling you... that you deserve more than this. You deserve to feel wanted, to feel desired."

Something inside you snaps.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the loneliness, the months—years—of feeling like you married a bum who couldn’t give a damn about you. 

Or maybe it’s the way Suguru is looking at you now, those sharp dark eyes, like he already knows how this is going to end, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re in each other’s space, the tension breaking like a dam. 

His mouth is on yours, firm and demanding, swallowing the sharp, needy gasp that escapes you as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers find the front of his black button-up, fisting the fabric like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. His lips part against yours, a low sound vibrating in his throat when you arch into him.

His hands are everywhere—on your waist, your back, sliding down to your hips, fingers pressing in like he needs to memorize the feel of you beneath them. He walks you backward with slow, deliberate steps, forcing you to move with him, until the edge of his desk digs into the backs of your thighs.

A sharp inhale is all you manage before he lifts you effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he hoists you onto the desk.

He steps between your legs, crowding you, his breath hot against your lips. His hands spread over your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he tugs you forward, drawing you closer with a grip that’s firm, possessive. 

One hand drifts upward, sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers curling there as he tilts your head back slightly, deepening the kiss with a slow, consuming hunger.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Suguru murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough, thick with something dangerous. “Someone to take care of you for once?”

You nodded weakly in response, your breath hitching as you let his mouth roam yours.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and the low groan he lets out makes heat pool deep in your stomach. He presses himself between your legs, the firm drag of his body against yours making you gasp into his mouth.

Suguru breathes against your lips, his voice a low rasp as he rolls his hips into yours, just enough for you to feel how hard he is through the fabric of his slacks. "Feels good, doesn’t it?"

A soft whimper slips past your lips before you can silence it, your nails grazing his scalp as you clutch him closer. 

His response—a low, guttural mix of a groan and a growl—rumbles against you, sending a sharp jolt of heat through your body.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin until he reaches the hem of your skirt. His touch is light, teasing, his fingertips barely skimming beneath the fabric before he grips the material and pushes it up, baring more of you to him.

"You’ve been running yourself ragged, haven’t you?" Suguru murmurs, his lips moving to your jaw, trailing heat along your skin as he speaks. "Taking care of everyone else while no one takes care of you."

His other hand stays firm at the back of your neck, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his lips drag lower, grazing over your pulse point before he nips at the sensitive skin just enough to make you gasp.

His fingers, deft and sure, find the first button of your blouse. He flicks it open with ease, then another, and another—each one undone with deliberate precision, as if savoring the act of peeling away the layers you’ve hidden beneath for so long.

"And all this time," he continues, his voice like silk laced with something darker, "you’ve been aching for someone to touch you like this."

You should push him away, should tell him this is wrong, but when his teeth scrape lightly against your throat and his fingers slide higher, your resolve shatters completely.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, though his grip on you says he already knows you won’t.

Instead, you tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in silent invitation. A satisfied hum rumbles from his chest as his hand finally finds the heat between your legs, fingers pressing against the thin fabric covering you.

As he pops open the final button, the fabric parts, slipping from your shoulders as he slides the blouse down your arms, letting it pool behind you on the desk. 

His gaze darkens as he drinks you in, his thumb brushing against the newly exposed skin, tracing slow, lazy circles over your collarbone before dipping lower.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he feels how soaked you already are. His fingers flex, teasing over the damp fabric, and when you arch into his touch, he exhales a shaky breath. "You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?"

Your hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but he pulls his hand back just enough to keep it out of reach.

"Be patient," Suguru murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he presses down even further on your panties. "I’m going to make this so fucking good for you."

And when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding your bare skin, you realize—he’s going to ruin you.

A shaky breath stutters from your lips as he works you open, his fingers sinking deeper, curling just right. The sensation is almost too much, a slow, aching pleasure that makes your stomach tighten, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Does this feel good..?" He breathes against your mouth, his voice laced with something tender, something reverent. "Because you fuckin’ deserve it."

You barely register his other hand moving until you feel the warmth of his palm smoothing up your stomach, then higher, slipping beneath the lace of your bra. His thumb drags over your nipple, a soft, teasing brush that sends a shudder rolling down your spine.

You gasp into his mouth, your body arching into him as his fingers press deeper inside you, a slow, deliberate stroke that has your thighs trembling around his waist.

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that sweet, aching spot inside you, and the cry that leaves you is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping over yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

The slow, insistent roll of his fingers inside you has you spiraling, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and when his thumb finds your clit, circling with just enough pressure, your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping past your lips.

His thumb strokes over your nipple again, this time pinching lightly, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers, and the sensation sparks through you like a live wire. Your hands clutch at his broad shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as a sharp gasp escapes you. 

The dual sensation—his fingers working you open with slow, deliberate strokes while his other hand teases your breast—has your body arching into him, desperate for more.

Suguru chuckles, low and pleased, his lips brushing against your jaw. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, giving your nipple another slow roll between his fingers before soothing the sting with a warm, open-mouthed kiss against your throat.

Your head tips back against the desk, thighs trembling around his waist. “Suguru—” you gasp, a desperate plea wrapped in his name.

He groans in response, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating against your skin. His fingers retreat suddenly, leaving you empty, and you whimper at the loss. But before you can protest, he’s shifting, straightening up between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you closer to the edge of the desk.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs caressing the side of your cheek, his voice thick and warm against your kiss-swollen lips. His fingers find the waistband of your underwear, hooking into it as he tugs the fabric down, his knuckles brushing against your thighs as he bares you to him.

His dark eyes flicker up to meet yours, filled with something deep, something hungry—but there’s tenderness there too, something almost reverent as he takes you in.

His hands smooth over your thighs, parting them further as he shifts between them, his own clothes rustling as he undoes his belt, his zipper—getting ready to help you where you need him most.

“‘M gonna take care of you,” he promises, low and fervent, his fingers curling around your thighs, hiking them up just a bit as he lines himself up. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good."

And then—he pushes inside, stretching you, filling you, tearing a gasp from your lips as your fingers claw at his shoulders.

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace already deep, deliberate—like he’s set on making you feel every inch of him, making sure you know exactly what it means to be wanted.

Suguru’s grip tightens on your thighs as he lifts them higher, angling you just how he wants, and then—he drives into you, deep and unrelenting. 

Every roll of his hips knocks the air from your lungs, every deep, deliberate thrust sends another ripple of heat cascading through you.

You can barely think, barely breathe, your mind foggy with the heady mix of desire and disbelief—disbelief that this is happening, that you let it happen, that it feels so impossibly, devastatingly good.

Suguru groans low in his throat, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs as he holds you exactly where he wants you, giving you exactly what you needed. 

His lips brush against your jaw, his voice dark and hushed when he murmurs, "Not so bad for a parent-teacher meeting, hmm?"

The desk creaks beneath you, the sharp edge digging into your back, but you barely register it over the heat flooding your veins, over the way he stretches you, fills you, drags pleasure from you with every purposeful thrust.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation. His name spills from your lips in a breathless gasp, your body arching into him, chasing more, more, more—

"That's it," he murmurs, voice rough, almost reverent. "Taking me so well."

His hands pull your legs even further up, deepening his angel, holding you open as he moves harder, faster, his breath hot against your cheek. The sharp, rhythmic press of him inside you has you unraveling, pleasure curling tight in your core, so close you can taste it, so close you can feel yourself slipping—

And then?

Well.

You never complained about going to parent-teacher meetings alone again.

a/n ⸺ I may or may not already have half of a choso version drafted if anyone wants to see that PLS LET ME KNOW

[ovulationation]

Rivalry

Pairing: frat!Bucky x sorority!reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been academic rivals since the start of college. How will he react when you celebrate your accomplishment at his frat’s party?

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p-in-v (for the love of god just wear a condom), academic rivals, creampie, praise kink

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

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and your breath hitches. He grins at you and lets out a chuckle.

“Fuck you, James.” You snarl.

“Would you, Doc?”

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

The first time you met James Barnes was move-in day to your Freshman dorm. He lived right next door to you, which means that you had to hear everything that happened. The parties when you were trying to study, the obnoxiously loud music during his morning showers, and the girls that he would bring home in the middle of the night.

Things got worse when you realized that you were both on the pre-med track.

The past three years have been filled with him basically 24/7. With both of you vying for the top of the class, the best teacher recommendations, and the best volunteering experiences to pile up your resumes.

Things got slightly better when you both moved out of the dorms your second year, but the competition returned quickly when you realized you now lived in fraternity and sorority houses directly across the street from each other.

By this year (your third year) you have become full blown academic rivals. Both of you fighting over the very limited summer spots to shadow some of the best doctors in the country at your college’s hospital.

Today, on the last day of finals, you had finally gotten the message that you got one of the spots. All of your work was paying off and you could finally relax before your intense summer started.

That’s how you ended up at the last party of the year. Your friends had dragged you out as a celebration, but they forgot to inform you that this year it was being hosted by none other than James Fucking Barnes’ fraternity. The fraternity that he was just elected the President of for the upcoming year.

Now you stared across the room at him as he lounged back on the couch pushed up against the wall. Something about just the sight of him made your stomach churn, it had since the moment you saw him, but you couldn’t put your finger on exactly what. His messy black stubble on his face, his shirt that obviously didn’t even fit right since the sleeves clung to his biceps, the way he spread his legs so casually, taking up more room than needed. That stupid smirk as he made eye contact with you across the room. You started towards him.

You wanted to slap that stupid look off of his stupid face.

You stopped in between his legs, glaring down at him. He cocked his head to the side as he looked up at you, that smirk still spread across his face.

“Congratulations, Doc.” His voice low and casual as he looks up at you with lidded eyes.

“Try not to sound too excited, James.” You roll your eyes.

“But I’m so excited, I get to see you every day this summer.” His eyes rake up your body, taking in your short skirt. You feel a shiver run over you as his eyes meet yours again.

“You got the other spot?” You scoff.

“Yep,” he grins up at you, leaning forward in his seat.

He reaches a hand out to rest against the side of your bare thigh, causing goosebumps to pop up along the flesh. Your knees feel weak.

“Maybe we should carpool?” His head tilts to the side as he looks at you under his lashes.

“I would rather walk barefoot on hot gravel,” you deadpan, despite the shudder that travels through your body as he starts to ghost his fingers over your skin.

You gesture towards the red cup in his other hand with your chin, “How many have you had, Bucky?”

His eyes light up at the nickname. “Just the one, gotta stay sharp.”

“The internship doesn’t start until next week.”

“Not talkin about the internship.”

Both of his hands slide to the backs of your thighs, pulling you forward and onto his lap. You let out a gasp, looking around at all of the people who are too drunk to pay any attention to the two of you.

His hands rest on top of your thighs, thumbs tracing lazy patterns on the skin.

“W-what are you doing?” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“It’s too loud, I wanna be able to hear you better.” He leans back again, just staring at you. The start of a dull ache pulsing deep in your abdomen.

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and your breath hitches. He grins at you and lets out a chuckle.

“Fuck you, James.” You snarl.

“Would you, Doc?” He smirks and the ache gets stronger.

A beat passes with you staring at him in surprise before he lunges at you. His lips crashing against yours. You pull back in shock, taking in his red cheeks and his pupils blown wide. Then, without even thinking, you crash back into him.

He kisses you hungrily, taking advantage of the first gasp that leaves you to slip his tongue between your lips and explore your mouth eagerly. You feel him grow hard beneath you and you gasp again. You push yourself down against him, feeling his bulge hitting right where you need it.

He groans into the kiss, his hands flying up to grab onto your hips to still your motion, causing you to whine. He pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, “My room?” He asks breathlessly.

“Please.”

You jump off of his lap and he tangles his fingers with yours, pulling you through the sea of people and up the stairs to his bedroom.

His room is much cleaner than you would have ever expected. No navy sheets, no empty liquor bottles on the shelves, he even had multiple pillows. His desk had off of his notebooks neatly stacked on top of it.

Bucky shut the door and locked it, turning back to look at you, his cheeks flushed.

You didn’t even have to say anything before he was on you again. Pulling you back to his lap on the bed. This time kissing along your jaw and down your neck.

“Why?” You breathe out, trying to focus on anything besides his lips trailing down your neck.

He pulls back to look at your face, “Why what?”

“Why the sudden switch up?”

He stares at you with a bewildered look, “There wasn’t a switch up, I’ve always liked you.”

Your brows knit together in confusion, “But-“

You’re cut off by his lips reattaching to your skin, now nipping at a sensitive spot underneath your ear. You gasp.

“I thought you liked me too,” he mumbles against your skin. His hands grip your hips, using them to drag you against his clothed erection.

“But,” You’re interrupted by a moan escaping you as his zipper hits your clit through your panties. “You’ve always argued with me and competed against me in everything I did.” Your hands grip his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I was flirting,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His hands push your skirt up to your waist, revealing your panties. His eyes never leave yours as he pushes them to the side and grazes his thumb over your clit.

“I probably shouldn’t have pushed your buttons as much as I did,” he says, his middle finger sliding down to your dripping core, teasing your entrance. “But you’re just so hot when you’re angry.”

You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes his finger inside of you. His finger slowly working inside of you while his thumb rubbed lazy circles against your clit, his other hand still gripping your hip. He watched you like he was studying you, making sure he was hitting just the right spots. Trying to get you off like he was getting graded for it.

His other hand comes up and pulls your bottom lip out from between your teeth, “Wanna hear you, baby.”

You let out a whine as he pushes a second finger inside of you, curling them against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Bucky,” you whimper, feeling that cord inside of you wind tighter.

“I know, baby” He coos, his thumb speeding up its rhythm on your clit.

You clench around his fingers as you come undone, your forehead falling against his shoulder as you grind into his fingers.

Before you’ve completely recovered, you’re being laid onto the bed. Your back hitting the blankets while your legs are still twitching.

Bucky stands in front of you, pulling his shirt off, revealing his toned chest and arms. When could he possibly have the time to go to the gym?

You sit up quickly, reaching for his belt with shaky hands. He chuckles, looking down at you as you pull the front of his jeans open and push them down his legs. Now he’s just in his underwear, leaving nothing to the imagination as his hard cock strains against the fabric.

“You’re getting a little impatient” He smirks down at you.

You look up at him beneath your lashes, wanting to get that stupid smirk off of his face. You grab his waistband and pull it down, causing his cock to spring free.

He groans as you reach out to wrap your hand around his thick length. Your hand pumping him a few times, testing. His hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your movement. You look back into his eyes, now looking down at you like he could devour you whole.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes.” He growls.

You pull your shirt over your head and throw it to the floor, your nipples hardening as they hit the cool air. His breathing picks up as he takes in the sight, his eyes darting between each of your breasts.

You help him pull your skirt off, tearing your panties off with it. Now leaving you both bare. Your eyes raking over each other’s bodies.

He lowers himself to the bed and crawls his way up your body, stopping to plays stray kisses up from your navel, to each breast, and finally back to your lips. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him against you.

His hands ghost over your hips to grasp the backs of your thighs, pulling them apart. He pulls back to lift onto his knees, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and tapping it against your clit.

You gasp, gripping his arms as he slides through your folds.

“Bucky, stop teasing,” You whine, clutching at the sheets in frustration.

“What do you need?” He smirks down at you with that stupid face.

“Need you, please.” You whimper when the tip of his cock hitches into your entrance.

He pushes into you with a low groan. Your slick walls squeeze him tight as he bottoms out inside you. He pants above you, his eyes going back and forth between your face and where you’re connected. His fingers slip down and tease along your folds, collecting your slick. They move up to your sensitive nub and coat it in your juices, rubbing tight circles.

“F-fuck,” you gasp, throwing your head back into the mattress.

“Nuh uh,” Bucky scolds, stopping completely.

You whine and look back to his face. His free hand moves to grip your chin, making sure you’re looking into his eyes before starting his slow, deep thrusts again.

“Want to see your face, pretty girl.”

You nod and fight to keep your eyes from rolling back when the tip of his cock hits that spot inside you.

“I can feel you squeezing,” he groans, his fingers moving faster against your clit. “You gonna cum for me?”

“So close, Bucky.” You whimper, feeling that cord deep inside you about to snap.

His thrusts get faster, hitting that spot relentlessly over and over again. Soon your vision goes blank, moaning loudly as you gush over his cock. He never wavers, still thrusting into you at the same rhythm even as you clamp down around him.

“That’s a good fucking girl.” He coos, angling himself down to capture your lips again.

You moan against his lips. He never gives you a chance to catch your breath after your orgasm, just keeps his unrelenting pace inside you.

His thrusts start to get sloppy as he groans into your mouth, “can I cum inside you?”

You moan at his desperate words, “yes, please Bucky.”

He thrusts a few more times before stilling deep inside you, spilling his cum against your cervix. The feeling of his hot seed spreading through you makes you whine. His face presses into your shoulder as he lazily thrusts into you, kissing a little trail up your neck.

After a few minutes of sloppy kisses and trying to catch your breath, Bucky slips out of you and rolls to lay beside you.

Your chest rises and falls quickly as you turn your head to face him. He’s already looking at you.

His stupid grin plastered back to his face as he leans in to give you a short but hungry kiss.

“This summer is gonna be fun, Doc.”

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

I swear to god writing this felt like pulling teeth for some reason. It def doesn’t feel as good as my last one, but I wanted to try writing again and I was OBSESSED with the academic rivals to lovers trope so here ya go lol

[mocha1004]

OFFICER OFF DUTY ⋆˚꩜｡

older cop!leon x fem reader

WARNINGS: smut (mdni!), p in v, riding, older cop leon (he’s fat), semi-clothed, age gap (late 30s-early 40s leon, early 20s reader)

Summary: Leon’s just gotten home from a long shift, tired, half-dressed, and more than a little heavy in all the right places. You walk in fresh from the gym, but his attention is locked on you. He doesn't care if you’re sweaty. He doesn’t care if the TV’s still on. He just wants you.

Notes: had this idea in my brain since last night i wrote this so quickly forgive me for any errors...special thanks to my sister in fat older cop leon @rigorwhoring ily my blythe...pls enjoy pookie bears <3

The apartment’s dim, yellow light cast long shadows over the living room, the static buzz of some old football game echoing lazily from the TV. Leon sat slumped into the cushions of the old couch, one leg sprawled, the other bent just enough to hold the half-empty bottle in his hand steady. He grunted as he sank into the couch, fingers lazily popping open the buttons of his uniform shirt one by one. The fabric parted to reveal the worn, sweat-stained, wife-beater stretched across his chest, riding up just enough to expose the soft curve of his stomach, the kind of weight he’d put on from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. His jeans were unbuttoned, barely hanging onto his hips, belt loose like he couldn’t be bothered.

He looked exhausted, every inch of him worn and worked. But his eyes, those damn eyes, still had that flicker when he heard the front door creak open. You stepped in, gym bag slung over your shoulder, skin glowing from the workout. Your sports bra peeked out beneath a tight workout jacket, leggings hugging tight to your frame. The scent of sweat and body heat trailed behind you, and Leon’s gaze followed you like a shadow. You couldn’t help but stare back at him, tummy out, muscles still thick beneath, looking unfairly good like this.

“Hey, baby” you said, toeing off your shoes and stretching your arms overhead. “You look beat.” He didn’t answer right away. Just tipped the beer bottle to his lips and let out a sigh, eyes never leaving you. Then, voice low and rough, “C’mere.”

You blinked, halfway toward the bathroom. “I need a shower first.” Leon’s hand lazily dropped to his thigh, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk. “You smell good already. C’mere.” His tone had that drawl of command, not a bark, but something deeper. Warm, worn-in, full of the kind of authority that came from years of knowing exactly how to take what he wanted. And you always gave in. Still, you hesitated at the hallway, clinging to a shred of routine. “I’m all gross…”

“Don’t care.”

He shifted on the couch, spreading his knees wider. One hand moved to rest over the fly of his jeans, fingertips brushing lazily. “Just wanna feel you. Now.” Your pulse picked up. You dropped your gym bag. 

And when you crossed the room to stand between his legs, he looked up at you like you were the only damn thing worth surviving the day for. He reached for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up slow, the fabric bunching in his fists. The TV buzzed in the background, ignored, forgotten. All that mattered now was the heat between you, the quiet ache of a man who’d spent all day holding it together, and the girl who always let him fall apart.

You let him peel the hoodie off your arms, the fabric dragging against your skin, slow and possessive. His hands were warm, rough palms from years on the job, fingers calloused in places. They lingered on your hips as you stepped closer, straddling him without hesitation. The denim of his jeans scratched at your inner thighs, but the heat radiating from his body made you forget the rest.

He let out a sound, low, almost a growl, as you settled into his lap, your weight grounding him. One hand stayed firmly on your waist, the other drifted up your back, tugging you close until your chest pressed against his. The wife-beater stretched between you, damp and worn, clinging to the shape of his body beneath. You could feel the soft lines of him, shoulders, arms, the tension he still hadn’t shaken from work. The kind that didn’t ease until you helped him lose himself. When he shifted to pull you closer, his belly pressed into your lower stomach, warm and heavy between you. It made you want to grind down harder, bury yourself in every part of him.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, just the brush of lips, testing. But he didn’t do soft for long. Leon’s mouth crashed into yours with something close to desperation, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. He kissed like he needed it, like he’d been waiting all damn day for this moment. Your fingers found the edge of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to run along the ridges of his stomach, the coarse trail of hair leading down. He was already warm, already hard beneath you.

“Missed you” you murmured against his mouth, nipping at his lower lip. “You were gone too long” he rasped, voice rough against your throat as he kissed down your jaw, slow and possessive. “Whole shift, thinkin’ about your pretty mouth. Thinkin’ about you waiting for me.”

His teeth grazed your neck. You gasped, nails digging lightly into his sides. He liked that, liked when you touched him without hesitation, like you needed it just as much as he did. You rocked your hips once, just to tease. His grip on your thighs tightened. “You gonna keep teasing” he murmured, lips brushing just beneath your ear, “Or are you finally gonna be good for me?”

Your breath caught in your throat. There was heat building low in your stomach, a familiar ache that made your legs tighten around him. You knew this dance. You lived for it. “Tell me what you want” you whispered, letting your hand trail slowly down his chest, stopping just above where his jeans sat unzipped. Leon leaned back slightly, eyes hooded, jaw tight. He took another slow drag of you with his gaze, your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the glint in your eye that meant you were just getting started.

“You know what I want” he said. “Now be a good girl and give it to me.” Your breath hitched at his words. That voice, gravel and grit, thick with authority, always did something to you. It cut through every wall you tried to keep up, reduced you to nerves and heat and instinct. You leaned in again, lips brushing his as you whispered, “Then make me.” That was all the permission he needed.

Leon grabbed your hips and shifted, pressing you more firmly against him. You could feel the heat of him now, solid beneath the loose denim, straining against the soft barrier between you. He guided your body into a slow grind, pulling a broken sound from your lips as the friction ignited something deep in your tummy.

“Yeah” he muttered, watching you with eyes half-lidded, stormy. “Just like that. Keep movin’. I want to feel you lose it right here, before I even take you to the bed.” You kissed him again, harder this time, tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting beer and salt and him. Your hands roamed his chest, tracing over the fabric of his wife-beater, nails dragging along the defined ridges underneath. You wanted more, you wanted skin. 

With a quiet urgency, you tugged at the shirt, pushing it up his torso until he raised his arms for you. You peeled it off, revealing the flushed planes of his chest, scarred and strong. He looked up at you now, bare and raw and so utterly yours. You kissed your way down his neck, teeth grazing over his pulse point, then down his collarbone. He groaned low in his throat, head falling back against the couch, fingers digging into your thighs. “Fuck” he breathed. “You know what you do to me?” You smiled against his skin, lips pressing just above his heart. “Yeah, I do.”

One of your hands trailed down his chest again, this time slipping beneath the waistband of his open jeans. His breath hitched, hips twitching upward. He was burning up beneath you, restraint hanging by a thread. You rocked again, slower this time, deliberately cruel. His fingers tightened around your waist, jaw flexing. “Keep that up” he warned, voice rough, “And you’re not gonna be able to walk to that damn shower later.” You met his gaze, flushed and bold. “Then maybe I won’t.”

For a beat, neither of you moved, just the sound of shallow breaths and the hum of the TV behind you. Then, Leon surged forward, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you into another kiss, this one messier, deeper, full of need. The kind of kiss that promised the rest of the night wouldn’t be gentle.

His mouth moved over yours with hungry precision, like he was making up for every minute spent apart. The couch creaked under your shifting weight as his hands traveled your body, rough palms smoothing over the curve of your waist, up your back, then down again to cup the backs of your thighs. “You feel that?” he muttered between kisses, voice like smoke and gravel. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you walk in here looking like that…”

His hands squeezed tighter, dragging you forward until there was no space left between you, only heat. You could feel how hard he was now, pressed right up against the thin barrier of your leggings. It sent a jolt straight through you, your breath catching, thighs instinctively clenching around him. Leon leaned back slightly, eyes roaming over you like he was trying to commit this to memory. “Take these off” he said, tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

You hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then, without breaking eye contact, you stood just enough to peel them down your legs, slow, teasing, like you wanted to torture him. And maybe you did. His gaze followed every movement, jaw clenched tight, hands twitching at his sides as he watched the fabric slide over your hips and thighs. You straddled him again, wearing nothing now but your sports bra and the flushed heat that painted your cheeks. Leon’s hands came back immediately, gripping your bare hips this time, guiding you into another slow grind against him.

“Jesus” he muttered, head falling back against the couch. “You’re killin’ me.” You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “Good.” Your hands returned to his jeans, and this time you didn’t stop. You eased them down enough to free him, your fingers brushing over the sensitive skin just to watch him twitch, to hear that low groan slip from his throat.

Leon’s head rolled back again, eyes fluttering shut. He looked wrecked already, and you hadn’t even started. “You gonna ride me, baby?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Right here on this damn couch, where I can watch every second of it?” You bit your lip and nodded, too breathless to speak. His hands slid up your thighs again, strong and steady. “Then go slow. I wanna feel every inch of you.”

And when you finally sank down onto him, his hands held you firm, eyes locked on yours, mouth parted in something between awe and desire. You both stayed there for a second, breathing in sync, hearts thudding like war drums. Your body trembled in his lap, every nerve alight, hips jerking in erratic rhythm as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Leon’s grip was iron at your waist, guiding your movements while his mouth dragged against your neck, murmuring filth that only made it worse.

“That's it, baby… just like that.” His voice was thick, guttural. “Feel how deep I am? How full you are? You take me so fuckin’ well.” You whimpered, barely able to hold yourself up. Your thighs were burning, slick coating both your skin and his. He didn’t care. He was watching you like he was obsessed, drunk on every twitch, every gasp, every faltering breath you gave him.

“Come on,” he rasped, thrusting up hard enough to make your breath hitch. “Let me feel you fall apart on me.” You choked on a moan, head thrown back, nails digging into his shoulders as your climax hit, fast, sharp, devastating. It dragged through you in waves, curling your toes, arching your back, clenching tight around him. You were panting, dizzy with the pace, riding him like your life depended on it, skin flushed, lips parted, eyes pleading.

“Want a kiss” you whimpered, breath catching. “Kiss me, please, Leon—” He grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks just enough to make you gasp. “Open your mouth” he growled. The second you did, he forced his tongue into your cute lil mouth, deep down your throat, messy and filthy, swallowing every broken moan like he’d starve without it.

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, arms wrapped tight around his neck. His body was heavy beneath you, solid and warm, the soft weight of his stomach pressing flush to yours with every thrust.

He grunted into your ear, the sound low and rough. “You holdin’ on for dear life, sweetheart?” You could only nod, whining as your legs trembled around his hips. He chuckled, one hand gripping your thigh while the other palmed your ass, dragging you down harder. “Good. I want you to feel every fuckin’ inch of me.”

And god, you loved it. The way his stomach brushed yours, the way you felt completely consumed under the heat and weight of him, it was messy, overwhelming, and perfect. Your mind was blank, just heat, just stretch, just the filthy sound of skin against skin. You couldn’t even form a sentence. “Leon, c-can’t think” you gasped, voice breaking. He grabbed your jaw, forcing your eyes on him. “Don’t need you to think, baby” he growled. “Just take it. That’s all you gotta do.” 

“F—fuck, that’s it” Leon growled, hands bruising on your hips now as he thrust up into the heat of you, chasing his own release. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, so wet for me, I’m not gonna last—” He slammed into you once, twice, then stilled, groaning deep in his throat as he spilled inside you, buried to the hilt. His arms locked around your waist, holding you tight to his chest as his breathing went ragged. 

For a moment, everything was still, just the rise and fall of your bodies pressed together, the sound of the TV droning on in the background, the soft pop of an empty beer bottle tipping over on the carpet. You felt him exhale, one hand coming up to brush sweat-matted hair from your face. The other caressed slow circles on your back, grounding you with his touch. “You good?” he asked softly, voice worn down from the tension that just unraveled. You nodded against his neck, boneless and flushed. “Yeah. You?”

He chuckled low, lips brushing your temple. “You just sucked the soul outta me. I’m great.” You smiled, letting yourself melt against him. After a minute, Leon shifted, groaning as he tucked himself back in, keeping one arm wrapped around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. He looked at you, messy, dazed, glowing in the low light.

“I should clean you up” he murmured, fingers stroking along your thigh. “But I kinda like you like this. Wrecked. Full of me.” You gave a breathless laugh. “You’re awful.” “Yeah” he said, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “And you love it.” 

He stood slowly and started walking toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up, you earned that shower.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his neck which was rewarded with a hiss and a groan from him. He caught you around the waist before you could wobble too far. “Alright,” he smirked, already standing up behind you, “definitely not walking straight.” “Shut up.” you said. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he carried you to the bathroom, muttering, “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wait till after my shower.” Leon kissed the top of your head, smiling into your hair. “Nah” he said quietly, “I’d wait forever for you.”

[calen-00]

Taking the Lead

☆Content: Umemiya/reader, female reader, nsfw, aged up, p in v, riding, praising, intimate fluff cus ume is cheesy like that.

☆A/N: Tumblr has me shadow banned, reposting to see if this works💀💀

Ao3 link

Umemiya was someone who is used to have control over things, both in his role as leader and his personal life, every situation is always on his hands and he is very comfortable with that. With you is not very different.

He took the first step by conffessing his feelings to you, the one on giving the first kiss and he enjoys having his way with you on bed. Having you under him, whimpering, screaming his name, he loves having the pleasure of giving you his everything and watching you enjoy it. He enjoys watching you take all his love.

Now, is not that you don't enjoy it that way too, but you can't help but want to reciprocate his actions, and you tried, but he always brush it off with a "oh but you don't have to do that, love. Let me take care of you" and you hate it (not really), cus you can't say no when he speaks to you like that.

So the night he came home absolutely tired to even get up from your side on the couch you saw it as the perfect oportunity.

– oh, poor baby. Long day at work? - you said while wrapping your arms around him, hands caressing his hair lovingly as he hid his face your chest

– Hmmm, so long... - he answered you almost dragging his words.

The space between you two was non-existant, this were the types of day were he was the neediest, just looking foward to have you in any way possible, he just needed to be close to you no matter how. And you were not one to let it slide.

– I got you, Haji. Why don't you let me take care of you?

Your hands run down from his hair to shoulders, along his biceps and down his abdomen, until reaching the hem of his shirt and sneaking them under it. You felt him shiver under your touch as you caressed the bare skin without restriction.

– hmm, you don't have to do that, love... - and there was again the same phrase, but this time he didn't make any intention to move or change the roles, in fact, he gave you more space to let you keep touching.

He was needy like that.

– of course i do, what type of partner would i be if i didn't take care of my boyfriend? - your hands kept exploring his body and he kept trembling under you - specially when he is this needy.

One of your hands left his torso to his crotch, quickly noticing he was already hard under his pants. He let out a low moan that the touch and you couldn't help but smirk at that.

He finally pulled away from your chest, looking at you with his face all red and a kind of smile that told you "you are playing dirty but is working so fucking well". That was your green light.

– Fine... just this once.

.

.

.

The couch got cold and now you were warming up the bed, your bodies felt on fire tho. The room full of dirty noises of moans and skin slaping.

This time you were on top of him, riding his dick and moaning loud everytime it hited your sweet spot.You grinded against his lap, fluttering around him as you repeatedly picked your body up and dropped it back down, allowing your weight to intensify your movements to the point that even he couldn’t hold back his pleasure, panting and groaning with your every movement.

– G-god... you are so good, love. So good for me.

And even like this, he couldn't keep his mouth shut, prising you for your good job, for the perfect way your body moved on top of him, encouraging you to keep riding until your legs couldn't do it anymore.

– That's it love, don't stop... - his hands traveled to your hips, helping you to keep on your movements as he could feel your legs tremble at his sides.

Why did it took him so long to have you like this? Pretty girl taking care of him, looking so perfect jumping on his cock. All just to satisfy him. He was living for it.

– Ha-haji... you like it, baby? - you asked between moans while lowering yourself until your face were mere inches apart, your hips not stoping even a second.

The look on his eyes were pure adoration, love in its pure form, down for you in every way possible. He loves the way you move on top of him, he loves the way you look at him, he loves having you in soul and body and he loves all the things you do just show how much you love him too.

– Like it? God, i love it... i love you so much.

And like that he closed the space between you two, taking your mouth in heated and passionate kiss. Full of disere, full of burning love. You found yourself submiting to it in no time and he took the oportunity on that.

Embracing his arms around your body, plating both feets on the bed, he started to pound on you with a quick peace, reaching deep and fast inside you. He knew you were suppoused to take the lead this time, but you have to understand him, he is a weak man and you were so good for him. He couldn't hold it anymore.

– Ah, Love you too! Love you, love you!

And you were so lost on it that didn't even noticed he took control again, moaning loudly to his ear until sparks exploded on your stomach, eyes rolling up as the ecstasy took over your body. He followed quckily behind you, a few thrusts more and he was empting inside you, filling you with his love.

Once you catched your breath again he gained a smack on his pec , with his cute red-faced girl looking at him with a pout on her face

– Ouch? And what was that for? - he asked between giggles, knowing exactly why he was guilty for

– Play dumb, i was suppoused to take care of you

– Oh but love, you did so well i wasn't able to control myself!

He laughed at it and you pouted even more while hidding on his chest.

Things didn't end up as you planned but for him you didn't exactly what you promised and even more. Beacause of that he fell for you more, if that is even possible. You have that man head over heels.

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - V

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,8k

Warning: emotional abuse, suicidal intentions, eating disorder, depression, character death, attempt homicide

--

The Manhattan skyline was suffocating.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful—because it was—but because it was familiar. Familiar in a way that tied chains to her ankles. The glittering lights that once meant hope now only glared like judgmental eyes, watching her every breath as if waiting for her to mess up.

Y/N had been back in New York for three weeks. Her return had been marked with nothing more than a silent car ride from JFK to her parents’ towering brownstone, the driver quiet, the air thick with the unspoken grief that clung to her like second skin. Her father didn’t meet her at the airport. Neither did her mother. They were waiting at home like she had merely gone out for groceries.

"Finally back to your senses," her father had muttered during dinner, inspecting her like one of his lab specimens. "Now let’s work on something real."

Real.

Apparently, the man who had loved her in silence, in quiet nights and fleeting glances, wasn’t real. Apparently, the beat of his heart recorded on her phone and played on loop when she couldn't sleep wasn’t real. The project she built from nothing, the theory she bled over, wasn’t real. Bob wasn’t real to them.

She didn’t correct them.

Most days, she spent in her father’s lab, shadowing projects she had no interest in, half-listening to meetings, giving data evaluations she didn’t care about. Her work was lifeless, an echo of the passion she used to carry like a torch. At night, she went home to her parents’ house where the air always smelled of lavender and too many expectations.

“You’re getting older, darling,” her mother said just the other night, pouring herself a glass of merlot with the grace of a socialite. “All this science, this lab work, it’s lovely and all but men want something soft. Something elegant. Not… equations.”

Y/N had stared blankly at her.

“Mrs. Dempsey’s son is coming back from Yale soon,” her mother added, as if that was the answer to everything. “He’s in banking. I told her we’d attend the fundraiser next week. I’ll pick a dress for you.”

She didn’t respond. She just left the room.

That night, like every other, she lay in the dark on her childhood bed, curled beneath crisp, cold sheets, clutching her phone like it could anchor her. She hit play on the audio recording, the only one she hadn’t had the heart to delete.

It was static at first. A few distant clicks. And then it came.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Bob’s heartbeat. Strong. Measured. Human.

The only thing left of him that hadn’t turned to ash.

She didn’t cry that first night. Or the second. But by the end of the first week, the silence of her room cracked her open. She wept into her pillow, careful to muffle it, careful to keep her sobs quiet so her mother wouldn’t hear and come knocking with a lecture about composure. About feminine dignity.

Bob’s voice sometimes joined her in her dreams. Sitting on the sterile edge of the lab bed, smiling that crooked, shy smile, fingers brushing hers when he thought no one noticed.

“Thank you,” he had once whispered to her, forehead pressed to hers after one of those nights they shouldn’t have shared. “For letting me feel human again.”

She hadn’t felt human since he died.

Every day she forced herself out of bed and went back to the lab was a betrayal of what she had wanted. The project in Malaysia had been hers. It was her idea. Her rebellion. Her desperate need to prove that people didn’t have to be monsters to be powerful. That trauma didn’t disqualify someone from salvation.

Bob had been that proof.

And they took him.

Now, the lab was a mausoleum of voices that didn't listen, charts that didn’t mean anything, and experiments that forgot humanity. Her father never asked what went wrong. Just told her the data was lacking. His disappointment wasn’t new—but it had new weight now. Because she was too tired to care.

She had become a ghost in her own life. Wandering.

Every now and then, she’d glance in the mirror and barely recognize herself. There was something dull in her eyes now. Something sunken. And when she touched her chest, where her heart used to beat fast in Bob’s presence, it only ached.

One night, while her parents were out at yet another society event, she crept into the kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in one of her father's old lab coats because it reminded her of Malaysia. She poured herself a drink and sat by the window, gazing out over the city.

A whisper of a memory hit her.

Bob’s laugh, rare and rough, as she dragged him down the lit streets of Kuala Lumpur. “You’re going to get us both caught.”

“Then don’t walk like a super soldier,” she had teased, grinning.

He had looked at her with those eyes then—soft gold in the dark—and said, “You make it easy to forget what I am.”

She downed the drink.

--

The chandelier above her head glittered like judgment. Sharp-edged crystals, refracting light the same way her mother’s voice did—bright, hard, unforgiving.

“Stand up straight, darling.”

Y/N blinked, caught between sleep and obedience. The silk robe around her felt foreign, like a costume someone else had chosen. Her mother circled her like a designer evaluating a mannequin.

“You’ve always had such good bones. The weight loss has helped them show. Your cheeks are finally defined. Maybe all that humidity in Malaysia did something to your metabolism.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

If only she knew the real reason the weight had disappeared—because food had lost all taste, because even hunger felt pointless now, just another reminder of being alive when the man she loved wasn’t.

Her mother moved to the vanity, sifting through powders and lipsticks like a surgeon selecting her instruments. “Now, we need a dress that shows off your waist. Something elegant, but not desperate. That blue one from Paris. The one you’ve never worn.”

Y/N stared at herself in the mirror. Pale skin. Dull eyes. Hair pulled into soft waves she hadn’t touched herself—her mother’s stylist had come in earlier that afternoon, humming and tugging and transforming her into a version of herself that felt utterly distant.

“You’re lucky,” her mother continued. “You still have time to marry well. Most women your age in this city have either sold out or given up. But you—you still have that glow. And tonight is important. The Patersons will be there. Their son just got promoted. Vice president, darling. At thirty-one.”

Y/N tried to respond, to summon a nod, a word. Nothing came.

“God, don’t give me that face,” her mother sighed, brushing a rose shade onto Y/N’s cheek. “You’ve always had such a sensitive expression. I swear you were born frowning.”

“Maybe I was,” Y/N whispered.

Her mother paused, mascara wand in hand, and gave her a look—equal parts disdain and worry. “What does that mean?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t say what it really meant: that she was born into a world that already felt like a cage. That she had tried to run from it—across oceans, into research, into Bob’s arms—and now that cage was smaller than ever.

Her mother went on, ignoring her silence. “When you walk into the gala tonight, you need to radiate grace. No slouching. Don’t talk about science. Just smile. Men don’t care about molecular theory. They care about charm, about softness. Don’t bring up Malaysia unless asked—and even then, keep it light.”

The mention of Malaysia tightened something in her throat.

Softness. She had been soft with Bob. Gentle. Vulnerable. It wasn’t charm. It was real. It was warm skin in cold sheets, whispered jokes between test results, his lips brushing her forehead in the dark like a prayer.

She hadn’t smiled like that since.

“You’re quiet tonight,” her mother remarked, fitting earrings into her ears—blue sapphires to match the dress. “Not that I mind. You get so argumentative when you’re tired. Or hormonal. Are you eating properly?”

Y/N’s stomach churned. She’d survived on tea and water for days. The idea of food was nauseating. She thought about the chocolate Bob used to steal from the lab pantry just to get her to eat something during late-night analysis sessions.

He would nudge her with a grin, holding it out like an offering. “I heard chocolate’s good for genius brains.”

That same chocolate had sat untouched in her nightstand drawer since her return.

“I miss when you used to dress up like this more often,” her mother said wistfully, smoothing the bodice of the gown. “Before all that lab nonsense. Before you went chasing ghosts in jungles and locked yourself in basements.”

They hadn’t talked about what happened.

Not really.

No one in this house had asked what she’d lost. What she had risked. The name "Bob" never passed their lips, as if by ignoring it, they could will it out of existence.

“You could still turn this around,” her mother said softly, finally meeting Y/N’s eyes in the mirror. “A good husband, a proper home. You’re not lost. You just got distracted.”

Y/N looked at her own reflection.

A beautiful stranger stared back. Perfect makeup. A designer dress. Collarbone jutting like a blade. Her eyes betrayed everything. She looked like a woman wearing a corpse.

“You don’t have to stay long tonight,” her mother added, mistaking the silence for agreement. “Just enough to be seen.”

Y/N nodded once, slowly, like her neck was made of glass. And her mother smiled, satisfied, kissing her on the cheek like she was proud.

“You’ll thank me for this someday.”

Maybe. Or maybe, Y/N thought, she'd look back on this night as one more moment she disappeared a little more. One more time she smiled through the ache, pretended the heartbeat in her phone didn’t play in her mind like a funeral song.

She gripped her phone in her hand and whispered to herself, just once, under her breath:

“I miss you, Bob.”

--

The ballroom was gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold filigree on ivory columns, champagne bubbling like liquid gold in tall flutes held by men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns so crisp they rustled like expensive paper.

Y/N walked through it like a ghost.

The heels her mother insisted on pinched at her ankles, but she barely noticed. Her spine stayed straight under pressure—years of training at dinner parties and galas taught her that. Her lips curved into a passive smile. Her eyes scanned, but didn’t linger. She was moving, presenting, nodding. Floating above herself.

People she didn’t recognize greeted her with polite delight.

“Oh, you're Henry’s daughter!”

“I heard you were in Asia for a project. How fascinating.”

“Still working in science? Good for you, my dear. But when are you going to settle down?”

Every question felt like a brick to her chest.

She stood next to her mother near the Patersons’ table, nodding as the man—Harold, she thought—launched into a monologue about fiscal expansion and generational investment. His son, Nicholas, was tall and clean-cut, polite but not particularly attentive. He asked about Malaysia once, but didn’t wait for an answer. He offered her champagne, and when she declined, he raised a brow.

“Too strong?” he asked with a laugh.

No, she thought. Not strong enough.

She excused herself before dessert.

The powder room was all mirrors and orchids. Y/N locked herself in the furthest stall, heels clacking quietly over marble. Her hands shook as she opened her purse. The sound of her breath quickened.

She pulled out her phone.

Opened the voice memo app.

"Heartbeat_Recording_Bob_023" Timestamp: 3:12 a.m. Duration: 0:21 seconds

She hit play.

That sound—that low, steady, rhythmic beat—played like a lullaby through the speaker. A sound once meant for scientific observation, logged during a midnight scan just weeks before everything unraveled. His heartbeat had lulled her to sleep back then. Now it anchored her grief.

She pressed the phone to her chest, eyes shutting.

A heartbeat that had stopped. A man who had died in front of her. And yet here it was—proof that he had been real. Not a dream. Not a delusion.

Her breath hitched.

A sob broke loose—quiet but sharp, like the snapping of a violin string. She stifled it with the sleeve of her dress, but it didn’t stop. Her chest trembled.

She had been pretending for weeks.

Pretending to be alive.

Pretending not to remember how his breath felt against her collarbone. How he mumbled her name like it tasted too good to lose. How they used to hold hands in the dark, afraid of what morning might steal away.

Another sob escaped.

The sound of her heartbreak, reverberating in gold-tiled silence.

The door creaked open—soft footsteps outside.

“Y/N?”

Her mother.

Y/N didn’t answer. She held her breath. The footsteps hesitated.

“I hope you're not hiding again,” her mother said, voice low but irritated. “The Paterson boy just asked where you were. Honestly, can’t you make an effort? For once?”

Y/N didn’t respond. She waited until the footsteps retreated, heels clicking briskly against tile.

Only then did she allow her knees to give in.

She sank to the floor.

She stayed there, in the stall, her gown bunched around her, listening to the heartbeat of a dead man.

Outside, laughter erupted like fireworks. Champagne glasses clinked. A string quartet played a waltz. But Y/N remained in that tiny room of mirrors and marble, mourning a man no one knew she loved.

She couldn’t stay much longer—not at the gala, not in this life that wasn’t hers.

She wiped her face with trembling fingers and whispered to herself, like a vow:

“I can’t keep doing this.” She says as she gets out of her stall.

The mirrors betrayed nothing.

Y/N stood before them again—composed, cold, elegant. Her makeup reapplied with trembling fingers, only barely concealing the red-rimmed eyes and the slight puffiness under them. Her lipstick, darker now, gave her the illusion of control. A crown painted back onto a woman who had long since abdicated.

She walked out of the powder room and into the cacophony of the ballroom—its laughter, its wine-soaked glamour, its artificial warmth. The chandeliers glimmered like stars over a world she no longer belonged to.

And then she saw her.

Leaning effortlessly against the edge of the bar, swirling a glass of something amber in a crystal tumbler—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

She had seen ghosts. Heard voices. Dreamed in vivid detail of moments long gone. But Valentina was real.

A shark in satin. Wearing a gown as dark as oil, her hair swept up with deadly precision, as if even a strand out of place could ruin the lie of grace she projected.

“Well, well.” Valentina’s voice cut across the room like a razor wrapped in silk. “Didn’t expect to see you in lipstick and lace. Malaysia made you soft.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks. People moved around her, unaware. Uncaring. She could barely breathe.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asked, voice cold. Strained.

“Oh, sweetheart. I'm always where the important people are,” Valentina said smoothly, taking a sip from her drink. “And you? Still mourning your little science experiment?”

Y/N flinched—visibly.

Valentina smiled. A slow, cruel thing.

“You know,” she continued, stepping forward now, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I warned you. About getting attached. But you didn’t listen. You thought you could fix him. Mold him. Save him. Like some tragic little girl trying to rewire a bomb.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “He wasn’t a weapon.”

Valentina laughed—genuinely amused. “No, darling. He was a time bomb. You just didn’t like the sound of the ticking. But it was always there. I saw it. And you? You were so naïve. So emotional. Thinking you were tricking everyone being some cold doctor with a porpuse, when you are just a little girl playing daddy dearest. You gave him a heartbeat and thought it meant something.”

Y/N looked away, but Valentina stepped into her path, blocking her retreat.

“They say you ran to him the second he lost control. That you shoved people out of the way. That you screamed his name like a madwoman. Romantic. Pathetic. Sad that you did all that just to find a corpse.”

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, but the pain in her chest was volcanic. “You don’t know anything about what we had.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Valentina crooned, tilting her head. “I know everything. I read every file. Watched every feed. You think I didn’t notice when you started cutting the camera at night? Or how he looked at you like a goddamn puppy? It was adorable. But in the end... you couldn’t stop him. And he still died in your arms. So tell me—how’s that for powerless?”

The words hit like bullets.

Y/N’s composure shattered—just a flicker. Her hands trembled. Her breathing became shallow.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.

Valentina’s smile widened. “No. I’m honest.”

Then she leaned in, voice now like poison poured into honey.

“But you, darling... you’re broken. And no amount of red lipstick will make you look whole again.”

Y/N stood frozen. Humiliated. Grieving. Enraged.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked away—past the gold, the laughter, the polished lies. Out of the ballroom. Out into the night.

She didn’t stop until she reached her family’s car, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the keys. She sat there for a long time, in the back seat, staring at nothing. Letting the tears fall freely this time. No powder room. No mirrors. No mother’s voice hissing about appearances.

Just the cold silence of grief.

--

The sun had long since risen, golden streaks bleeding through the sheer curtains of her childhood bedroom. But Y/N hadn't moved.

Her body lay curled atop the ivory bedspread, sheets untouched, her pillow still damp from a sleepless night. She hadn’t even changed out of the dark dress she wore to the party. The satin now wrinkled, tight around her knees where she had drawn them up to her chest. Her eyes, bloodshot and hollow, were locked on the white wall ahead of her—blank, sterile, void. Like the lab. Like Bob’s room after he was gone.

She hadn’t cried.

Not since the party. Not since Valentina had shoved her grief into a corner of shame.

Not until now.

The shrill ring of her phone broke the silence like a knife to glass.

Y/N reached for it slowly, like underwater. When she saw her father’s name on the screen, a tightness formed in her chest. She answered with a dull, rasped voice, barely above a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Y/N,” her father’s voice came through, steady but strangely subdued. “You’ll need to make arrangements for tomorrow.”

She didn’t respond. Not immediately.

“Tomorrow?” she echoed numbly.

There was a pause. Then, quietly—too quietly for the man she had known all her life—he said:

“Ilari is dead.”

The words struck with no warning.

She blinked once. Twice. As if they hadn’t landed properly. Her breath caught in her throat.

“There was an explosion at the O.X.E. facility. Contained, but… he was in the wing when it happened. His body was… unrecoverable.”

Y/N sat up too quickly, her hand gripping the edge of the nightstand as the world tilted.

“No—no, no. What do you mean? Ilari—he—he was in the lab, he—” her voice cracked like thin glass under pressure.

Her father remained calm, factual. “I’ve spoken to the board. There will be a closed memorial. You'll attend.”

She could barely speak. Her lungs were tight, crushed under the weight of grief trying to push itself out.

“You knew—didn’t you?” she accused, her voice rising like a storm surge. “You knew the place was unstable, you—you knew it wasn’t safe—. How the fuck was there in explosion capable of this?”

“I’m telling you so you can prepare, not to argue,” he replied firmly, that cold edge back in his tone. But there was something underneath it this time—strained, brittle.

Before she could say anything else, he added, “I'm sorry,”—and hung up.

Two seconds passed.

Then five.

And suddenly—she screamed.

It burst out of her with no warning, guttural and sharp like a wounded animal. She hurled the phone across the room, the screen cracking against the far wall. She screamed again, this time louder, and collapsed onto the floor with her hands clawing at the carpet like she was trying to rip the pain out of the earth.

Dr. Ilari was dead.

He had been the only one who treated her like a human being. Not like a daughter. Not like a tool. Not like a disappointment. He had joked with her. He had listened. He had protected her from the worst of the project, from Valentina, from her own father’s looming shadow.

He had known—about her and Bob. And he had never judged.

He had called her “kid.” He had once danced like a fool when her protein synthesis had shown its first signs of success. He had made her laugh.

And now he was just—gone. Another name. Another file. Another burnt-out light in a hallway of ghosts.

She wailed, her nails digging into her arms, her chest heaving, sobs erupting with no rhythm. Pain was no longer something inside her—it was her. It had filled every cavity, taken her shape, worn her skin like a shroud.

The door burst open.

“Y/N?!”

Her mother’s voice sliced into the chaos. But it didn’t register.

Y/N was crumpled on the floor, shaking, screaming through her tears. Her mother rushed to her side, gripping her shoulders, trying to calm her, but Y/N flailed in her grip.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “Don’t—don’t you dare—!”

“What’s happening?! What happened?!” her mother demanded, suddenly pale.

“He’s dead!” Y/N howled. “He’s dead! He—he—he’s dead and I—I can’t—”

She collapsed again, curling into herself, sobbing so hard it seemed like her lungs might collapse. Her mother froze, unprepared for this kind of grief, for the rawness of her daughter’s agony.

The woman now sat in silence, watching her only child fall apart in a way that no silk gown or elegant husband could ever fix.

Y/N couldn’t stop crying.

Not when her mother finally stood and awkwardly left the room.

Not when the sun faded from the sky.

Not when her throat gave out.

Only when the silence returned—empty, brutal, total—did she fall asleep on the floor.

Her phone’s cracked screen still blinked with the last message she would ever hear from the only man who believed in her work, her mind, and in her heart.

"I'm sorry."

--

The calendar said two weeks

Two weeks since the explosion.

Two weeks since the voicemail that shattered whatever was left of Y/N’s resolve.

Since then, she had become a ghost in the house her parents still tried to call a home.

Some mornings she didn’t move from bed. Others she wandered into the kitchen in silence, barefoot in a shirt that hadn’t seen the laundry in a week, only to make tea she wouldn’t drink and stare blankly at the marble counter. She’d forget she had left the kettle on. She forgot a lot of things.

Emails from the lab piled up unanswered. Her father’s voiced irritation had long since turned into cold silence. Her mother still tried to coax her out of bed with forced smiles and harsh judgments. But Y/N no longer had the strength to push back. Not even the will to fight.

The only thing she did with purpose anymore was remember.

At night—when the house was asleep and her parents retreated behind their walls of money and legacy—she curled beneath her blankets and went through old photo albums. Not just of Bob. Not just of Malaysia. But older. Kinder. Safer.

Pictures of her and Dr. Ilari at O.X.E., smiling over papers, a coffee mug in his hand. Notes he’d scrawled in the margins of her research with dry humor and care. Images of her as a child—back before everything. Her fingers trailed over the faces of those who had once meant something. Her hands trembled like a patient with tremors too deep to medicate.

And that night was no different.

She sat in bed, laptop dim on her thighs, light flickering as she scrolled through digitized photos. A younger Ilari in a lab coat, smiling with one brow cocked. A candid one, Bob blurry in the background, caught mid-laugh. She pressed two fingers gently against the screen.

A tear fell to her pajama shirt.

She didn’t hear the window open downstairs.

Didn’t hear the soft tread of boots across hardwood.

Didn’t hear the deliberate way a shadow moved past the ornate staircase, or how it paused at the family portraits on the wall, eyeing them coldly.

Yelena Belova moved like a ghost. Silent. Efficient. Lethal.

She’d come in through the south side of the townhouse. She knew the layout. Valentina had provided it, along with the schedule. Parents in the master wing. Daughter alone in the west hall. Lights out by midnight. She was to be in and out in fifteen minutes. No mess. No witnesses. Only a file to close.

She didn’t expect the girl to be awake.

Yelena opened the bedroom door, gun raised, finger just resting near the trigger—not on it yet. Her blade was holstered on her thigh. Quiet work. Always quiet. But her eyes locked with Y/N’s the second she stepped into the room.

Y/N startled, breath catching in her chest.

She froze.

Yelena saw it all at once—the confusion, the fear, the way Y/N’s limbs curled toward her chest instinctively, like a wounded animal expecting the blow.

“Wh-who—” Y/N stammered, voice weak with terror. “Who are you? What—what are you doing in my room?”

The gun glinted in the low light.

Yelena stayed silent. Her green eyes narrowed as she approached slowly, cautiously. She had expected sedation. Sleep. Not this.

Y/N’s breathing quickened. Her hands flew up, shaking. “Please—please, my parents—if you want money, we—we can give you whatever you—”

“I don’t want your money,” Yelena said, flat and low.

That voice—it cut sharper than the metal she carried.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the gun. She sank lower into the bed, almost folding into herself. “Are you going to kill me?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Yelena hesitated.

Valentina’s words echoed through her mind. “She's the daughter of one of my scientists, she has become a liabilly to my work, I need her gone, she's too dangerous.”

But this—this woman in front of her? She wasn’t some weaponized threat. She was grief in a human shell. There were bags under her eyes so dark they looked like bruises. Her body was thinner than the medical file had indicated. She was shaking.

She looked broken.

And Yelena had killed a lot of people. But she had never once enjoyed killing the broken.

Y/N’s voice broke again. “Please… did you hurt my parents?”

“No,” Yelena replied after a long silence. Her tone was clipped. “They’re asleep. You should have been too.”

“Why me?” Y/N whispered.

Yelena exhaled through her nose. She wasn’t supposed to answer questions. She never answered questions. But this girl—she had nothing. It bled from her like light from a crack.

“It’s not personal,” she said.

Y/N gave a small, bitter laugh. “It’s never personal, is it?”

The sound twisted Yelena’s stomach in a way she didn’t like. She stepped closer.

And that’s when she saw it—the laptop still glowing. The photo on the screen. Ilari. Smiling.

Yelena’s mouth drew into a hard line. She recognised the man in the picture.

“She probably won't fight back anyway, it will be fast.” That’s what Valentina had said.

Yelena knew what that meant.

She had lived it. She had been it.

Y/N noticed where her gaze went. “He was everything good about that lab,” she said hoarsely, referring to Ilari. “And she killed him too, didn’t she?”

Yelena’s jaw tensed.

Y/N’s shoulders dropped with a small whimper. “Then go ahead. Do it. There’s nothing left anyway.”

The silence stretched long between them.

Yelena looked at her.

She saw past the tears, past the fear. She saw a woman not begging for her life, but welcoming its end.

It was too familiar.

The gun remained raised—still and precise. Yelena’s silhouette framed by the soft gleam of moonlight spilling in through the old window. Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, motionless except for the trembling in her shoulders, her eyes wide and hollow. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

The room, a quiet monument of someone else’s life, felt like a stage now. Like a place that had never truly been hers.

And now, she would die in it.

Yelena took one cautious step forward, head slightly tilted in calculation. Her voice cut through the brittle silence.

“…Who were you to Valentina?”

It wasn’t the question Y/N had been expecting. For a moment, she just blinked—disoriented, scared, and unsure whether this was part of some mental torture. Her voice came out faint, like a fading echo.

“I wasn’t anyone.”

The answer made Yelena narrow her eyes.

Y/N cleared her throat weakly, then looked away from the barrel of the gun, toward the dark corner of her childhood room—toward the corner she used to crawl into when she had nightmares as a kid. Her gaze was distant.

“I… worked on a project. A biogenetic one. In Malaysia. It was mine—well, it was supposed to be. Valentina just bought it. Put her name on it, like everything else.” Her mouth curled, not in amusement, but in exhausted defeat. “That’s it. I was just a name on a report. Not even a good one.”

The air between them thickened.

Yelena didn’t move.

Then Y/N’s gaze snapped back up—slowly, searching the assassin’s face with sudden realization swimming behind her tired eyes. Her voice was soft, cautious. Almost frightened of the answer before she even asked the question.

“…Did Valentina… ahm…”

Yelena’s body tensed, her grip on the gun shifting subtly.

“…did you do something to a doctor in Malaysia?” Y/N asked. Her breath hitched. “By her order?”

Yelena didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

The silence—coupled with the barely perceptible flicker of regret in her eyes—said everything.

She hadn’t expected her to know the name. She hadn’t expected the file to include that kind of intimacy. But this—this girl knew. She knew what Valentina had done. And now Yelena saw it:

This wasn’t a project gone wrong. This was a woman standing in the graveyard of everyone she loved.

And she had dug every hole with her own bare hands.

Y/N didn’t scream. Didn’t curse. Her body just folded forward as if the air had been torn from her lungs. A long, guttural sob escaped her lips, one that cracked the fragile composure she’d worn like armor. She collapsed from the bed to the floor, arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking with the weight of grief too vast for words.

Ilari.

It was her fault.

She had brought Bob into the lab. She had given Valentina the research. She had failed the project. And now Valentina was covering the tracks.

Erasing the names.

Erasing lives.

Y/N gasped for breath between choking sobs, clawing at the blanket as if she could tear away the reality sinking in.

Yelena watched her from the other side of the room.

Her hand—still holding the gun—shook.

She’d done this before. A hundred times, maybe more. But never like this. Never with someone who looked like a version of herself—lost, desperate, begging the world to give them one reason to stay.

Then Y/N looked up, her face soaked in tears, eyes swollen with despair.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please… just… kill me. Fast. No pain. Just—just make it stop.”

Yelena’s lips parted slightly.

She’d been asked that before. Some had begged. Others had cursed her.

But this? This was something else. This was a woman who didn’t want to die—she wanted the suffering to die. The guilt. The grief. The waking up to an empty silence that never stopped screaming.

Y/N began crawling toward her. Slowly. Almost mechanically. As if dragging herself through mud. Her knees hit the floor with heavy thuds. Her hands trembled as she reached the assassin’s boots, pressing her forehead against the ground in front of them like someone offering penance.

“I can’t…” she cried softly. “I can’t carry this anymore…”

Yelena’s eyes brimmed with tears.

It burned.

The thing inside her that Valentina had never managed to kill. That thing Natasha had once told her made her human. It screamed now—louder than protocol, louder than orders.

Her finger twitched against the trigger. But the shot never came.

Instead, she dropped her arm to her side.

The gun hung loosely in her hand, as useless as the lies they were all told to protect.

She reached down with her other hand and gently, silently, touched Y/N’s hair. Not to comfort. Not really. Just to anchor her. To remind her she wasn’t a ghost yet.

“I’m sorry,” Yelena whispered.

Y/N’s sobs became violent again, her whole body wracked with the kind of cry that only comes from knowing the truth and having nowhere to place it.

And the assassin who had come to kill her just left without her noticing. Unable to do a job that seemed so simple. Why? She never cared, it was a job.

Everything happens for a reason.

--

The gray wash of early morning poured faintly through the windows like smoke from a dying fire, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Dust hung in the air, visible in thin beams of light—suspended like time itself.

Y/N stirred.

She didn’t wake so much as return—to her body, to the memory, to the stench of grief clinging to her skin. Her cheek was pressed against the hard wooden floor of her childhood bedroom, the tear-stained pillow just out of reach. Her joints ached. Her breath came in shallow pulses. For a moment, she didn’t move.

The world was quieter than she remembered. But not merciful.

Nothing was merciful anymore.

Then it hit her again—the encounter. The intruder. The assassin with a gun and eyes like winter. Yelena. She wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t a hallucination conjured by too many nights without food or peace.

She had come.

To kill her.

And she hadn’t.

Y/N slowly rolled onto her back, her eyes locking on the ceiling fan above. It didn’t spin. Nothing did. Not the air. Not the clock. Not her mind.

Except one thing.

Valentina.

It all clicked into place like broken glass reassembling.

Bob—coerced, manipulated, stripped of his humanity.

Ilari—murdered. Silenced.

The O.X.E. project—scrubbed clean, sterilized, disposed of like a failed experiment.

And she—she was just collateral. A witness. A loose thread Valentina hadn’t clipped yet.

She’d let her spiral.

She’d expected her to break.

And she had. She broke beautifully.

But something stirred in the fracture now. A new, quiet burn that curled through her chest like a cigarette pressed to skin.

Rage.

It wasn’t hot or explosive. It didn’t roar.

It seethed.

And for the first time in months—maybe years—Y/N sat up.

Unwashed hair clung to her face. Her hoodie reeked of sweat and tears. But her eyes—her eyes were steady.

She stood. Slowly.

Her body screamed in protest. She hadn’t eaten in two days. Hadn’t truly slept in longer. But she made her way to the bathroom anyway, turned on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror.

What she saw wasn’t pathetic anymore.

It was haunted.

It was hollowed.

And it was dangerous.

Her fingers curled around the sink.

“I’m going to kill her,” she whispered.

Her reflection didn’t flinch.

“I’m going to take everything from her like she did to me. And it won’t be quick.”

She didn’t have a plan.

But she had access.

The lab.

Her father’s lab.

It was still state-of-the-art. Still partially funded by O.X.E. contractors before the explosion in Malaysia. Still stored data, blueprints, rejected prototypes that had never been tested due to “morality clauses.”

Y/N would find what she needed there.

Later that day

Her mother didn’t even notice her leave.

The housekeeper gave her a polite nod as she slipped out the front door, dressed in jeans and an old blazer, dark sunglasses covering the swollen bruises under her eyes.

The sky over Manhattan looked like dull steel. The city buzzed beneath her with no idea that something inside her had been lit like a slow-burning fuse.

She arrived at the lab by noon.

It felt strange to badge herself in after weeks of absence—stranger still to feel her heart beat for something again. Not love. Not even justice.

Just revenge.

Revenge that felt justified.

The lab was half-empty on weekends. Perfect. She moved silently past rows of beakers and data terminals, past the clean rooms and cryogenic storage.

And then she reached it.

Her old prototype archive.

She keyed in her passcode, surprised the clearance hadn’t been revoked yet. Her father probably hadn’t noticed—or didn’t care enough to follow up on her permissions.

Inside, it smelled sterile. Like frozen metal and memories.

Shelves lined with failed designs. Papers. Discarded samples. Nano-injectors. Sonically-charged disruptors. Things meant to disable mutant biology or super-serum variants.

Her fingers hovered over the drawers.

Which one would hurt her the most?

Poison?

Too easy.

Explosion?

Too quick.

A device that destabilized neural frequency?

Closer.

Something painful. Invisible. Slow.

She remembered one in particular—a failed device once imagined to sever a soldier’s sense of direction, leave them stuck in a state of perpetual disorientation, causing nausea, pain, internal hemorrhaging over days. It had been deemed unethical.

It had also worked.

She reached for the blueprint, unfolding it like a priest revealing scripture.

The lights buzzed softly above her. Outside, someone wheeled a cart past the door. But inside this little pocket of hell, Y/N smiled. For the first time in months.

Not because she was happy.

But because she’d found it.

Protocol V4: Neural Erosion Cascade.

She could build it. Refine it. Use it on Valentina when the time was right. Inject her with it and smile as the woman who took Bob, who erased Ilari, forgot how to walk. How to eat. How to breathe.

Y/N would make her beg.

Then she’d whisper, “This isfor Bob.”

Maybe she wouldn’t have to die.

Maybe this was what survival looked like now.

Not healing.

Just retribution.

--

The gala was everything Valentina Allegra de Fontaine wanted it to be—polished, decadent, and politically charged beneath the glitz. A celebration of progress, she had called it. The future of global intelligence, biotechnology, and security initiatives.

To others, it was just another elite event with crystal chandeliers, imported string quartets, and laughter bubbling through a thousand-dollar-a-glass champagne.

But to Y/N?

It was the stage.

And she was ready.

The doors parted with a hush of warm air as she stepped into the grand ballroom. Marble gleamed under her black stilettos. A low-cut velvet dress—charcoal, soft as ash—clung to her like a whisper. Her hair was pulled back, clean, elegant. Her lips were a dark wine. Her smile? Perfect. Hollow.

A glass of merlot danced in her fingers as she walked through the sea of diplomats, CEOs, and carefully curated influencers. No one recognized her at first—she’d been a ghost for so long. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to be anywhere.

Which made her entrance all the more exquisite.

She sipped slowly, locking eyes with no one for too long.

Until she saw her.

Valentina.

Standing in her signature black suit, pearls draped around her throat like a leash she wore willingly. She was laughing—effortlessly, commandingly—with a congressman and two security heads from Eastern Europe. Her voice, always just a touch too smooth.

Y/N’s smile widened.

She raised her hand.

And waved.

Valentina froze.

The conversation didn't break. But the air did. Cracked like glass in a slow freeze.

The congressman turned, confused, to see who Valentina was suddenly ignoring.

Y/N walked toward them with a grace that felt sharpened by glass. The scent of her perfume—lavender, laced with iron—drifted ahead of her like a warning.

“Oh, Valentina,” she said, voice smooth as silk over steel. “What a lovely party. Everything about it is so… decadent.”

Valentina’s lips twitched, unsure whether to smile or call security.

Y/N extended her hand toward the congressman instead. “Y/N L/N. I used to work on one of Valentina’s favorite projects, back when the science was a little more… experimental.”

The man blinked, taking her hand. “Ah, yes—Malaysia, wasn’t it?”

Y/N nodded. “Such a tragedy, what happened at O.X.E. labs. But you know what they say—some things are meant to be buried.”

She turned then, slowly, with all the theatrical grace of a woman too calm to be unarmed.

Her free hand rested lightly, deliberately, on the back of Valentina’s neck.

Valentina didn’t flinch. She froze.

It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was the realization.

She should be dead.

That’s what those eyes were saying.

Y/N leaned in, her smile tightening just a little—less teeth now, more war.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly, voice so low only Valentina could hear. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Valentina’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Y/N chuckled, brushing her thumb—casually—against the nape of her neck.

She could feel the pulse there. Sharp. Erratic.

“How long has it been? Since Malaysia?” she continued, sipping her wine. “I hear the body count's finally settled. But oh—what’s one more, right?”

Valentina tried to speak. “You—”

“I’m sure I have a seat somewhere,” Y/N cut in, feigning innocence. “Though I might crash the head table just for old time’s sake. It’s funny, though…”

Her hand slipped away from Valentina’s neck, but she didn’t step back.

“…I could’ve sworn someone tried to kill me.”

The congressman was clearly out of his depth now, watching the two women like they were speaking an entirely different language.

Valentina’s jaw clenched. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” Y/N said, tilting her head with a theatrical sigh. “That’s the problem with power, isn’t it? You make enemies. You forget which ones remember everything.”

She tapped her wine glass against Valentina’s.

A soft clink that rang like a gunshot between them.

“Well,” she said brightly, stepping back with a dancer’s grace, “we’ll catch up later. I wouldn’t miss the closing speech for the world.”

She turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

Valentina stood perfectly still.

The congressman whispered something to her.

She didn’t hear it.

All she could feel was the cold shadow of a dead project come back to life—and the press of a hand, too warm, too gentle, that had delivered a message loud and clear.

Valentina slipped into the upper floor just moments after Y/N’s departure, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The grand gala’s festive noise faded behind the heavy doors as she closed herself in with Mel.

Mel waited by the sleek console, eyes narrowed. "Your "visitors" have arrived,” she said quietly, pulling up surveillance feeds on the screen.

Valentina’s gaze hardened as the images flickered: a stark, concrete room bathed in harsh fluorescent light, with four figures confined and restrained, the heavy metal doors sealed tight.

“The incinerators have been prepped,” Mel continued, voice low but resolute.

Valentina nodded once, sharply. “Good. They’re liabilities. Each one carries too many secrets—too many loose ends.”

She folded her hands, the faintest trace of a smirk curling her lips. “Y/N is stirring the hornet’s nest. She’s alive. She’s playing a game.”

Mel’s eyes flicked to Valentina, concern threading her tone. “Something’s off. Yelena... she didn’t complete the job.”

Valentina’s eyes darkened, sharper than steel. “I know.”

Mel leaned in, voice dropping even further. “She hesitated, Val. She could have ended it when she had the chance. Now Y/N’s alive and breathing, and that means trouble.”

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken danger.

Valentina’s voice was cold, a whisper of threat and calculation. “We will watch closely. The failure of one assassin doesn’t mean the mission fails.”

She tapped the screen, zooming in on Yelena’s face—the conflicted assassin who had once shown mercy to Y/N.

“No mercy for weaknesses. We’ll finish this, and soon.”

Mel nodded. “Everything is prepared. I have actived it already.”

Valentina’s eyes gleamed, resolute and ruthless.

“Let the fire purge the past. And if Y/N thinks she can hide, she’s gravely mistaken.”

--

Y/N stepped out of the glittering gala, her smile never faltering even as her heart hammered against her ribs. The soft click of her heels on the marble floor echoed faintly beneath the fading music and laughter behind her. Outside, the cool night air brushed her skin like a whispered promise — or a warning. She moved with purpose, her posture regal, her eyes sharp beneath the careful mask of calm.

The sleek black limousine idled quietly near the curb, its polished surface reflecting the ornate lights of the party. The door opened smoothly, revealing the front seat where a large man sat — Alexei. His broad shoulders filled the seat, and his expression was unreadable, a watchful sentinel cloaked in silence. He was clearly waiting, though his eyes flicked toward the crowd inside as if tracking someone.

Y/N slid into the front passenger seat with practiced ease, her gaze locking on Alexei’s. She didn’t recognize him. Her fingers brushed the edge of her clutch as she pulled out a thick envelope, pressing it casually into his hand without a word.

“Keep your mouth shut,” she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying an unyielding edge. “Wait for Valentina and Mel. When they come, you’ll do exactly what they tell you. No questions, no hesitation.”

Alexei’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the weight of the envelope was clear. He said nothing, only gave a small nod, the faintest acknowledgment of the unspoken bargain.

Y/N leaned back, her eyes drifting to the tinted windows, her mind racing beneath the calm exterior. Every second here was a step closer to the trap she had carefully walked into — the moment where she’d finally confront Valentina, face the woman who had shattered her world.

Alexei adjusted his seat, the faint scent of leather and something metallic surrounding them. Despite the quiet, tension hung thick between them, a silent understanding that neither fully trusted the other.

The heavy car door swung open with a soft hiss as Valentina de Fontaine stepped into the dim interior of the limousine, her stilettos clicking against the metallic footrest. Her sleek black dress shimmered in the faint light as she slid elegantly into the backseat, followed closely by Mel, whose expression was pinched and tense. The door closed behind them with a muffled thud, sealing them off from the world.

Neither woman noticed the silhouette seated quietly in the front passenger seat. Y/N remained motionless, barely breathing, her back rigid and her hands clasped in her lap as she stared out the windshield, listening.

Valentina exhaled, glancing at Mel. "Well?"

Melina didn’t waste time. "They’re working together. All four of them. Ava, Walker, Yelena."

Val raised an unimpressed brow. "That's three?"

"They’re not alone." Mel's voice dropped slightly, conspiratorial, layered with something that sounded like disbelief.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed.

"There’s someone else in the containment room with them," Mel continued, adjusting the data pad in her hand. "We ran facial recognition through the old Sentry project archives just in case. The system returned a match."

Val leaned forward. "Don’t play dramatic, Mel. Who?"

Melina hesitated, then spoke the name that split the air like thunder.

"Robert Reynolds."

A beat of silence. The breath caught in Y/N’s throat, but she didn’t move. Her nails dug into her palm.

Valentina blinked. Once. Twice. Her lips parted slowly in disbelief.

"That’s impossible. He’s dead. I saw the vitals. The protocol was enacted. We disposed of the body."

"We thought we did," Melina muttered. "But he’s alive. Or at least—he’s something now."

Valentina let out a low laugh. It was brittle. Unnerved. "So. The ghost comes back. We need to get him back."

The air inside the limo grew thick. Tense. Deadly.

In the front, Y/N’s entire body trembled. Her heart had stopped once tonight—and now it tried to restart in violent flutters. She stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, her mouth parted as if she were silently begging the image not to betray her.

Bob.

Bob was alive.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud and consuming. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t ash in the wind or a ghost in her memory. He was alive.

She wanted to scream. To cry. To run.

But instead, Y/N kept still. Let the wave of revelation crash over her in silence.

Behind her, Valentina let out a bitter sigh. "We clean this up tonight, Mel. Kill the rest of them and take the project sentry back."

Y/N opened the door to the front seat and stepped out, the wind catching her hair as she walked with purpose toward the back. She opened the door and leaned inside, and the look in her eyes was something neither Valentina nor Melina had seen before.

"Where is he?" Y/N asked. Her voice wasn't loud, but it struck like a whip. Cold. Controlled. Laced with rage.

Valentina blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Bob," Y/N said, stepping one foot into the limousine, her body tense and shaking. "Where is he, Valentina? What did you do to him?"

Valentina recovered quickly, her mask slipping into place. She smirked, tipping her head. "Oh sweetheart, you're still on that little fantasy? You think you were special to him?"

Y/N didn’t flinch. Her eyes dropped for half a second to her own hand, now gloved in sleek, translucent film. Neural Erosion Cascade, coded and constructed in secret. It had taken her days to calibrate. But it needed direct DNA contact to activate. Which she had already.

"You know," Y/N said softly, voice trembling but not from fear, "I said I'd regret it. But I'm way past regret now."

She stepped into the back of the limousine fully. Valentina frowned, caught between annoyance and suspicion.

Y/N reached and seated with them.

Valentina opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. Y/N pressed two of her finger together gently.

Then pain.

Valentina's eyes went wide as her jaw clenched, teeth bared. The Cascade activated, targeting neural memory clusters and pain receptors simultaneously. Not enough to kill. Just enough to shred composure.

Mel jerked in her seat, frozen, unsure whether to intervene or run. Her lips parted in horror.

"Where is he?!" Y/N demanded. Her voice broke with anguish as tears spilled without shame. "Where is he, Valentina? Tell me!"

Valentina let out a strangled, hoarse scream, clawing at Y/N's wrist, gasping as if drowning.

"Tell me what you did to him!" Y/N screamed again, voice cracking. Her whole body trembled from the effort to stay upright, to stay steady in her hate. "You buried him once! You used him like a monster! You made me bury him in my head and now he's alive and you will tell me where he is!"

Mel whispered, almost a plea. "Y/N, stop."

But Y/N didn’t. Not yet. Not until Valentina’s eyes flicked—desperate and swimming in pain.

"He’s... he's in facility four," Valentina gasped. "Coastal wing... reinforced cell."

Y/N pulled back, releasing the grip. Valentina collapsed against the seat, shaking, her breath ragged.

Y/N stood, her chest rising and falling, staring down at her like a ghost. Mel didn't say a word.

"You are going to take me there, and you are going to give him to me. And you put your funny business towards me and I'll make sure your little slave here will take a shower with what's left of your brain. Remember you have you're position because of you're money and the one's you make do your dirty work. I can have whatever I want because I have the brains. Don't make use your skull as a vase."

Valentina wasn't scared, but she had lost control for once.

All her actions and one mistake, and she had created her own death. She doesn't even remember once seeing Y/N smiles this hard.

"You've gone mad."

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter five

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags | 🎵series playlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: your new friendship with joel gives you conflicting feelings as you attend the jackson annual winter party wc: 4.8k rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, fluff, ellie bonding time, brief mention of reader’s family before the outbreak (no real major details), reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn, enemies to friends to lovers type-beat but we’re in the friends stage now :), (tattoo moment was inspired by a tiktok i saw but can't find anymore :/) ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

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V. NORTHERN ATTITUDE

If I get too close And I'm not how you hoped Forgive my northern attitude Oh, I was raised out in the cold If the sun don't rise 'Til the summertime Forgive my northern attitude Oh, I was raised on little light

You always wondered what it would be like to be someone Joel considered a friend—someone he trusted. 

Seeing how stoic and quiet he always was had you wondering at times what he was like with his loved ones. What was he like with Tommy growing up, and how was it different now? What was he like with Ellie? 

The way he guarded himself for the year you’ve known him had you unable to imagine how it would feel to be in his life.

You never thought it’d be so... annoying.

Not that you were complaining, really—just that he was always… there? For the past couple weeks since your conversation with him at the cabin, it’s as if you can’t escape him. Besides your regular patrol shifts continuing as they had before, you found him around town more often. The mess hall for dinner, on his porch every morning and evening where he’d catch you and say hello, or just in random areas around town. Had he always been like this and you didn’t know it? Always having an eye on you, and you were just now catching it?

You first noticed it a few days ago when you had gone to the bar for a late night drink, needing the liquor to warm your body and calm your anxieties. While there, you made polite small talk with a few people who sat at the bar with you. They were people you occasionally would see around town and offer small bits of greeting, but none that you felt you knew that well—none you thought had paid any mind to you. Because of that, you were surprised when one of them spoke up about something they noticed about you.

“So, where’s your usual shadow?”

You looked up from your drink, confused as the group began to chuckle. “Joel,” another one chimed in to clarify. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what you mean,” you responded. 

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. There’s only three people I’ve seen Joel speak to for more than a sentence and that’s Tommy, Ellie, and you. Even before the two of you started being chatty recently, he’s just always around wherever you are—always pays close attention to you.”

You had sat there confused, and with nothing to your defense, you just looked back to your drink before downing it. You grew uncomfortable as you felt the warmth in your stomach grow—not only warm from drinking, but also because of a feeling you could not quite place.

Since that night, you started watching Joel more and found that he was around a lot. But it wasn’t weird, right? You just had settled things between each other, so of course he would be more public with his friendship with you. Plus, Ellie was with you a lot, which would mean he was around a lot. You know… for Ellie.

Ellie, who apparently blabbed about your lack of maintenance on your home considering that for the past week, Joel has been to your house every single day.

You were walking home from the stables last Sunday when you found him standing on your front porch staring at your swing bench. 

He didn’t greet you when you walked up to him—simply turned to look at the bench and said, “Your swing is loose,” with no further explanation.

You looked at the creaky thing before shrugging. “Uh, yeah, I guess it is. I don’t mind though.”

He looked at you with a frown and a dissatisfied hum. “Hm. I can fix it. Ellie told me you and her sit out here a lot together and she noticed it was loose. Might as well get it straightened out if you’re usin’ it so often.”

You couldn’t recall being out here that much with Ellie, but maybe she had sat here waiting for you to come home a lot and noticed it. You hadn’t argued with him about it and instead let him get it done that same day.

Then the next day, you saw a bunch of planks of wood in your front yard. Coming out of your backyard was Joel, who was carrying the wooden planks to the back.

“Ellie said you were lookin’ to build an area to start a garden when spring comes, but were strugglin’ with findin’ the time.”

You tried to assure him you could get it done yourself one day, but he had just waved you off. “I can handle it. Just… next time ask for help, okay?”

Then, your mailbox was crooked. Your porch light flickered a bit too often at night. Your walkway was unevenly shoveled—whatever the fuck that means. It felt like something new every time. Things you didn’t even pick up on yourself, let alone think Ellie had noticed enough to let him know, because it was always, “Ellie told me.”

Other than that, the three of you had gotten closer as a result of Ellie inviting you with them to meals at the mess hall, or different town events such as movie nights. The next one being the Jackson annual winter party that was happening tonight, which had Ellie bouncing up and down for days beforehand. Her excitement was shared with a friend of hers you’d started hearing more about—Cat, the one she had made lemon cakes for. The one who apparently had a special, secret talent that Ellie was nervous to tell Joel about.

“Can you just like, be there when I tell him?”

“Ellie, is that thing even safe?” You ask incredulously. 

How the fuck does someone get a tattoo here?

“It is! I swear! It’s totally safe and fine and it’s all healed up,” she says.

“Healed? What—How long have you had this?”

She looks at the ink on her arm, twisting her skin to show you the whole design. “Uhhh like… about three months now?”

Your eyes widen. “Three?! How the hell did you hide this from him for so long?”

“Well, the weather was already getting cold and stuff, and I don’t like showing my chemical burn that much anyways so… not that hard honestly.”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I mean yeah it’s… cool. Done well, honestly—I mean damn, I’m surprised she was able to be that clean with it.” You shake your head, remembering her question. “Wait, what do you need me for?”

That’s where she starts looking more nervous. “Well, the party’s tonight right? So, Joel’s in a good-ish mood, and then he’s also drinking a glass of whiskey beforehand to make the night more bearable, and he is nicer around you so… I was hoping you could just kinda be there when I show him this? And then we can all go straight to the party together and I’ll go off with Cat and you two can…I don’t know, sit and sulk or something.”

You give her a deadpan look while she gives you a smile showing she knows what your answer is. “Okay, and what makes you so confident he won’t be mad just because I’m there?”

“I don’t know dude he just… is that way with you, I guess,” she says with a shrug before grabbing both of your wrists to lightly shake you. “Please, please, please, please, please, ple—”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I get it. I’ll do it,” you say, waving her off. “Just let me finish baking the stuff for tonight and then I’ll come by, okay?”

Jumping on you in a sudden hug, she says, “Thank you a million times, oh my god,” before pulling away and running off to her house. Already halfway across the street, she shouts over her shoulder, “I’ll see you later! Wear something revealing to really get him in a good mood.”

“Ellie!” You screech, but she was already too far for you to scold her.

Having gotten ready for the evening a few hours later, you were putting the finishing touches on the cake you had made for the winter party. Maria said it wasn’t required, but that all the people in town were welcome to bring any sort of drinks, food, or games they had and wanted to share. Miraculously finding the ingredients for your favorite cake the previous day, you were hard at work all day getting it done when there was a knock at your door. Checking the time and realizing that the party started in five minutes, you walk over to open the door to find Joel and Ellie. 

You watch as Ellie instantly walks in as if this was her house, throwing a half-hearted hello over her shoulder as she heads straight into the kitchen where you heard your fridge opening up. “You just have the best orange juice in town,” she had said to you a million times before. 

You look back to the man who is standing outside your door in an almost shy manner. You take a second to look over him, admiring his attire for the night—his usual brown combat boots, dark wash jeans, a green plaid flannel buttoned up, with his brown winter coat on. His hair seems slightly damp as if he had just showered and brushed his soft curls back.

He looks… good.

You see Joel look you up and down, just like you did to him. “Hi,” he softly says. “You look nice.”

“Thanks… So do you,” you quietly reply, suddenly feeling awkward and warm. 

At this moment, you realize that despite all the time you had spent together recently, and even though he’s done all this work on your outside property, he’s never actually been inside your house before. You speak up, feeling bad. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Please, come in.”

He gives you a small smile before crossing the doorway and waiting in your front entryway. Closing the door, you turn and look at him to say, “I just need to box up the cake I made for tonight in the kitchen real quick before we head out.”

He nods and you see him take a look around your living room for a moment as you walk into the kitchen where you find Ellie at her usual seat on your kitchen island drinking juice. “What are you bringing for tonight?” She asks as you go to box your cake.

“I made carrot cake, it’s my favorite,” you reply. Her eyes widen for a moment, opening her mouth to respond before you hear Joel walk in. He leans against the kitchen doorway, watching the two of you with a soft look on his face. “You ladies ready to head out?”

You nod before Ellie slips off the counter to stand next to you. She looks you up and down before whispering, “Not revealing enough.” Still facing Joel, you not so subtly nudge her arm in a teasing manner, hearing her soft reply of ouch.

Clearing her throat before speaking in a dramatic manner, she says, “First I, uh, wanted to show you something Joel. We wanted to show you something.”

You snap your head to look at her, mouthing, “We?!” But she just brushes you off.

You see Joel look humorously confused between the pair of you. “Um, alright? What’s up?”

You see Ellie roll up the sleeve of her right arm, revealing the skin that is currently covered in ink–an outline of a moth and some leaves that go from her wrist to her elbow. Holding out her arm silently, you watch as Joel frowns before stepping forward and gently taking her arm to look over the tattoo.

“What is that?” He asks with an eerily calm tone.

“It’s a moth,” Ellie says immediately.

“Yeah, but, what is it?”

“I told you… a moth.”

“I know. But it’s like, what? Pen?”

“No, it’s a moth.”

Oh my god.

“... But it’s with a pen?”

“No, it’s a tattoo.”

“Like with a marker?”

“Oh my god,” you say out loud this time. “It’s a tattoo, Joel,” you tell him with an overdramatic smile. “Ellie got her burn covered with a really pretty design her friend did. A permanent pretty design—isn’t it nice?”

You and Ellie both hold your breath as Joel still holds her arm, looking over her tattoo. He finally pulls away with the same frown. “It’s permanent?” He asks.

Ellie nods nervously. He looks down at her arm, then back up at her with some shared knowing glance between the two. “It’s pretty.”

She releases the air she was holding in with a show of relief. You and Ellie both notice his frown deepen a bit, mouth opening as if he’s getting ready to add something else about the tattoo. Not giving him the chance, Ellie perks up and grabs the plate with your large cake on it. “Look, Joel! She made your favorite—carrot cake!”

Carrot cake is his favorite, too?

Seeming to have fallen for the distraction, Joel surprisingly looks at the cake and then to you. “You made carrot cake?”

Suddenly shy, you respond, “Yeah… it’s actually my favorite, too. I found the ingredients yesterday and wanted to make it. I didn’t know you liked it actually, but I'm glad someone else will appreciate it tonight.”

He keeps his eyes on you for what feels like a long while—long enough for you to feel slightly intimidated by the indistinguishable look in them.

Ellie breaks the silence at that moment. “Well, we better start heading over. I don’t wanna miss out on all the fun.” At that, she places the cake back onto the counter before making her way to the door. You break eye contact with Joel to grab the cake and start heading over to the door with him following close behind. 

Before leaving, you take a moment to blow out the candles you have on your coffee table to light your living room. You briefly notice Joel watch you as you do so, before frowning and looking up at the living area lights that are off. Not thinking much of it, you follow Ellie outside as Joel gestures for the two of you to walk ahead of him. 

Reaching Ellie’s side, she dips her head close to yours to whisper, “At least you had the carrot cake to make up for the lack of revealing clothing.”

“Shut. Up.”

The bright lights and loud noise made your anxiety flare up a bit, but the whiskey you had been sipping on throughout the night made it tad more bearable. Maria and Tommy had planned the evening beautifully—twinkling Christmas lights adorned the ceiling in meticulously placed lines around the room. 

The large mess hall was sectioned off with tables that were decorated with different board games, groups of people sitting around them while laughing and enjoying drinks and food. An open space in the front of the building welcomed people to dance together to the music that was playing from the vinyls and speakers Tommy’s men had set up towards the bar—the bar where you had spent hovering near through the latter part of the night as things became more and more chaotic. You recognize it was a nice chaos, but your sociability was dwindling. Having spent the first hour and a half speaking with different people and mingling, the volume of both people and their voices were becoming too much.

Leaning your back against the bar counter, you hold your glass and trace the rim of it with your finger absentmindedly. You watch as the people in town enjoy themselves in a freeing way that years ago you wouldn’t think was ever possible again. Watching Ellie running around with Cat and some other friends, your eyes fall on Maria and Tommy sitting at one table with their friends—Tommy bouncing Benjamin on his knee with a big smile while looking lovingly at Maria. It was the parental and warm side of them you didn’t get to see often due to having seen them both in serious situations more often than not.

You hear footsteps nearing closer to you before settling at your side. Looking to your right, you see Joel has stationed himself beside you and is mimicking your stance as you both hold your drinks and face the crowd.

“Thought I’d find ya hangin’ out with the others.”

You snort. “I did that for enough time already. Now I’m just figuring out when the best time to leave without seeming disrespectful is.”

At that, Joel smiles. “Been thinkin’ that myself. Usually I use Ellie as my escape out of these things, but tonight she seems to be havin’ too much fun with Cat to wanna ditch this and head home to watch a movie.”

Scanning the crowd for where you remember Ellie being, you see her laughing with Cat and others while they play with the dart board on one of the walls. “It definitely seems like she found a group that makes her happy. Kinda sucks I’m not considered her best friend anymore though,” you joke.

You look back to Joel to notice his face has settled into a look that feels more serious. “You don’t think that… You don’t think she’s afraid to tell me stuff, is she?”

Taken aback, you have no response besides the obvious confusion on your face. Looking at you, he says, “I just mean, I know she told ya about the tattoo before she told me. I get she trusts you, and don’t get me wrong I’m more than happy ‘bout that… I just, I don’t know. Guess I’m worried she wouldn’t feel comfortable talkin’ to me about more… personal things.”

Your heart hurts hearing and seeing Joel doubt himself like this. “No… no, not at all. I don’t think she’s scared to talk to you about things. The tattoo was just something silly that she thought you may disapprove of–like how parents scold their kids for getting into trouble. But no, no part of me thinks she would be afraid to talk to you about something big.” Thinking for a moment, you add, “Why would you think that?”

You watch as he eyes Ellie and Cat for a moment before he shrugs. “Just a thought. No big deal.” Shaking his head, he says, “You wanna take a walk with me outside? Gets us both away from the crowd for a bit.”

You immediately nod, probably too enthusiastically to be casual, but he just laughs as if he knew you wanted to get out of there just as quickly as he did. Looking back to Ellie one more time, he seems satisfied that she is okay and decides he can step out for a moment.

Stepping outside into the cold winter night, you listen to the sound of your footsteps crunching in the show as the two of you walk around the square slowly. Both of you are silent as you admire the outside decorations that have been set up for the season. The small square holds an area in the center of the road that has been filled with a large Christmas tree—its colorful lights shining through the darkness of the night. You hear slight laughter and conversation from a few people that have taken the time to step outside the same as you two had. You walk up closer to the tree, taking a look at the random miscellaneous ornaments and other trinkets that line the branches. 

“They really outdid themselves this year with the decorations—it's beautiful,” you say, admiring the twinkling lights.

“Yeah… it really is,” Joel says, and when you look over to him, he’s already looking at you. The look in his eyes makes the air get sucked out of your lungs for a moment before he clears his throat, shaking his head before turning to face the tree again.

“You ever celebrated Christmas?” Joel asks.

You take a second before responding, “A long time ago, yeah. Back before the outbreak, I remember the bright colorful lights that would be on every block. My hometown always went all out with those giant blow up decorations in their front yard.” You laugh and hear Joel huff lightly beside you. “My family and I would always make it a tradition to set up the tree the day right after Thanksgiving.” The memory makes you feel bittersweet as you try to recall as much from that time as you can.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment as the both of you just look at the tree. 

“Christmas was always Sarah’s favorite holiday,” Joel says.

You take a second to look over at him standing beside you. He almost burns a hole into the tree with how intensely he looks forward, the look on his face filling you with pain.

“I’d have to wake up real early for work—Tommy and I would be at the contractin’ office by 6 a.m.. Sarah always hated it—said she can’t exist as a human before 10 a.m.,” he says with a sad laugh. “I’d tease her ‘bout it because she’d have to be at school earlier than that, so I suppose she was sleepwalkin’ for those first few hours.”

“Yet, every Christmas mornin’, right at 4 a.m., I’d feel her jump on me while nudgin’ her elbow into my side. I’d open my eyes to see her starin’ over me like a damn sleep paralysis demon—sayin’ in a real serious voice, ‘Get up, dad. Santa came.’” 

You giggle at that before you say, “Hey, I can’t blame her—time and sleep don’t exist on Christmas.”

Joel breaks into a laugh, looking to the ground before at you. “Yeah. Guess you’re right ‘bout that one.”

The two of you look at each other for a long moment before you hear a shriek. On instinct, you grab Joel’s arm with one hand and reach to your hip with the other—reaching for the gun that doesn’t sit there.

Because you’re in Jackson. Inside the fence. Where you’re safe.

Joel worriedly looks at you for a moment before up at the sight of the noise. You had spent the past few seconds frantically looking around, until you saw three teenagers off to the side throwing snowballs at each other.

Realizing the cause for your reaction, you feel Joel take your hand that grabbed his arm before squeezing it at your side. Turning your body to face him gently, he reassures you. “Hey, we’re alright. Just kids havin’ fun in the snow. You’re okay, darlin’. We’re okay.”

Darlin’.

You look over at him to see his cautious expression as if he’s dealing with a wounded animal. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, you try to look at the snowy ground. “I’m sorry… I feel stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey,” Joel cuts you off by gently grabbing your chin with his hand and turning you to look at him. “None of that. You don’t need to apologize to me for somethin’ like that, alright? Ever.”

You meet his eyes and let yourself focus on his breathing to calm you down. You hadn’t realized that with his other hand, he brought one of yours to his chest so you could feel and match your breathing with his.

Giving him a nod, he seems to assess your demeanor before he looks to the mess hall. “Hey, how ‘bout I walk ya home,” he suggests.

“But, I don’t want Ellie—”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about her. She’s havin’ fun with her friends. Do you want to leave?”

You shyly give a nod before Joel immediately says, “Then we’re leavin’. M’gonna go ask Tommy to keep an eye on her while I walk ya home, and then I’ll come back here to wait for her to be ready. You wanna go in and say goodbye to her real quick while I tell Tommy?”

Not leaving you any room to argue, you nod, still feeling guilty, but follow him back inside the building as he holds your hand that he held to his chest.

Stepping inside, he looks to you before he lets go of your hand to walk over to Tommy. You quickly find Ellie in the crowd, and go up to her to say goodbye and tell her what’s going on. Thankfully, she doesn’t question it, and in that moment you remember something you wanted to ask her earlier that day.

“By the way, I never said thanks for letting Joel know about all that stuff that was wrong.”

She scrunches her nose and looks at you confused. “What do you mean? What stuff?”

“I mean like, my porch swing being loose, or not having the tools to build my garden for the spring. Ya know, just the stuff he’s been helping me fix. He told me you let him know about them, and honestly I was surprised you pay that much attention,” you laugh.

But the same look of confusion stays planted on her face, even becoming more confused. “Uhhh, I didn’t tell him that stuff. He’d always just be watching your place whenever we walked by saying he noticed shit. He’d ask if I knew if you were getting things fixed but I didn’t think to ask you.”

You stand there for a moment as the words you heard people tell you in the bar the other day come back to you. 

“He’s just always around wherever you are—always pays close attention to you.”

You don’t get a chance to react or respond because Joel walks up beside you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Okay kiddo, I’ll be back soon alright?”

Ellie rolls her eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah—take your time old man, don’t worry.”

He grunts before turning your body towards the door as you take the queue to start heading out.

The walk to your house is silent besides a few remarks from Joel. The silence is mostly because you’re still trying to recover from your panic earlier, but it’s also because of what Ellie had told you.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joel saying, “Oh, I never told ya, I tried your cake.”

The topic takes your mind off your thoughts for a moment, finally turning to look up at him. “Did you like it?”

“Loved,” he says with a big smile while looking over at you. “You’re gonna have to make it for me a lot more often—hope ya know that. Haven’t had anythin’ that good since a time in my life where I had no grey hairs.”

You blush at his compliment, feeling oddly giddy inside.

Before you realize it, the two of you have reached your house by now and you let him walk you up to your door. Going to open it, you’re stopped by him speaking up as he looks through your living room window with a frown, seeming to remember something.

“By the way, when I was in here earlier I noticed all your lights are workin’ in your place besides your livin’ room.”

You freeze for a moment, what Ellie said coming back to you—what the other people in town had said to you.

“What?”

He points to your front window. “You got candles lightin’ your livin’ room. I would see in the windows at night that all the lights in your house would be on and workin’, but that front window would have a duller light comin’ through. Then bein’ here earlier, I realized that you got candles lit in there to make up for the lights bein’ out.”

You don’t have a response for him as you stand there trying to process what he said. Not waiting for a reply from you, Joel says, “I’ll come by tomorrow after patrol to fix that light, alright?”

You stare at him, dumbfounded and probably gawking at him embarrassingly before you slowly nod. 

If he notices, he doesn’t make it known and just nods back in agreement. “Alright, I’ll let ya get in and get some rest. You sure you’re okay?” He checks.

Your throat feels so dry—your mind fuzzy. You push past the feeling and muster up the energy to mutter, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay… Thanks for walking me home, Joel.”

Taking a second to make sure you’re being honest, he seems pleased with your answer and gestures to you to go in. “You let me know if ya need anythin’, alright darlin’?”

Darlin’.

There’s that word again, with his stupid southern drawl.

You nod to him, quickly opening your door and going to close it until you see his head tilt. “Seriously,” he says. “Anythin’ at all. M’right here for ya.”

Nodding once more, you say your goodbyes to him and watch him walk down your walkway, turning to look at you a few times before you close your door. Shutting it, you turn and press your back to the door, leaning your head back against it.

They were right. He pays attention to you.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! i hope you all enjoy <3

a/n: hi guys! tysm for all the love recently, i'm really happy you guys like my story so much :') little reminder that i made an update blog, so follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates! I’m still doing my tag list for now, but they’ve been kinda wonky recently so I apologize if it doesn’t work! <3 edit: I’ve gotten some people saying it keeps glitching and tagging repeatedly and then going away so I am so sorry I do not know how to fix this :((

🏷️: @dendulinka6 @suzysface @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @emmasveinyahhdih @thatoneperson38747 @lcvespedro @orodaeh @ithinkimokeei @emnull0 @warriorkarol @heartpatch @luvwanda @pascal-mynightlyobsession @lieutenantsluvr

[rafeandonlyrafe]

reckless

words: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, male receiving oral, aged up!rafe (28), age gap (reader is 20), reader kinda dumb and stupid tbh, breaking and entering but actually technically she didnt break anything so just entering, urban exploring

“stay away from that house.” your friend warns, following your eyesight to get light shining from only one window, the rest of the house covered in shadow.

“why?” you question, curiosity growing.

“some asshole lives there. i guess he got real rich when he was young and now he spends all his time inside hiding. the whole island hates him but nothing he did was bad enough to land him in prison…” your friend gives you a serious look. “or at least nothing they can prove.”

you're new to the outer banks, but she already knows your personality. you're defiant and confident, afraid of nothing.

it's why despite her warnings the next night you're scaling up the fence and hopping over to the other side. you note the well taken care of yard, whoever this guy is must still employ a lawn crew.

you keep your footsteps light but unhurried as you walk around the exterior of the enormous house, still just the one window with a light on, like no one else has been in any other part of the home for a long time.

you figure a house like this might have security, but you live only a block away and would certainly get to your house before any cops would show up.

you peer in a few windows, but it's too dark inside to really make out anything. you make your way into the backyard, looking down the long dock to see a yacht. you consider exploring that first before shaking your head and focusing back in on the house.

in your old city, you had a habit of breaking into places. not to steal or damage anything, just for the thrill of getting in and looking around, knowing you're not supposed to be there.

you peer in through the glass doors. it's not that late, only 11pm, but you figure the old man who lives here must already be upstairs and hopefully asleep as you grip the handle.

you wait to hear an alarm from just your touch, but when the house remains silent, you attempt to turn the handle, surprised and happy that it's completely unlocked as you slide it open.

you step into the living room, looking around at the intricate and clearly expensive decorations. your friend was definitely right about this guy being rich, but of course he is if he lives in a neighborhood like this.

“damn.” you mutter to yourself, stepping closer to a fancy vase sat on a table. you purposely leave the glass door open in case you need to make a quick escape out.

your eyes take in every piece of art hung on the wall and gold detailed lamps as you head further into the house, peeking into rooms as you quickly map out the layout. you note the stairs in the center hallway leading up, able to tell there's one light on and deciding quickly to avoid it.

you make like the rush of breaking into places, but you certainly don't like getting caught as you tiptoe into the kitchen next. out of pure curiosity, you open a couple cabinets to find them well stocked.

you focus in on the fridge next. you don't intend to steal but maybe this guy has a couple bottles of beer that won't be missed.

you frown when you realize it's mostly healthy food and energy drinks as you close the fridge, practically jumping out of your skin when you realize there's a tall man with his arms crossed, leaning against the cabinet.

“what are you doing here?” you yell, backing up and putting the island between you and him.

“bold of you to ask me that considering you're the one breaking into my house.” the man's voice is easy going and gentle despite the circumstances.

“your house?” you look the guy up and down. “i thought the guy who lived here was old.”

he moves to the island, placing himself directly in the middle so you can't bolt away, a movement you're very aware of.

“and what made you think that?” he questions. it's hard to tell in the low light, only the faint glow of buttons on the fridge and a bit of moonlight creeping in, but he looks young. your guess is late 20s or early 30s, not like the senior citizen you were picturing.

“my friend told me some asshole-” you cringe at the bad choice of words but continue on. “lives here who got rich when he was young.”

“hm, yeah that does sound like me.” the guy hums. “so what, you were gonna steal from me?”

“no.” you quickly shake your head. “i don't steal, i have no need. i just… like urban exploring.” you decide on saying.

“mmm, isn't that usually exploring abandoned places?” he questions, somehow still carrying on the conversation so naturally, like you're an invited guest rather than a trespasser.

“i thought this place was basically abandoned. like i said, thought you were old.” you shrug.

“well, im only 28, so if you consider that old.” he crosses his arms, muscles bulging.

“im 20.” you say, swallowing thickly. 

you can see the gleam in the man's teeth as he smiles. “interesting… come with me.”

his command is so effortless, you find your feet moving before your mind catches up, following him deeper into the house and up the stairs.

“what are you going to do with me?” you ask, worrying he's going to call the cops. your parents would be pissed if only a week after they move you out of the big city you get arrested again.

“did your friend happen to tell you why i stay in this house?” he hums, opening a door and beckoning you in. you quickly realize this is the bedroom with the lights always on.

“um, just that you did something and no one likes you.”

“that's exactly right, even though i did nothing wrong. i only ever wanted to protect my family.” you see anger briefly take over his features as he relieves whatever memory that made him so hated. “but still, it's hard being lonely.”

he takes a couple steps forward, swinging the door shut behind him to keep the two of you in there, alone. “it's why id like your company…”

“y/n.” you mumble your name. you don't bother to give a fake name.

“y/n.” the name rolls seamlessly off his tongue, like a purr. “im rafe.”

“what do you mean by company, rafe?” now that you're in the light and can get a good look at him, you're hoping it's what you're thinking.

“isn't it obvious?” he quirks his head to the side. “i want you to sleep with me.”

“okay.” you whisper. you're certainly not inexperienced or against sleeping with random guys, even if your friend did warn you about him. you've already gone two whole weeks without getting anything, and you're starting to feel a little high strung.

“perfect.” rafe crosses past you, placing himself on the edge of the. neatly made bed. “undress.”

his command is once again so simple and effective that your hands begin moving instantly, pulling off your tank top to reveal your bright pink bra before sliding your shorts down next to show off the matching underwear.

you turn your back towards rafe and look over your shoulder as you slide your panties down, revealing your bare ass and pussy before kicking off your sandals. 

you walk over to rafe slowly, a smile on your face as you undo the last piece of clothing covering you and let your bra drop to the floor.

“fuck, you're sexy.” rafe leans forward and grabs you, hands gripping your ass, squeezing the plump flesh there. he doesn't bother to wait for you to recover as he sits you onto his lap, cunt being pressed into his thigh as his mouth devours yours.

you can feel his need in the kiss, how starved he is from touch as you begin to kiss back, hands rubbing all over his front.

you only briefly stop the kiss to yank his shirt off. you're not surprised by his muscles, you could tell how perfectly built he was even in the dark kitchen.

rafe begins to slide your pussy against his pants, wetting his thigh as your clit drags against the material.

“fuck, you're already so wet.” rafe moans into your mouth. you don't pause to tell him that you always get a little bit wet in excitement when breaking into a new place.

“let me blow you.” you slide off, already missing the feeling on your pussy as you pull at rafes pants. he lifts his hips to help you and you waste no time, pulling his underwear down as well.

rafes cock pops up, hard and ready for attention. you push his thighs open with your hands so you can nestle between his legs, smiling as you watch a bead of precum from before licking it clean.

“god.” rafe groans, a hand fisting in your hair, tangling his fingers into the strands. “it's been so long since someone else has touched me.”

you feel bad for rafe in that moment, but it's quickly forgotten in favor of wrapping your lips around the head of his cock and giving it an intense suck, wanting to show him a truly good time.

you begin to bob your head, slowly taking more and more of his length into your mouth. he's not the biggest you've ever gotten with, but his girth certainly makes up for it as you get used to him pushing at the walls of your throat.

you'll certainly need more attention to your pussy to be able to take him as you reach down and rub your fingers against your clit, wanting to jump on his cock the second you're done blowing him.

“how are you only 20?” rafe asks, talking mostly to himself considering your mouth is occupied. “you suck dick so well.”

you don't want to comment that you've had lots of experience, but you have a feeling he won't judge you for it. so many guys sleep around yet want every girl to be a virgin, and that's certainly something you don't subscribe to.

with a final push, you're able to take rafe all the way down as you nuzzle your nose into his skin, gagging slightly but able to hold for a decently long time before you need to pull off to take a deep breath.

“come up here, baby.” rafe says, tugging your hand that isn't still playing with your pussy. “want to fuck you.”

you wipe your mouth before standing up, glad you weren't on your knees for long as you move onto the bed.

“fuck me good, daddy.” you purr out, staying on your hands and knees and swaying your ass to entice rafe as he moves behind you.

“oh, i will baby.” rafe rubs his cock through your folds, not bothering to offer to put on a condom when you so clearly don't care.

rafe teases you, pressing slightly against your entrance before going back to rubbing against you until you're frustrated and aching. you're about to open your mouth to complain, to tell him to hurry it up, when his cock plunges inside of you in one quick motion that has you screaming out.

“oh, fuck!” you squeal as rafe instantly begins pounding into you.

rafe smiles as he looks towards the window, slightly cracked. he hopes the neighbors hear your screams and moans of pleasure and learn that he's not just willing to stay inside for the rest of his life. no, rafe is crafting his revenge against the town and when the time comes, they will all regret the way they treated him.

rafe looks down at you as he thrusts into you, your head hung forward and curls bouncing with every movement as he punishes your cunt.

“shit.” rafe groans, pulling out to quickly flip you onto your back.

his mouth meets yours just as his cock reenters you, kissing you wildly while he thrusts without abandon, letting himself loose on you.

rafe can feel himself swelling inside of you and tries his best to hold back from cumming, fingers reaching to your clit to focus on your pleasure before his own, wanting to extend this as long as possible.

“god, you feel so good.” you moan out, jaw slackened even as rafe continue to kiss around your mouth, eyes glossed over in pure pleasure.

“yeah?” rafe smiles. “you gonna cum for me?”

“mhm. keep- keep rubbing.” you tilt your head back as he swipes over your clit, back and forth, building you up while his cock fills out your insides.

“come on, baby.” rafe moans out, kissing you again, unable to stop even though he wants to hear your moans. his hips move faster and faster until he can't hold back anymore, pulling out and releasing all over your stomach in long ropes.

you squeal out as he pinches your clit, triggering your own orgasm as your entire body shakes, back arching off the bed.

“fuck!” you shout. “rafe!”

you both flop against the mattress, breathing heavily as you recover, pussy dripping wet onto his blankets.

“thanks for the company.” rafe smiles, causing you to laugh.

“yeah, always happy to stick around.” you giggle, leaning into his side. there's certainly no shame cuddling up to him after what you just did.

“would you… would you come back tomorrow?” rafe asks, pushing a strand of hair off where it was sticking to your face.

“first week in a new town and i already found myself a fuck buddy? hell yeah ill come back tomorrow.” you kiss rafe quickly before standing up off his bed, putting your tanktop and shorts back on but leaving your wet panties and bright bra on the floor.

“but have pizza, im a classy girl after all, i only let you fuck me once before buying me dinner.” you walk out of the bedroom to rafes deep chuckle.

[tinyinkblots]

Sleepless Nights

Warnings/Tags: MDNI!!, oral (m receiving), p-in-v, overstimulated Hotch, fluff, happy Hotch, f!OC (but no description)

Aaron Hotchner didn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

It wasn’t just the nightmares – though they still lurked, always ready to bloom in the shadowed hours – it was the pressure, the gnawing need to stay ahead of the next failure. Every open case was a loaded chamber. Every victim he didn’t save was a ghost that followed him home. So he brought the work with him, filled the bedroom with paperwork, case files, crime scene photos, post-its and his neatly scribbled notes in red ink.

And Amelia didn’t mind. She’d said so, more than once. She said it just like that, without sighing or softening her voice to mask frustration.

“I’d rather have you here, working, than not at all. And the light doesn’t bother me. Really. I like the sound of you thinking.”

So he stayed. Sat up against the headboard in a soft black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, glasses low on his nose, manila folder propped on one knee. His back would ache by 3 a.m., but at least he was home. At least her warm thigh would brush his every now and then, an unspoken reminder. 

You don’t have to leave to do good.

Still, the body keeps score.

The glass slipped from his hand the next morning, crashing into pieces across the tile floor like a warning shot. He stared down at it like it had betrayed him, utterly still, water pooling between his bare feet.

Amelia appeared from around the corner a breath later, quiet in a t-shirt that used to be his and no pants at all. “Aaron?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t have it in him. Instead, he rubbed a hand down his face, then crouched to pick up the largest shard before she caught his wrist gently.

“I’ve got it. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She didn’t argue beyond that, just pulled his hand under the faucet and gently wiped the blood away with a clean towel. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, but he felt something inside him give – maybe not break, but definitely shift.

Amelia was thinking. She always was.

–

Amelia heard the front door close with a soft click, the kind that only happened when Aaron was trying not to wake her – even though she was still awake. She never slept until he came home.

He’d missed dinner again. The pasta had dried out, the wine bottle stood half-drunk on the counter. She didn’t say anything as he padded quietly into the bedroom, briefcase in hand, shirt wrinkled at the elbows, top button undone, dark brows drawn low in thought.

"You're late," she said softly, not accusing. Just stating fact.

“I know,” Aaron murmured. “I’m sorry. I needed to finish a report before morning.”

Amelia gave a slow nod and didn’t move. She just sat against the headboard, legs folded under the covers, watching him as he started to pull off his tie.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” she said after a beat. “But you do have to let me help.”

He gave her a look – soft, tired, unreadable. “You already help.”

But what he didn’t say – what lived in the quiet between his breaths – was that without her, he would’ve crashed long ago. She held him together not with force, but with quiet grace – the kind of love that stitched him closed with silk thread and whispered promises. Where grief had left fissures, she poured warmth. Where the world had hollowed him, she filled the space with gentleness.

Amelia was gravity when he drifted, the calm in the storm he could never quite escape. When it was his week with Jack, and the guilt pressed like a weight behind his ribs – the missed calls, the late nights, the haunted silences – she filled in the cracks. She packed lunches without being asked, soothed bad dreams with hands far gentler than his own, and smiled like she didn’t notice the shadows clinging to him.

She made breathing feel possible again.

And maybe that was the problem. He needed her more than he had ever dared to need anything – more than sleep, more than safety, more than air – and if he ever said that out loud, if he ever let it slip how completely she’d become his lifeline, he wasn’t sure she’d stay.

So he stayed silent. Let her care for him like he was something worth saving.

And prayed she never stopped.

“You don’t sleep. You bring your cases home and still stay up ‘til 3 a.m. You're running on fumes, Aaron. You dropped a glass this morning. Your hands were shaking.”

His mouth opened, then closed again.

She sounded almost like him – clipped, precise, too perceptive for comfort. For a second, he wondered if he was rubbing off on her. If all those nights lying beside him while he sifted through patterns and details had made her sharper. Or maybe she'd always been this observant, and he was only just now realizing how closely she watched him when he thought no one was looking.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” she continued gently, sliding off the bed and padding towards him. “I’m just asking you to come to bed. And let me help you rest. Properly.”

His gaze followed her movements, cautious, like he hadn’t quite figured out her angle yet.

She took his briefcase from his hand and set it quietly on the desk, then stepped close and started unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers were slow and deliberate, not sexual – not at first – just patient. Focused. She brushed her knuckles down his chest as each button came undone.

Aaron stood still, hands at his sides, watching her closely now.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, running her palms over his shoulders, down his arms. “Always holding everything in.”

“I have to.”

“I know,” she said, her voice soft, steady. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric at his chest, gliding over skin made warm by exhaustion. She eased the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall away like a sigh, revealing the lean strength beneath – all hard lines and quiet tension, drawn tight from too many sleepless nights. She touched him like she already knew every part of him that ached.

“But just for tonight,” she whispered, “you don’t have to.”

He looked like he was about to argue, but stopped when she stepped close and kissed just under his collarbone – soft and slow. Her hands roamed downward, fingertips brushing the thin line of hair down his stomach to his belt.

That was when realization dawned in his eyes.

“Amelia–” His voice was low, hoarse, warning.

She met his gaze, unbuckling his belt. “Let me take care of you.”

He inhaled through his nose, jaw tense, but didn’t stop her.

His slacks fell to the floor with a soft rustle. She knelt and eased his boxers down slowly, reverently, her cheek grazing the inside of his thigh as she rose. His cock was already half-hard, heavy against his stomach, twitching slightly under her gaze.

She touched him with the same patience she’d used undressing him – not urgent, not teasing. Just sure. A slow stroke, her palm warm and her fingers curved just right, tightening at the tip.

Aaron let out a breath, steadying himself against the edge of the dresser with one hand.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice was hoarse, barely more than breath, like he was trying to give her an out even as his hand trembled against her shoulder.

She looked up at him, still on her knees, her hands resting lightly on his hips. Her eyes met his – wide, steady, full of something he didn’t dare name. And she smiled, small and devastating.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I want to.”

There it was. Not the words themselves, but the shape of them. The weight. The way she looked at him – like he was something precious in her hands, not in spite of the wear, but because of it. As if every quiet crack in him only made her hold on tighter.

That undid him more than her hands ever could.

He groaned softly when she leaned forward and took him into her mouth. Warm, wet, slow – she worked him with her lips and tongue, using her hands to keep him from thrusting too deep. His fingers curled into her hair, light at first, then tightening when she flattened her tongue along the underside of his cock and sucked.

“God, Amelia…”

She pulled back slowly, saliva glistening on her lips, and gave him one more stroke before standing again. “Not yet.”

Aaron’s eyes were dark now – not just with arousal but something else. Relief. A flick of surrender.

She kissed him as she backed him toward the bed, lips parted, hungry but careful, coaxing him down until he sat on the edge of the mattress. His hands found her hips instinctively.

But when he tried to take control – to pull her onto his lap – she stopped him.

“No,” she whispered. “I call the shots tonight.”

Her words made his cock twitch.

Amelia sank to her knees again, lips ghosting over his abdomen, tongue flicking over his skin. She took him into her mouth again, deeper this time, letting her throat tighten around him. Aaron hissed, his head falling back, a whisper of her name escaping his lips like a sinful prayer.

She pulled back right as his hips tensed, as his breath quickened – and stopped.

“Amelia–” His voice broke with frustration.

“Not yet,” she repeated, licking the tip of his cock slowly.

He growled, a low sound from his chest, his hands clutching the sheets behind him.

She repeated it. Twice more. Took him to the edge, watched him grip the bedding like he was in a hostage situation. Her name became a litany of gasped syllables. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched.

Only when he begged, “I can’t– fuck, please,” did she climb into his lap and slide down onto him in one smooth motion. He gasped like he’d come up for air.

Aaron never cursed. Not in frustration. Not in anger. Not even when his world unraveled at the seams. Words like that didn’t belong in his mouth –  not the way he was raised, not the man he forced himself to become.

But she made him human.

Not the figure in the suit, not the profiler carved from bone-deep restraint – just a man, undone beneath her touch. Her name on his lips, the slick heat of her wrapped around him, and the word tore free like a confession.

And God, she reveled in it – in the way he arched beneath her, the way his hands clutched her hips like he didn’t know where she ended and he began.

She didn’t move at first. Just sat there, full and pulsing around him, her hands braced on his chest.

“You feel that?” she whispered.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into the fleshy curve of her hips – not rough, but deep, like he was grounding himself in her softness

“That’s what letting go feels like.”

Then she moved.

Slow and deep, dragging herself up and down on his cock, every motion unhurried but devastating. His breath was ragged, his muscles trembling under her. She leaned forward, letting her breasts brush his chest, kissing him as she rode him harder.

“Fuck– Amelia– ” He was unraveling beneath her, every edge of composure stripped away.

She clenched around him deliberately, rhythm building, pace quickening. Her moans tangled with his – soft gasps and stuttering breaths, drawn from someplace deep and wordless.

And when he came, it was with a groan so raw she felt it vibrate through her spine. He spilled inside her in hard, pulsing waves, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight to him like he couldn’t stand not being connected.

She kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

And she didn’t stop.

Even when he tried to shift away, to breathe through the overstimulation, she kissed him again and rocked her hips, slow and deep.

“You can give me another.”

He shook his head weakly. “Amelia…”

She clenched around him again. He groaned.

His cock thickened again inside her, filling her, slowly swelling back to full. She kissed him until he surrendered.

The second time was messier. Desperate. She fucked him in earnest now – riding him hard, grinding into the base of his cock, gasping against his mouth. His hands clutched at her ass, trying to slow her, but she wouldn’t stop.

Not until he came undone – not until he collapsed.

Aaron came with a ragged moan, hips bucking as he spilled into her again. His body jerked once, then stilled. Amelia held him as he sagged backward, fully spent, chest heaving. His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked his face, tracing the line of his jaw, brushing damp hair back from his forehead.

"Sleep," she whispered.

She leaned in and kissed his forehead, slow and lingering, like she could press her care straight into his skin. 

He was already gone – pulled under like a tide, slipping into the kind of dreamless quiet he hadn’t known in years. Just warmth, and stillness, and her.

“I wish I could make it easier,” she whispered. "I wish I could carry the weight for you – just for a while.

Her fingers brushed through his slightly damp hair, smoothing it back as if taming the chaos would give him peace. She covered him with a blanket, pulling it up over his bare shoulders as he was laying right on top of the duvet, careful not to disturb the steady rhythm of his breath, and let her hand rest lightly on his chest – right over the heart he guarded so fiercely.

It was the smallest kind of devotion. The kind no one else would ever see. But it was hers.

And for tonight, that was enough.

–

The morning light filtered in soft and gold through the bedroom curtains, warm against his bare skin. For a moment, Aaron didn’t move. He lay still beneath the blanket, his breath steady, the quiet wrapping around him like something sacred.

No dreams. No blood. No gunshots. Just quiet.

And her.

Amelia was curled against his side, still asleep, one leg draped lazily over his, her hand resting over his heart like it belonged there. Like she’d never considered placing it anywhere else.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Not really. Just the feel of her mouth on his skin, the rhythm of her body against his, and the slow, inevitable unraveling that had taken him under like a wave he didn’t have the strength to fight. He’d drowned in her, and somehow come up breathing.

His hand drifted to her back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the soft cotton of her t-shirt – his t-shirt. The one she always stole when she didn’t want to wear anything else.

He should’ve gotten up. Should’ve been reviewing case files, checking the team’s travel schedules. But he didn’t move. He just watched her sleep, lips parted, hair fanned over his chest like a soft veil, her breath warm against his ribs.

She’d tucked him in last night. Not just with sheets, but with kindness. With hands that didn’t ask him to explain. With a kiss to his forehead that he hadn’t been too far gone to feel.

And the terrifying thing was – he’d needed it.

More than rest, more than sex, more than sleep. He’d needed to be cared for. Not out of obligation or sympathy, not in the way the team looked at him when the days ran too long and his eyes were hollow. No well-meaning glances or silent questions he didn’t know how to answer.

Amelia hadn’t asked. She hadn’t made him speak it into existence. She’d simply seen it – in the weight of his shoulders, in the hours he spent staring at his case files like they might bite. And then she acted, quiet and sure, like loving him was instinct and not choice. Like tending to him wasn’t a task, but the only thing that made sense.

He didn’t know how to ask for that. Never had.

He was built from restraint and responsibility, shaped by a life where vulnerability meant weakness and weakness could get someone killed. Even when it didn’t, it left marks – like Haley’s voice still echoing through years of silence, accusing him of always choosing the job. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe, back then, he didn’t know how to handle it differently.

But Amelia hadn’t run. She hadn’t flinched from the haunted parts of him or tried to scrub the blood from his hands. She stayed. She touched him gently, kissed his scars like they were sacred, and never once asked him to be softer – only showed him how.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it was working.

Not because he didn’t want it – God, he did – but because vulnerability had never felt safe. Not in the Bureau. Not in marriage. Not even with himself. He’d spent so long locking everything behind duty and discipline that the idea of someone seeing all of him – the fatigue, the fear, the longing – felt like a wound waiting to split open. If he let himself fall into her fully, if he let her keep seeing the man beneath the armor, what if she changed her mind? What if she stayed long enough to know him, and then decided it was too much?

He could survive exhaustion. He wasn’t sure he could survive hope.

Beside him, she stirred – a slow, sleepy shift beneath the blankets, followed by a quiet hum and the brush of her lips against his skin. She didn’t speak. Just pressed a kiss to his sternum. Then another. And another. Tiny, wandering things, like she was tracing the rhythm of his heart with her mouth.

She burrowed into his side like she was trying to fold herself into him. Aaron didn’t hesitate. He drew her closer, wrapping one arm around her back and pressing a kiss to the top of her head – a silent stay, or maybe thank you, or maybe just mine, an unspoken proclamation.

Amelia sighed, content and warm, her fingertips drifting across his ribs in slow, absent circles. He let out a quiet laugh, lips brushing the crown of her head. “You smell like me.”

She smiled against his chest – slow, satisfied – and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, suspended in the hush that only morning seemed to allow – no case files, no alarms, no phone calls. Just the cadence of her breath against his skin and the slow bloom of something gentle unfolding in his chest.

He hadn’t thought this kind of peace was possible for him. But she had crawled into the wreckage, unafraid of soot or scars, and made a home there anyway.

And for once, he didn’t want to move.

They stayed like that, tangled in warmth, until the light from the window grew stronger – until the world outside started waking up, and neither of them felt like letting it in.

Aaron shifted slightly, one hand brushing along her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine beneath the fabric of his t-shirt she still wore. She’d barely spoken, only kissed his skin now and then like she couldn’t quite stop.

But something in his chest had started to ache. Not from pain – not exactly. From the weight of everything unsaid.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. Amelia stilled, then leaned back just enough to look up at him, hair messy, eyes still soft from sleep. He hesitated. “I could retire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

“I could stay home,” he said, more clearly this time. “With you. With Jack. Be there for school drop-offs and dinner. Mornings. Nights. All of it.”

She blinked at him, surprised. Not because the offer wasn’t tempting – it was. But because he’d said it. Out loud.

“Aaron…”

“I mean it,” he added, eyes on her now. “I’ve done this job long enough. I’ve lost enough to it.”

Her fingers curled lightly into his side, grounding him. “You’ve also saved people. So many.”

He swallowed hard, the words catching just behind his tongue. “Maybe I’ve done enough.”

There was a pause – not angry, not cold, just long enough for doubt to slip in. Long enough for Aaron to wonder if he’d said too much. If this was the moment everything shifted, and not in the way he’d hoped.

Then she spoke, quiet but steady. “I didn’t fall in love with a man who sits still.”

He stilled.

“I didn’t fall in love with SSA Hotchner, either,” she continued. “But I know that man is a part of you. You don’t just step out of that skin. And I would never ask you to.”

His breath caught, but she went on, her voice sure now.

“I love all of you. The man who leaves too early and forgets to text. The man who comes home with shadows under his eyes. The man who works through dinner but shows up at 2 a.m. and holds me like he never wants to let go.” She smiled then – a soft, knowing thing. “I’ll wait. Every time. I don’t need you to change for me, Aaron. I just need you to come home.”

He looked at her like she’d just handed him something sacred. And maybe she had.

He pressed his forehead to hers, closed his eyes, and breathed her in like she was the first thing he’d truly let himself need in years.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Written In Skin

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, love confessions, smut (p in v, oral both receiving, fingering), light angst, fluff, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.

Author's Note: If this man was real I'd let that metal arm do unspeakable things to me. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6.9k

Nights are, always, too long.

Empty. Hollow. Lonely. Just you and the world, but it turns too slow as every shadow grows long, because you keep watching them like they might shift into Bucky, and he’ll be home.

You know why he’s not home. You’re the one who told him you’d be fine if he took this mission, who’d reminded him that—even though it may not seem or feel like it when it’s just the two of you in the whole world—everything keeps moving all the time, and the world needs him more than you do. That it’s healthy to be able to separate for a few days, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s not like you wouldn’t be here when he got back. You’d always be here when he got back. The world could crumble to ash and the earth could shake and the sky could cave and crush you to only guts and skin, but your heart would keep itself beating until Bucky got home.

That last part had been the only thing you’d said that wasn’t a lie. Nobody needs him more than you do, and it wasn’t like there weren’t other superheroes who could handle things. Bucky shouldn’t have to do this, just because it was a Hydra related mission. Steve and Wanda didn’t do all the Hydra missions. Tony didn’t do every single one of the Stark Industry weapons related missions. Nat did most of the Red Room missions, but she asked to. Everyone had ghosts over their shoulders and monsters under their beds, but Bucky had you—curled on the mattress and staring at the ceiling and waiting for him, always waiting—and you might not be an agent, but you could fight off those skeletons better than any blood on his hands ever could. 

And he could do the same for you. Every single part of you that always ached and cracked and wounded could be cured by him. The pieces would hum and peel until they was raw and soft and easy, just as long as Bucky was there. Here. At your side and never walking away. 

It was Bruce who’d suggested that wasn’t healthy. That maybe two traumatized, semi-unstable individuals developing an unbreakable co-dependency might prove to be worrying in the long run.

And he had struck a nerve. Not that you might be developing a codependency—everyone had been throwing that word around without thought since Steve had made everyone attend the seminar, and you weren’t sure any of them understood what it actually meant—but that, when it came down to it, you might not be good for Bucky.

Maybe that’s why you’d told him you’d be okay without him. Because you would be. You’d survive—because it was only a week, and you weren’t a child—but you’d still miss him like he’d taken your lungs out of your chest every single moment. You’d pace your room and wander the compound until the sun rose then set, and absence would not make the heart grow fonder, it would only make it squirm and look everywhere for something it needed, but you couldn’t offer, until Bucky returned. 

Absence made your heart try to grow out branches, pushing through your whole body until it felt like you could just feel Bucky’s warmth behind you, until everything you looked at was another thing to grab and replace the missing place where he was supposed to be. You cleaned his mug, because it had still had coffee stains, and he hates that. You did his laundry and folded his clothing and beat the shit out of a punching bag because there’s a wired feeling over your bones that you barely managed to loosen. You’d finished all the paperwork early, walked to town to buy some plums, and yelled at Sam a little louder than you’d needed to, but he’d asked when the team would be back and you didn’t know. 

It wasn’t your job to know. And every time you asked FRIDAY, you’d get the same pre-recorded message from Steve that they were offline due to the remote location and hazardous conditions, but an SOS signal would still make it through if needed. 

There was always a little part at the end for you. It only played when you asked. 

Steve would say your name over the speakers, and his voice would grow gentle, and you’d want to break something. “Bucky won’t say it to me, but he misses you. We haven’t even left yet, but I know he misses you, because I know him, and he gets grumpy when you drive to the city for a meeting and he can’t go with you. Just know I’m writing a list of all the sappy stuff he says, and when we get back, I’ll give it to you. He’s fine. Please don’t punch Sam.”

Maybe Bruce had been onto something, with the co-dependency thing.

Maybe he’s just never been in love before.

Because that’s what this is. It’s love. You know it, deep down in the very fibers and nerves of your existence, that this is love. That whatever you’d thought love had been before, you’d been wrong, because this is it and it’s bigger than the universe could ever hope to stretch. 

You’d felt it start to bloom when you’d met him, exchanging only small nods and casual words, and he’d looked you in the eyes. He’d had really pretty eyes. 

It had taken root when he’d let you hold his hand during an attack on the base, and you hadn’t felt anything as grounding and simple as his touch in your whole life. 

And then it had hit you all, at once without warning, only a few months later. You’d already been sleeping together. You’d already been something, but it was something where you’d find him at night and creep out by morning. But then Bucky had folded himself on top of you and fallen asleep, and you’d had no way to escape—not that you’d wanted one—and it had been a tidal wave and hurricane and wildfire, consuming and bright and immovable, world-ending but cleansing.

You loved Bucky Barnes. You know how to do it like it’s breathing. You know him like he’s been with you your whole life, just a little covered by something like time or knowledge. Like there’s been a part of you flailing in your mind, that’s just been waiting to find him and tangle into his body.

And there was never a good time to say that. 

So you just kept waiting. You let him guide this. Let him officially ask you out with a nervous, almost battle-ready stance, and let him slowly and silently move all of his things into your apartment until he was all but officially living there, and watched him every waking second with the same song of I love you spinning around in your head and making the world so, so colorful. 

It’s easy to wait, if you still get to have him. It’s not corrosive, to love Bucky in silence, because you’re still loving him. You can whisper it when you know he can’t hear—just to say it, and feel the addictive high of how even if he’s far too asleep to understand what you mean, he always shifts a little closer to your body and holds you a little tighter—and show him in ways you hope he can see. 

Most of the time it’s just that. Just this. Just wanting him and nothing else, and proving it by waiting. The light of your phone is starting to strain your eyes, and head feels a little light from exhaustion, but you’ll wait until you pass out or Bucky comes home.

For the last few weeks, it’s been the former, and you’d wake up with your phone near your neck and your face in Bucky’s pillow, which smells less and less like him with every single passing night. 

And tonight is a miracle.

Because the door creaks open, and you know who it is before you even fully register the noise. 

You’re already sitting up on your knees before he’s even in view. You’re so tired the word is blurry and time is moving through syrup—slow, but not in a way that’s painful—but Bucky walks into view and he’s clear. It’s dark and he’s barely through the shadowed doorway, but by some external force of nature you’d morphed those same shadows back into Bucky, and he’s here, and nothing has ever been brighter.

“Bucky.” You whisper, and you don’t know why you’re saying it. You both know who he is. But it still feels important to say. It’s less of a word and more of a prayer, because he’s still in the door and you need him here. Next to you.

His eyes flash slightly in the dark, and when he says your name it becomes a call to something deeper in your body than instinct. You crawl forwards until you’re on the mattress, smiling up at him because he’s beautiful and it’s easy. 

“Hi, baby.” You watch him move from the door to stand before you, and it’s like the moon has fallen right into your hands. Bigger and more important than you could ever dream to be, but still falling for you. Into you. Eclipsing and shielding you from the rest of the dark sky, catching every bit of light the world has to offer and turning into a beacon, always telling you where you are. Reminding you that you’re right where you need to be.

Here. 

With Bucky.

“You didn’t need to stay up for me.” He mutters, hold your face between his hands, scanning over your likely openly exhausted features with a small furrow in his brow. “I’ve told you, sweetheart, you need sleep-“

“That’s rich from you, Barnes.” Your smile doesn’t waver, and you move your hands to keep his where they fit so well. “And I’ve told you, don’t tell me what to do.”

His lips twitch slightly, but he still shakes his head. “You’re human. You need rest.”

“You’re human too”

“I’ve got the serum.”

“And?” You raise your brows, leaning into his thumb as it strokes over your cheekbone. “I think it’s more like a rectangle-square situation.”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re just saying shit again-”

“No,” You hum, your smile widening. “All super-soldiers are human. Not all humans are super soldiers. You need sleep too, Buck-“

“That’s not what we’re arguing about, doll-“

“Are we arguing?”

His lips curve into a small smirk, and you think you won. If Bucky’s smiling, you won. 

“My Ma raised me better than to argue with such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “But she also told me to never let my girl do stupid things like waiting until 3am for me to get home.”

“It’s 2:45.” You hum, tangling one hand in his hair and pulling him fully down towards your lips.

The kiss is long, and slow, and deep. There’s more longing behind it than passion, because you care more about imprinting him back onto your body where time had started to soothe over his marks, and you know Bucky cares more about trying to drug you with the taste of him so that you’ll go to sleep easy.

And there’s the song again. I love you. I’d wait until I was vines and ruins because I love you, and I don’t really need sleep because you’re home and you’re better and more vital than sleep ever could be.

You know Bucky would disagree with that sentiment. And you can almost see the weight on his shoulder that tells you the mission wasn’t easy, because if it was he’d be grumbling to you about how annoying the rest of the team had been. But he’s mostly silent, and only kissing you in that deep, hypnotic way, so when he starts to crawl over you and corner you back to the headboard—his mouth barely leaving yours, his metal arm holding you to his chest as you wrap our legs around his waist and hang off his body like a koala—you let him. 

You need him. You’ve missed everything about him, but you’ve really missed him being as close as the world would allow, and you’re already warm and dizzy and pliable just from his half-innocent touch and smell and warmth, but Bucky looks so heavy. He’s burying his face in your neck and splaying out over your body without trying to take it further, and he’s more important than anything, so you can hold it. You can wait until morning to jump his bones, and for now you’ll just be a lighthouse, steering him full back home and keeping him safe from jagged nightmares and crashing, unforgiving thoughts.

You let your fingers comb and drift through his hair, humming a soft tune as his measured, slow breaths fan over your skin, and you’ll yell at Steve in the morning about pushing him this far. When he’s like this it’s hard to see—he’s always brooding and silent and grumpy, but there are small shifts and tells you’ve memorized, that feel like drops in air pressure before a storm—and you may not blame Steve for missing them, but you still need to be angry at something for bruising your Heart like this. And Steve, who won’t take it personally and knows how deeply Bucky is grooved into your ribs and vital organs, is better than anyone else.

The only other options would be the Hydra soldiers.

And you have a very strong feeling they’re all quite dead.

“You believe in soulmates?” Bucky mutters your name, and you blink down at him. 

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah.” His words are muffled by your body, his hold on you tightening slightly. “The stuff about destiny and fate and two strings together. Steve called it, uh, fateism.”

“Fatalism?”

He hums in agreement, and you can almost hear his frown. “I’m tired.”

“I know, Buck.” You drag your fingers over his scalp. smiling at the air. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I asked you the first question, doll. You answer first.”

You sigh, studying the back of his head as if you could read it as well as his face. “Will my answer matter?”

Bucky just shrugs. If he was so adorable and sleepy, and if you weren’t so wrathfully and immovably in love with him, you would’ve kicked his stoic, silent ass.

“I don’t. I never really have.” You mumble, and the muscles in his back tense. 

“Yeah, it’s stupid-“

“But,” you push on, pulling gently on his hair until he angles his chin to rest on your chest, and he meets your gaze. “I don’t believe in souls.”

Bucky raises his brows at you. “Your co-workers are a god, a raccoon, and a sentient computer-”

“Artificial Intelligence,” you correct with a small smile. “He doesn’t like being called a computer.”

He gives you a flat look. “You know what I’m saying-“

“Yeah, but I still don’t believe in souls. I think it’s- It’s more complicated than that.”

Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but you push on.

“I like that it’s more chaotic. It’s like- it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, scanning over his face. “Buck, you’re a hundred years old. I’m not an assassin or superhero or agent, but I still found you. And we’ve both fought for our lives to get through everything, and it’s only sheer luck and force is what got us here, and now I get to love you against all the odds.” You swallow as you hear yourself, and Bucky’s eyes widen. But you press on. If you’re saying it, you need to say it. All in. 

He whispers your name, but you press on.

“I don’t believe in souls, Buck, but I believe what I can know.” You trace your hand over his cheek, offering him a soft smile as he watches you with wide eyes. “And I know that when you’re here, I love you, and when you’re not, my body knows it better than my mind does. I- It’s physical. It can feel it, right here.” You tug his left arms out from around body, and press it to your chest. “It’s like you’re a part of me. Not a missing piece or other half. Just… more. Of the same.”

You fall silent, and Bucky’s just staring at you. He stares a lot, though, and you can’t tell if this is a good I love you too stare, or a frightened how could you love me stare, and maybe he doesn’t love you and you’re just going have to keep living with that-

Bucky’s hand drifts up from your chest to frame your face, and when he shifts the light catches on his face, and you can see it in his eyes.

Awe.

He always kisses you like he’d been gone a thousand years, and Hydra might burst through the door and rip him away. It doesn’t matter if it’s a gentle, lazy kiss or a rough, desperate one. He’s always kissed you like he means it.

And this time, it’s somehow more. It’s everything. It bigger than any star you’ve seen burning in the dark, and taller than trees that are older than he is, stronger than the cracked pavement you’ve bruised your knees on so many times, crawling across the tar and gravel just to get to Bucky.

This time, Bucky kisses you the same way you missed him.

Like it’s oxygen and water and sunlight and opioids, all shot into your blood and making you into something new.

He kisses you like he loves you, and it’s bursting out of him like an animal from a cage.

And once it’s free, it only seems to grow. Demand more, with his arms caging you against the mattress as he rises up over your, and his tongue presses into your mouth and down your throat, and one hand is dropping to trail up your thighs and play with the hem of your shorts, and God, nothing has ever mattered more that this-

Bucky pulls your lower lip between his teeth before starting to kiss a sloppy line down your neck, and a brief moment of lucidity creeps its way into you head.

“Why’d you-“ You gasp as he starts to suck on your neck, stubble scrapping your skin, and your words becoming soft and airy. “Bucky- I- You didn’t say why you asked-“

“Had to stop and refuel the Quinjet, and Steve made us all go to a lecture a town over-“

You blink at the ceiling. “Lecture-“

“Little college. Punk is Captain America, he can walk in wherever he wants.”

“Oh.” You swallow, tangling your hands into his hair as he squeezes at your waist. “But why-“

“It’s Steve. Not the point, doll.” Bucky nips at your skin, and you can hear the low amusement in his voice. “The guy was talking about philosophy and souls and destiny, got me thinking ‘bout you-“

“What about- Fuck-“ You gasp as he sucks another mark onto your neck, your hips starting to grind up into his body. “What about me-“

“You’d know if you let me talk, pretty girl.” He drawls, and you nod a little stupidly, but his lips have brushed over the very base of your throat, and his hand has started to trail under your shirt to play with your tits, and it’s the metal one and it’s cold but it sends shivers of pleasure through your whole body-

“Bucky-“ 

“I was thinking about you because I don’t believe in that shit either, but I believe in you.” Bucky’s voice is rough and deep against your skin, rolling through your whole body and turning you into something molten and soft as he rolls your nipple mindlessly between his fingers. “Believe in how gorgeous you are, how good you are, how you’re somehow still here, still mine-“ He makes a low, grunting sound as you yank at his hair again, trying to tug him back up to you. “Shit-“

You cut his groan of your name off with your mouth crashing down, pulling him into a long, bruising kiss that ends in a high whine when he pulls away. You’d feel pathetic if you couldn’t feel his own arousal, thick and long and poking against your inner thigh-

“Please-“

“I know,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hips buck shamelessly up into his erection. “I’ll take care of you, doll, but I gotta-“

You shake your head. You get what he’s trying to say, you can hear every word through your bloodstream without him needs to say it, and you need his breathing to be ragged and spent on feeling you rather than talking-

“Want you,” you whisper, trying to roll him onto his back with palms flat against his chest. “Want to taste you, make you feel good, please-“

Bucky’s eyes widen, and the look of pure awe is back. “You’re- You wanna put your mouth on me-“

Your nod is desperate, and his nostrils flare as his metal hand glides back down your stomach, pinning your hips to the bed as he scans over your open, desperate face.

“Don’t know how I manage to swing you, doll.” He mutters, and you can’t do anything but watch him with parted lips and heavy breaths. He’s looking at you like you’re holy. Like he could- maybe- by some miracle-

“Bucky, I-“

He pulls you up into a longer, slower kiss that just as deep and fervorish as the last one, and you know it before he says it. And you really don’t care about the whole lecture—Steve will probably tell you in great detail about it later anyway—you just care about this, about Bucky, right here and home and touching you, and he tastes like coffee and dried fruit-

“Love you,” he murmurs against your lips, and you’re right one the edge just from the words. How he says them like they’re an immovable fact, the same way he’d say the sky is blue or my name is James Buchanan Barnes. Something he knows, maybe in the same, deeply ingrained way you know it. “Been trying to tell you I love you, but you’re not really letting me talk-“

“Sorry.” Your whisper is breathless and soft, and Bucky just chuckles, running his thumb over your lower lip with a low hum.

“No, you’re not.” He pushes his thumb slightly into your mouth, and lets out a low groan when you start to suck on him without a second thought. “You really wanna suck my cock, don’t you.“

You hum, flicking your tongue against him a silent response, and his throat bobs. 

“Can’t say no to you, sweet girl,” he grunts, and when he pulls his thumb away with a pop and brushes the hair from your face, you can almost hear his brain turning.

“But?” You ask, raising your brows as he continues to just stare at you. “I can hear you thinking, baby-“

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Course you can,” he mutters, cupping your face in one hand. “You look real tired, not gonna push you-“

“James Barnes.” You tug at his hair again, your tone dry and flat. “If you tell me you love me, and then stop me from giving you the best head of your life, I’m gonna leave you.”

He swallows, his cock twitching against your thigh, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse.

“You stay lying down.” He grunts. “And I fuck you after.”

You giggle, your smile wide and easy. “I think I can live with that.”

He nods, presses one quick, slightly softer kiss to your lips, and pushes off of your body for only a second to fully shed his clothing. 

He really is beautiful. Broad and strong, all muscle that’s soft in the best places, the metal of his arm shining in the dark like something that’s more godly than mortal, and his hair frames his face so well as his eyes grows almost animalistic on yours, so barely controlled as he pulls off his boxer and-

You might be drooling. He’s perfect. You never get over it, how he looks like he was sculpted and crafted, how he’s like some fallen angel in the dark of your bedroom, and how you feel full just from looking at his dick, fully erect and wrapped in his hand. He’s stroking it slowly, watching you squirm and rub your thighs together on the bed and reach up for him to just join you-

You’re just about to beg when Bucky crawls back onto the mattress, moving fully over your body until his metal arm is braced on the headboard and the red tip of his cock is pressed carefully against your lips, refusing to just push through them-

You drop your jaw open without a thought, digging your nails into his thighs for proper grip and half-batting your eyelashes in a silent plea for him to just take. He always gets too little, and he asks for less, and you’re his to just fucking take-

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, slowly easing himself into your mouth, throbbing against your tongue when you hollow your cheeks and moan around him. “Gotta take it easy, doll, won’t last-‘

You run your tongue over every part of him you can reach, and he cuts himself off with a deep moan, his hips bucking so he hits the very back of your throat.

“Shit- You’re gonna kill me-“ He half-growls as he tries to pull further out, and you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock, already weeping with pre-cum. “You- I’m tryin’ not to hurt you, sweetheart-“

He won’t hurt you. You’re grinding against the sheets as you watch Bucky above you, his metal arm leaving a dent on the bed frame and his eyes fully blown with raw want, and nothing he could do would ever hurt you. So you squeeze your hands against him, crane your neck slightly to pull him further back into your mouth, and you know he gets the message because his hand tangles in your hair and yanks it back slightly, forcing your eyes onto his.

“Told you to stay down,” he grunts. “I’ll take such good care of you if you listen, sweet girl. Look so fucking pretty takin’ my cock, but you want me to fuck your mouth-“

Your moan is loud and unashamed around him, and his hips jerk once more.

“Shit- That’s-“ Bucky squeezes his eyes shuts—he’s fucking thinking again—and then nods to himself. “You want me like this, doll?”

You hum around him, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“Hold onto me. Tight.” He grunts, and it’s the only warning you get before he finally gives you what you want, and moves.

He’s still restrained. Carefully controlled. You know he’s holding himself back, because even though Bucky’s bumping the back of your throat and groaning about you, he always just stops before you’re choking on him and his every thrust into your mouth is perfectly calculated and measured. No matter how you moan and drool and suck, running your tongue over the tip of his cock when he pulls almost fully out and swallowing when he pushes back inside, he’s keeping himself in check.

But all it takes is moving one hand to squeeze his balls, and you get the first rough slam of his hips and a beautiful, loud moan from deep in his chest.  

Bucky glares down at you, his voice gravely and low. “What’re you doin’.”

You give him your best innocent expression, repeating the movement and hollowing your cheek around his cock. 

“I-“ He hisses through his teeth as he slams deep enough for your nose to bump his abdomen, and you whine. “You’re- Fuck-“

It’s an offering. You’re still playing with his balls, and not trying to squirm away when his thrusts start to become uneven and sloppy, and he knows what you want so he doesn’t have to hold back, you don’t want him to hold back-

And when you swirl your tongue around the base of his cock, gagging around him when he pushes down your throat and squeezing his thigh in silent reassurance, he snaps. 

This is what you wanted. Bucky really, properly fucking your face until you’re a whining, needy mess below him, your hips rolling against the sheets for any relief because you need one hand to cling to him and the other to keep touching him, to keep urging him on as he drives his dick in and out of your mouth with an abandoned, the best, most sinful noises you’ve ever heard escaping him in a mix of swears and praise and growls of your name-

“God- so fucking good, you’re-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, and you know he’s close. You can see it in the tension across his muscles, and hear it in the deep noises that are rolling through your body. “Shit-“

You let your eyes roll back in your head as you keep your grip on him tight, and Bucky’s climax shakes his whole body and his cum shoots down your throat. Heavy and salty and God, he’s so good-

He’s still dripping down your chin when he pulls out, and you barely have time to try and wipe off with shaking fingers before Bucky’s right back over you, kissing you deep into the mattress and running a soothing, cool touch down your burning skin. 

“Such a good girl,” he mutters, his metal hand moving into your short grazing right over your slit through your ruined underwear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, can’t believe you get this wet just from getting your face fucked-“

You shake your head, grinding desperately into his taunting hand and throwing your head back as his fingers graze over your clothed clit. “Just for you, Bucky, only this- Fuck,” he’s stared to kiss a wet, open line over your collarbone, and you don’t know when he ripped off your shirt, but you don’t really care. “It’s you-“

“Me?” He smirks against your skin, his voice a little too soft and devout to be mocking. “Am I the only one who’s ever gotten you this needy, sweet girl? Is all this,” he tears off your panties, shoving two broad, metal finger right into your cunt and drawing a high gasp from your throat. “Just for me?”

“Yes,” your hands dig back into his hair as his tongue flicks right over your nipple and his fingers start to pump, and you’re going to ascend or burst into flame or scatter across the universe like a million stars or something- “Bucky, please-“

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, his fingers scissoring and crooking inside of you under you’re a puddle of needy sounds below him. “Always got you, doll.”

He really does. Bucky knows just how to play you like an instrument, how to finger fuck you so that you stay right on the edge but never go over. Neglecting your swollen clit in favor of pressing right against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you that he can rub his fingers against, all while kissing and marking you over your chest. Then suddenly returning to steady thrusts of his fingers and sucking and biting at your nipples until you’re yanking at his hair and he growls around you, and repeating the pattern over and over in cycle until you’re out of your mind-

More than out of your mind. You’re going to die. This is too much, and not enough, and you need to cum so bad but Bucky’s being mean and keeping you from falling, crashing up into the sky and coming fully unraveled below him-

“Bucky,” you swallow another loud, hopeless whimper as he hums against your skin. “Wanna cum, need it, you’re- Fuck-“

He rises back up over you, but doesn’t stop moving his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. “That feel good, sweet gi-“

“Yes.” You cut him off with another half-screaming moan, and he chuckles.

“Think you can cum like this? Just with my fingers, fucking your pretty pussy until you’re screaming my-“

“Bucky,” you scratch at his shoulders and try to push off the mattress, desperate to get his mouth back anywhere on your skin. “Please, Bucky, please-“

He smirks again, shaking his head as he drops down to give you a tauntingly soft kiss, his voice rough and deep as he speaks against your lips. “You never let me finish talking, you know that?”

“I- sorry.” You mumble, but you don’t really mean it. Not when his fingers hit a new, rough and world-shattering pace, and you’re so close-

“Don’t be sorry. Love you too much to really care. Love that you get mouthy and needy and so fucking loud for me.” Bucky’s kiss deepens like he’s trying to fuse his mouth to yours, right as his fingers yank out of you without warning, leaving you squeaking in protest and clenching around the air. 

“Why-“

He laughs, pushing back up to watch you as he drags your arms up, pinning them over your head with a grin. A real, wide grin of adoration and wonder, scanning over your body like he has all the time in universe to just watch you, flushed and panting and squirming on the mattress, pouting and glaring at him because he doesn’t have all the time, you feel like you’re going to explode and he needs to save you-

“Want you to cum on my cock,” he hums, trailing soft fingers down your body, watching you shiver and lean into his touch with a dark, reverent expression. “That sounds good to you, doll?”

You nod, spreading your legs as wide as you can manage. You’ll take anything, as long as Bucky’s the one giving it.

“Yes.” You whisper, your eyes trailing down his body to where he’s started to stoke his cock, lining it up with your weeping cunt. “Bucky, please-“

Your plea is cut off with a scream that’s a half curse, half prayer of his name, because Bucky slams into you and you break apart in a second. Then he hits that deep spot, his thumb pressing down and rubbing furious circles on your clit, and it’s euphoria. Wracking your whole body with sobs of his name as the pleasure crests higher and higher, and Bucky just keeps fucking you.

It’s not clear when he starts and you end, but you’re too far gone to really care. The first orgasm wanes for only a second before a second, smaller one rushes through you in an aftershock, and by the time Bucky falls down to kiss you—harsh and starved with his dick filling you up and hitting you so deep you know you’ll feel it for a week—you’re so fucked out you can only moan and whine against him. His tongue pushes down to trace over your teeth and press against the back of your throat as he growls praise of good girl and taking me so well and so fuckin’ beautiful, and all mine, feel so good, cum for me again, doll, c’mon-

You squirm beneath him as your third orgasm washes through your body and your back arches off the bed, your pussy squeezing and fluttering around his cock as he keeps fucking into you, harder and harder until you’re sure the bed is going break, until you’re gasping his name and begging him to cum with you, you’re going to fall apart for him one more time so please fall with you-

Bucky hauls you up his chest as he sits up, his mouth never once parting from you as he moves you to sit in his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck on instinct as his hands moves to grab at your hips, guiding you up and down his cock, meeting your with a thrust that hits so deep in your body you think you’re going to lose your voice screaming his name-

“Last one, doll,” he grunts in your ear, drawing rough circles on your hips as you gasp against his shoulder. “You got one more for me, and I’ll fill you up like you want-“

You nod like a bobble-head, because God, you do want it, want all of Bucky in whatever way he’ll offer it, but you do also think he could tell you to fly and—in this moment, where he’s hammering into you and you’re nothing but a blissful, cockdrunk mess against him—you’d find a way to pull it off.

Bucky pulls you into one last, heavy and deep and smooth kiss—set in a stark contrast to how he’s bruising your cervix and dragging you into the fire of one last, mind-numbing and head-spinning orgasm—and when you breath his name into his mouth, he cums with a roar that seems to shake the whole earth.

The world becomes all color and good and Bucky as you fall right over the edge with him, his release hot and warm in your body and his breathing ragged against your skin as you both float down from your highs, and stay a tangle of heartbeats and limbs in the center of the mattress. He holds you so carefully against his chest, like you might shatter or dissipate if he makes the wrong move, and you play with his hair, letting your brain return to your body.

Bucky clears his throat, his hands pausing their untraceable patterns on your skin as you bury your face in his neck.

“I love you. A lot. Just so you know.” His voice is almost sheepish in your ear, and you giggle. 

“I think I’ve got that, Buck.” You hum, your nails digging into his back and he starts to shift beneath you. “What’re you-“

“Gotta take care of my girl.” Bucky’s muttered words in your ear are more of a command, angled at himself as he tries to pull his half-hard cock out of where he’s still sheathed in your body. “Made a mess of you, doll, need to clean it up-“

You shake your head, tightening your grip around his neck. “Stay.”

He leans back to frown at you. “I am staying, but you’ve got my cum dripping down your thighs-“

“Romantic-“

“Shut it.” He flicks your nose, his eyes softening slightly at your still-dazed smile. “You need to be cleaned up-“

“I need you.” You squirm to press impossibly closer to his body, dropping your brow against his chest. “We can just stay like this,” you roll your hips, and Bucky lets out a low hiss as his cock twitches inside of you. “And I think you like that I’m a mess-“

“I like you, pretty girl. Could even say I love you-” 

You smile at him. “You have said it-“

He rolls his eyes with a grunt, tugging you fully forwards and pinning you to his chest. Your yelp turns into a loud, happy sound when he catches your chin and tips it back, giving you a long, easy kiss that doesn’t ever seem to be waning of that new, fully unleashed love quality. “And you are a mess, I’m not just gonna-“

“Don’t want you to clean me up,” you hum, scratching slightly at his back in one last plea to stay like this. Maybe turn to stone and be crawled over with ivy and flowers, your body still wound with Bucky’s and the whole world this bright, happy feeling forever. “Please.”

He pauses, leans back to scan over your face, and you let it paint all over your features. You do love him, and that’s not revolutionary but it’s Bucky so it’s stronger and can withstand more than anything else in the world. You know he can see it, how if you were shot down into the core of the earth or vaulted up into the cold of space, you’d still love him as ash or frosted, broken and scattered particles. Because it’s all you. Every single bit of you that’s tangible and capable of being anything at all loves Bucky, and it right here. 

For him to see, and have, and take. 

And you know he’s worked it out, because his face splits into a painfully rare, wide grin that makes him barely look past twenty-five. That’s all boyish charm and glee and pride, and that Steve’s told you used to be common, but has become something reserved for only moments like these.

Moments where Bucky gives in to your plea, and shifts you both so he’s against the headboard and you’re still curled on his chest. He never once unsheathes himself, never once breaks his gaze from yours, and when your both settled, he presses a gentle kiss to your brow and lets it linger until you’re almost stained by his touch. Where you can feel how much he loves you in every breath and pound of his heart, against his skin and almost taste it in his throat when he kisses you once more. 

And the sun is starting to break through the window in a million, iridescent colors as Bucky stays right here. 

Right where he belongs. 

With you. 

End Note: I could write dissertations and movies and plays and speeches about love being something that rewrites your whole body chemistry, and how that's honestly more romantic than predetermination or soulmates to me. This is me doing that but where's it's not going to annoy my friends.

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[blingblong55]

God of Lust- Simon "Ghost" Riley NSFW

--- F!Reader, MDNI, smut, 18+, oral!sex, P-in-V, cupid!simon, dub-con (I don't know if this is the right tag) ---

જ⁀➴♡

The first time he sees you, Simon stops in his tracks. You’re walking through the park, blissfully unaware of the celestial being perched on a nearby rooftop, a bow slung lazily over his broad shoulder. He’s spent centuries watching mortals stumble their way through love—some sweet, some tragic, most of it predictable. But you? You catch his attention like a flaming arrow to the chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, eyes tracking your every move. The way you carry yourself, the slight flush to your cheeks from the cold—everything about you makes his fingers twitch. He should move on, and find another poor soul in need of a love nudge, but he doesn’t. He stays. Watches. Wonders.

It doesn’t take long before curiosity turns into something darker, more insistent. He’s meant to guide mortals toward love, not crave them for himself, but Cupid’s never been a saint. And he’s got a particular set of arrows—ones meant to inspire obsession, to turn innocent interest into something much filthier.

And he wants to test one on you.

He follows you home, unseen, perched in the shadows like a wolf stalking prey. His wings, usually hidden from mortal eyes, twitch with anticipation. He shouldn’t. It’s a line even he shouldn’t cross. But when has that ever stopped him?

The moment you step inside your apartment, locking the door behind you, he makes his move. A blink, a shift in the air, and suddenly, he’s inside, standing in your dimly lit living room. His wings retract, bow discarded, leaving him a man—well, something close to one—dressed in dark trousers and a loose white shirt, golden gauntlets glinting in the low light.

You turn, eyes widening in shock. "Who the fuck—?"

"Y'know," he interrupts, voice a deep, teasing drawl, "it’s rude to swear at Cupid."

You freeze. He watches as your mind scrambles, confusion knitting your brows. "Cupid?" you repeat, disbelief laced in every syllable. "Simon." He steps forward, gaze dipping, raking over you. "But yeah, that's me, love. And I've had my eye on you for a while now."

You swallow, stepping back, bumping into the table. "You're real?" He smirks. "Real as the ache between your legs, sweetheart."

The heat in his voice makes your stomach twist, thighs press together involuntarily. And he sees it—of course, he does. Simon’s been studying human desire for centuries. He can spot it just a mile away, and right now, you’re radiating it.

His gloved hand lifts, fingers tracing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, brushing over your collarbone. "Thing is," he murmurs, "I spend my time puttin’ lovers together. But I’ve never had one of my own." His touch drifts lower, playing at the hem of your shirt. Your breath catches, and he grins. "Do you know what that means?"

Your head shakes, words lost in the thick tension between you. "It means," he says, voice rough with want, "I’m overdue for a good fuck."

Then he’s on you, pressing you against the table, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His body is hot, and solid, wings flickering into existence for a brief second before vanishing again. His hands—strong, demanding—grip your waist, pulling you flush against the evidence of his arousal. "Fuckin’ hell," he groans, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Gonna take my time with you, love. Gonna ruin you."

His hands move, ripping fabric, and discarding clothes like they offend him. And when you’re bare before him, he steps back, dark eyes devouring you. "Perfect," he mutters, voice thick with reverence. "So fuckin’ perfect." His hands return, rough palms ghosting over your skin, teasing, testing. "Tell me, sweetheart," he purrs, "have you ever been fucked by a god before?"

I mean, if he considers a good vibrator a god then yes. Being properly fucked by a god? Not even a good smut book can satisfy that need. Then he drops to his knees, and whatever answer you had dies in your throat as he shows you exactly what he means.

His calloused fingers danced along your hips, deftly unbuttoning your jeans with a wicked grin. "Let's get these pesky clothes out of the way, love. Want to feel every inch of your gorgeous body against mine," he growled, golden eyes glinting with mischief and unbridled desire.

His hands slid under your shirt, pushing the fabric up and over your head, leaving you bare before him. The cool night air kissed your skin, pebbling your nipples as he took a step back to admire his handiwork. "Fuckin' hell, you're a sight," he breathed, drinking in every curve and dip like a man starved.

Simon's clothes vanished in a shimmer of golden light, revealing a body honed by centuries of carnal pursuits—muscles rippling under scarred, tanned skin, a trail of hair leading down from his navel to the thick, half-hard cock now bobbing heavily between his thighs. He grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand to his chest, guiding your palm over the raised lines etched into his skin. "Trophies from lovers past," he murmured, voice rough and low. "Each one a reminder of the power of passion, the all-consuming heat of desire."

Was cupid an "angel"? He did say he is a god but…fuck this guy is a sight to behold. Not even the heavens above can come up with something so perfect.

He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, settling between them as he sank to the floor. Strong hands gripped your hips, squeezing the supple flesh as he gazed up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lust. "Spread wider for me, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty cunt," he commanded, hot breath washing over your sensitive sex.

His fingers skimmed along your slit, teasing through the slick folds, drawing a shuddering gasp from your throat. "So bloody wet already," he purred, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste your essence. "Delicious. I could get addicted to this flavour."

Simon reached into the pouch slung across his chest, pulling out a small, ornate box. Inside lay the infamous arrow, the one whispered to bring pleasure beyond imagining to any who dared to wield it. He plucked it from the velvet lining, running the smooth shaft along your inner thigh, the cool metal sending sparks of sensation dancing across your skin.

"Brace yourself, love," he whispered, voice a sinful promise as he pressed the arrow's tip against your swollen clit, circling the sensitive nub with maddening slowness. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Make you scream my name until it's the only thing you know."

He dipped his head, replacing the arrow with his mouth, sucking your clit between his lips as two thick fingers plunged knuckle-deep into your soaked channel. "Fuck, you're tight," he groaned against your flesh, pumping his fingers in and out of your clutching heat. "Can't wait to feel this sweet cunt wrapped around my cock."

Simon redoubled his efforts, fingers curling to rub that perfect spot inside you as he sucked and licked at your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The arrow continued its relentless assault, the cool metal a delicious contrast to the scorching heat of his mouth.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he demanded, voice vibrating against your core. "Paint my fingers with your cum. Let me feel you fall apart." His thumb pressed hard against your clit as he sank his teeth into the tender flesh, sending you careening over the edge with a scream of his name echoing through the night air. Your body convulsed around his invading fingers, walls clenching and fluttering as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

But he wasn't done with you yet. Not by a long shot. As your orgasm began to subside, Simon surged to his feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, the scorching heat searing your drenched folds. With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, stretching you wide around his impressive girth.

"Bloody hell," he snarled, head thrown back in pleasure as your slick walls struggled to accommodate his size. "Fuckin' perfect. Never had a cunt fit me so bloody well." He pulled back slowly, only to slam forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that had the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

"Take it, you filthy girl," he growled, hips snapping forward with bruising force. "Take my cock like the desperate slut you are." His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, kneading the supple flesh. His hips pistoned forward relentlessly, the thick drag of his cock stirring up your sensitive walls with each powerful thrust. "Fuck, your cunt feels like it was made for my dick," he grunted, angling to hit that sweet spot inside you dead-on with every drive of his hips.

Simon's golden eyes blazed with lust and something almost feral as he watched your face, drinking in the play of emotions across your features—shock, pleasure, desperation, and all the delicious things in between. "Love seeing you like this, sweetheart. Lost in the throes of passion, drowning in the feel of my cock splitting you open."

One hand slid up your side to palm the soft swell of your breast, calloused fingers plucking and rolling the stiff peak until it ached with need. He dipped his head, dragging his tongue over the sensitive bud before suckling hard, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. "Beautiful," he murmured against your skin, nipping lightly before soothing the sting with a sensual lap of his tongue. "Can't get enough of these perfect tits. Want to mark them, claim them as mine."

Simon's other hand drifted down to where you were joined, the slick sounds of your coupling filling the air. He circled your clit with maddening slowness, the rough pad of his thumb rubbing the sensitive nub in time with the relentless thrusts of his hips. "Gonna make you come on my cock like a good girl," he promised darkly, voice a sinful rumble against your skin. "Squeeze my dick with this greedy little cunt until I pump you full of my seed."

His words, gravelly and thick with desire, pushed you closer to the edge. Your body began to tighten, walls fluttering around his pistoning length as your climax built with breathtaking speed. "That's it, sweetheart. Give it to me," Simon urged, thumb pressing hard against your clit as he somehow increased the force of his thrusts. "Come screaming my name. Let the whole bloody forest know who makes you feel this good."

With a raw, animalistic cry, you shattered around him, your sex clamping down on his cock like a vice as ecstasy exploded through every nerve ending. Your vision went white, stars bursting behind your eyelids as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss crashed over you.

"Fuck, yes!" Simon roared, his release slamming into him with the force of a freight train. His hips jerked erratically as he buried himself to the hilt, painting your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed. He ground against you, working his cock in small circles, making sure you felt every last pulse and throb as he filled you up.

As the intense pleasure began to ebb, Simon captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to dance with yours. He poured all his passion, his hunger, his all-consuming desire into the embrace, leaving you breathless and boneless in his arms.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you panting harshly as you came down from the high of your releases. "Bloody hell," he breathed, a satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I knew from the moment I saw you that I was going to ruin you for anyone else. And I'll be damned if I don't make good on that promise."

With a sudden surge of strength, he hoisted you up, carrying you bridal style. "Round two awaits, love. Hope you didn't have any plans for the rest of the night, because I'm not nearly done with you yet," he purred, golden eyes glinting with wicked intent as he kicked open the door and carried you over to a proper bed, ready to spend the rest of the night worshipping every inch of your gorgeous body in the most thoroughly carnal ways imaginable. The night was still young, and Cupid had a reputation to uphold.

જ⁀➴♡

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[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

RED IS THE COLOUR OF

KINKTOBER DAY 1 - BLOOD WITH JACKSON RIPPNER

Pairing - Jackson Rippner x fem!reader

Summary - Jackson returns home covered in other men’s blood. He’s too impatient to shower first.

Warnings - noncon! dead dove do not eat ! forceful, abuse, blood play, blood tasting, p in v, oral! m receiving, drawing blood, biting, bondage, abduction.

Word count - 1.4k

Notes - Starting kinktober off strong with my sweet baby boy Jackson. This is quite dark and mentally disturbing so be warned.

The heavy slam of the front door woke you up. As you jolted up, the short chains locked around your wrists yanked your body back to the bed frame. In the darkness, your senses focus on your hearing. The familiar pacing footsteps crept towards the bedroom. Goosebumps formed on your trembling naked skin as you curled up into a ball waiting for your captor to walk in. 

The door creaked open, you could only draw out his figure as the darkness shadowed over his features. Jackson’s breathing was heavy, likewise to an athlete’s aftermath of a marathon. His hand slid up the wall, his fingertips searched for the switch. 

“You almost got me killed tonight baby doll” Jackson spoke quietly, his tone filled with frustration and disappointment. 

Your eyes narrowed to him, mouth ajar opened as your heart pounded with anticipation. When the light snapped on, you let out a piercing scream. If you could sink into the wall, you would have. The muscles on your back were quickly turning a shade of bright red. 

Jackson smiled at you innocently, the lower half of his mouth painted a crimson red. His expensive grey suit ruined by the repercussions of human blood. As he closed the distance, he easily kicked off his newly polished shoes and slipped his jacket off to the carpet. You whimpered his name as he slowly crawled up to you on the bed, his piercing blue eyes never inching away from you once. He was the wolf and you were the lamb awaiting slaughter. 

“Let’s have a shower, get you all cleaned up” you suggested timidly, your breath hitching, It was motivated by desperation mixed with fear, your eyes darting over every inch of his crimson skin. 

“Shower later, need you now” he declared through a grumble with a gentle nod as his dirty hands wrapped around your ankles, swiftly pulling you down flat on the mattress. 

Jackson didn’t care that he was already permanently staining his sage bed sheets, or that his clothes were ruined, definitely not that he’d have to spend all of tomorrow morning cleaning the interior of his car. Most importantly, Jackson didn’t care how horrified you were right now. 

With your arms unwillingly raised above your head, your teary eyes watched Jackson fearfully. Under his still damp clothing, your bare thigh squirmed around. He rubbed his mouth in thought, slowly his metallic tasting lips brushed over yours like a soft breeze. Jackson pressed his lips up to your ear as he breathed in your sweet scent.

“Your daddy didn’t want to cooperate with me baby, now I’m covered in him” Jackson admitted shamelessly, a dark chuckle quickly followed. 

Impulsively, you thrashed underneath him, your restrained hands tried to claw at him but it was hopeless. The wicked smile on Jackson’s crimson lips was sinister as he pinned your wrists onto the mattress. Those baby blue eyes of his were full of darkness. Immediately your lips were wobbling, you could see the honesty as clear as day. 

“You’re lying!” You gasped out in denial, your fragile body being thrown into a wave of shock. 

“Unfortunately I am not, babydoll” Jackson sighed. 

It was fine, Jackson was never going to let you go anyways. But now he was going to miss out on a hefty paycheck. Oh well, you’d be able to make him feel better. You’ve succeeded at it every time so far, Jackson’s sure you’d be more than willing to keep up your efforts. 

Like a baby, you were blubbering underneath him, pleading him for mercy. It always got him painfully hard when you’d beg for your life. As if Jackson would ever dare to kill his favourite girl, no matter how badly you could act out of line. 

He was comforting you, coaching you to take in deep breaths and to clear your mind. As his red hands massaging your scalp, his needy hips humped against yours. After your cries had mellowed into whimpers, he moved his lips closer to yours. 

“Come on, taste him” he encouraged. The smell of bloodshed made you feel sick as your lips were a mere inch apart. 

“Jackson please!” you pleaded hopelessly, the nozzle to the waterworks twisted to full power. 

Menacefully, Jackson shook his head towards you slowly. With wide eyes and a trembling mouth, you mewled to him pathetically. Gently, his lips pressed against yours. 

“No, no… This is all you have left of him baby doll” he stated before deepening the kiss. 

It was human to react in pure disgust. Without forethought of the consequences, you bit onto his lower lip, with a force that pierced into his skin. The horror was the lack of reaction Jackson had initially. A dark laugh echoed up his chest, his lip still caught between your teeth. 

Suddenly, he smacked the side of your head, your latch snapped. Time slowed down momentarily, the ringing in your ears numbed your thoughts. The blood that spilled from his mouth painted polka dots onto your heated face. 

Blinking hard, you jolted underneath him, but Jackson held you down easily as you swore beneath him. “Don't fight me, you’re all worked up from having no control” Jackson spoke calmly, ending with a sigh. But when you didn’t obey his order, his string of patience snapped. “Are you listening to me!” Jackson roared as he backhanded your already stinging cheek. 

You laid stiff below him, like a ragdoll, his perfect babydoll with glistering doe eyes. 

The stinging in your eyes made you feel like they were on fire. The restraints on your wrists will show fresh bruising and cuts in the morning. The blows to your cheek will certainly leave a mark. Jackson huffed at your broken expression and stood on his knees on the mattress. His fingers fiddled to take off his bloodied shirt and undertop. 

“So fucking ungrateful” He hissed as the belt slipped out of the loops of his pants. 

You turned your head to the side as he hovered over you to wiggle out of his pants. When he was completely free of his clothing, he shuffled his lower body up to your face. Stroking his throbbing length over your lips, you dared to look back to him.  

“Go on then, put your mouth to better use. Fuck, you think I really want to hear you whining after what you got me into? I almost died for you. You know how many men I killed tonight!” he bellowed, roughly pressing his tips to your closed lips. 

Guilt struck over you, as if any of this was ever your fault. It was always so easy for him to break you down. Submitting to him, you shuffled up the bed. Looking up to him, your mouth slowly opened. 

“There’s my good girl” Jackson praised cruelly through a groan whilst your tongue swirled over his tip, a whine ran down his shaft.  

His bloody hand massaged your aching cheek whilst you took him in further and further with each bob. Holding onto the top of the bedframe, he crouched over you as he fucked your face thoughtlessly. The sounds of your gags were always music to his ears. 

Pulling his salvia coated cock out, he moved back down to hover over you. Jackson stroked his wet cock with his bloody hand, the moisture lubricated the dry blood and gradually painted his cock red. His hand wrapped around your throat as he tiled your face up. 

“You’re completely mine now, baby doll… No one will get in our way again” Jackson spoke softly as he pressed himself in your all too eager cunt. 

The smile was sinister, the sensation of how wet you were sent his nerves through the roof. You mewled out and scrunched your expression. But Jackson wasn’t taking it anymore. 

“Shut up before I fuck your ass” he threatened harshly, his eyes rolled back dramatically whilst burying his dick inside of you.

You followed his orders and remained silent. Rapidly, Jackson pounded his cock into your pussy. Accompanying that action by kissing you deeply. The stench and taste of him made your stomach curl over. His fingers circled over your clit, you whined out as you felt your body betray you once more.

“There you go” Jackson murmured, a wicked grin on his face as he observed the pleasure rise on your expression. “Remembering who you belong to” he groaned when he felt your velvet walls squeeze him.

Suddenly, his teeth sunk into your upper lip, drawing just as much blood as you did. You cried out, tugging at your restraints but didn’t dare to fight him. Jackson rubbed his face all over yours, making sure that both of your faces were covered in blood, inch by inch. He smiled at your pretty red face, his cock throbbing inside of your clenching walls. 

“Babydoll, did you know that red is the colour of love?” He asked quietly, smiling like a fool in love.