#pavement patching and repair

[javiersvest]

breathe, hold, release (pt. 2)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader 

part one here

summary: joel comes to fix the sink and you both finally stop avoiding what's between you.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), catch the mr. darcy reference, kind of a slow burn bc i love tension, dom!joel, praise kink, fingering, mirror activities, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (be smart), slight voyeurism ig?, creampie (reader is on bc cause i’m nasty), joel is a freak in this omg, please DO NOT attempt sex on a reformer, if anything is missing pls let me know!

word count: way too fuckin long 10.3k 

a/n: first of all, thank you SO much to the response to part one. it warmed my little heart that so many people enjoyed it. i hope this makes up for the long wait! thank you to my three pookies (@naiadonis, @tmpestuous, & @imaginesbymonika) for beta'ing and feeding my delusions. this will be the last part but i would love to write some drabbles for these two, so please send in requests if you have any! also, i'm on twitter! come say hi :) enjoy ♡

Your mornings always started the same: shades up, door open, music low. The soft hum of downtown Austin stretched itself awake in time with you, the city exhaling with the same slow rhythm you followed to start your day. Even the most mediocre sleep melted away when you clasped your hands together and pressed them toward the ceiling, arching your back, breath spilling from deep in your abdomen. 

You weren’t a Texas native – that much had been obvious the second you stepped on the plane. Southern drawls of varying intensities filling your ears, the heat coating your skin with a wrathful flair. California still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, sun-warmed pavement and salt in your hair. You’d built a life there; mornings guiding people through movement, regulars who felt like old friends, a humble studio tucked between your favorite bagel place and a long-abandoned repair shop.

You’d memorized the ebbs and flows of that neighborhood like the back of your hand. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, it felt like enough. But comfort has a funny way of turning stale the moment you let your guard down. In the middle of all that comfort, a crack had started to form – subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

The breakup didn’t knock the wind out of you – it eroded you slowly. You and him lived parallel lives for months before either of you said anything; passing the coffee creamer, taking turns with laundry, showing up to mutual plans like clockwork. He wasn’t cruel, just tired in a way that made everything feel like effort, including you. Eventually you stopped trying, learned to keep your heart tucked behind a smile. It was safer.

When it ended, it wasn’t explosive. It was practical, like canceling a subscription. You moved out quietly, took on more classes at the studio, pretended you were unbothered. Clinging to your routine made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fall apart.  But the spark was already dimming, and maybe deep down you’d known it was time for something new long before you let yourself admit it. A couple of months passed in a blur. You picked up more classes, then lost them. By the time the text came in, you were already half-unraveling.

It came through late at night, and you had stared at the blinking cursor of a blank calendar where you’d been drafting next month’s schedule far too long. Of course. Your studio’s owner, who’d always joked that she’d die with a foam roller in her hand, announced that she was retiring with her family. The space sold faster than you thought possible, and within a week, the foundation you’d built everything on was gone. You tried to patch things up with rec rooms, park sessions under swaying palms, but the roots had already loosened.

When Nia called from Austin, practically buzzing through the phone with excitement, the last of your resistance crumbled. Unlike you, Nia had discovered her need to get the hell out of dodge much earlier. She’d always been more adventurous, brave enough to step foot in a new place and carve a spot for her regardless of anyone’s opinion about it. You’d met in training years ago, the kind of instant bond that felt more like a reunion than an introduction. 

She’d caught wind of a space opening downtown, and somehow decided you were the perfect person to take it over. At first, you dismissed it. You’d never been one for cowboy boots or country music, and the thought of leaving everything familiar behind made your chest ache. The more you sat with it, the emptiness of your space, the fading glimmer of your routine, the exhaustion – her offer sounded less like risk and more like possibility. 

So, you said yes. You packed up your life, let go of the familiarity, and tried your best to embrace the unknown. You said goodbye to the Pacific, but most of all to the version of you who thought she'd never leave. You started again from scratch; introduced yourself to strangers, tried to find your new normal, and smiled so much your cheeks hurt. For the first month or so, the smiles were fake. You spent your days rebuilding what you’d lost, piece by piece, and your nights wondering if you’d made a mistake.

But soon enough the days stopped feeling so foreign, and all the things from home that you thought were irreplaceable began to lose their appeal. You built up rapport with new clients, had a new favorite lunch spot, and the barista a few doors down memorized your name and regular order. Week after week, familiar faces returned to the studio, fulfilling your purpose. Your first classes of the day were usually quiet, made up of older clients who enjoyed waking up hours before the sun. They liked your calm and the way it seemed like you were a morning person just like them. You knew who was rehabbing a bad hip, who didn’t like too much tension, who needed extra encouragement. 

It wasn’t about doing a hundred perfect reps or getting people’s stomachs as flat as possible. It was about watching someone walk taller after six weeks, saying they’ve never felt stronger. About a woman thanking you because her back didn’t hurt for the first time in years. That mattered to you, it always had. That’s why you’d started teaching, to show the ways movement could soften even the hardest parts of someone’s day. Pilates was precise, yes, but it was also gentle in a way the world often wasn’t. You’d had students cry during classes before. You never asked why – just helped them breathe through it.

Saturday mornings became your favorite. You weren’t held to the five a.m classes like you were on weekdays, accommodating teachers and early risers who started their day in the quiet of the studio. Saturdays moved slower, giving you time to relish in each stretch, each song, each thought. You had time to sip your coffee between check-ins, time to let your voice warm into the room instead of launching straight into the rhythm of cues and counts. 

Then, you met Joel. 

Met was a generous word – you were more so acquainted with him. His jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets nearly the entire first interaction. Clearly he’d be more at ease with those boots in dirt rather than on the pristine tile. You’d thought, at first, he was just being a dad – maybe irritated he had to wake up on his day off to drive her, maybe just tired. 

You greet him the way you greet everyone, with warmth that borders on effortless. It’s second nature by now, this instinct to disarm. You lead with brightness, offer softness in your tone, a joke curled lightly at the edge of your mouth. And it usually works. You’d encountered your share of prickly people around Austin, but most of them put on a performance: a polite smile or a stilted joke. Everyone yielded to it eventually. 

But not him.

Not when you beam at his daughter. Not when you hand him the clipboard with the sunflower pen that you’d made during your lunch break yesterday. What you get is a squint and a dry, unimpressed “Really?” Like you’d just offered him a glittering child’s toy instead of a waiver. He doesn’t play the part, doesn’t pretend to be someone easier to be around. His face is unreadable in a way that feels unintentional – like he’s so accustomed to his indifference that it’s not even spiteful anymore. 

You try – gently, playfully to pull something out of him. A smirk. A single syllable of amusement. Anything. You laugh, easy and unbothered. “I know. But everyone seems to like them.”

Still nothing. His shoulders stay locked in place, pen aggressive on the page like the words themselves are offensive. His handwriting is slanted and uneven, rushed like he can’t get out of there fast enough. 

Sarah is the complete opposite, it seems.

She’s light – bright-eyed, curious, open in a way that feels rare in teenagers these days and even rarer in the people who raise them. You take to her instantly, eased by the amiability in her voice, the bounce in her step. You can’’t help but wonder where it comes from – because it’s certainly not him. You follow the movement of his hands, rugged and large. 

No ring.

You shouldn’t be curious, but you are.

You take the clipboard back, eyes scanning to the bottom of the page. “Thanks… Joel,” you say, softening the syllables like you might smooth over rough fabric. He grunts in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You get the sense he’s not used to taking people up on kindness. Like it costs him something. You invite him to stay, watching him struggle to look for a response. For a moment you think he’s going to say something. 

He doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you the entire class. At first, you tried to explain it. Maybe he was zoning out like other parents did, counting down the minutes until they could beat the traffic back to their neighborhoods. But Joel wasn’t checking his phone repeatedly, wasn’t tapping his foot, didn’t look around. He just… watched. Not an ambient glance or idle observation. It was intentional. Trying not to notice was futile. You were trained to read bodies; breath patterns, posture, hesitation. And you see all of it in Joel. 

The restraint that lived in the corners of his mouth, the divet between his brows each time you moved. You catch the way his jaw locks and releases when your spine curves, the faint twitch of muscle beneath his cheekbone as your voice dips into instruction. The way his hands, broad and calloused, strained and flexed against his knees like he was holding something back.

It took a lot to throw you off balance, but the autopilot you’d relied on all these years began to short-circuit. You roll your shoulders back a little straighter, suddenly being extra mindful of your posture, paranoid that you’ll trip over a mat, or hit the carriage against the board with too much strength. The weight of his stare clings to you like humidity, slick and unrelenting. It prickles at your neck, curls low in your belly. You keep moving, voice steady, but inside, everything is fraying. 

You blink, adjust a client’s foot bar and try to refocus, fighting the urge to look over. Just once, that’s all you needed. Just a second to confirm if you were making it all up. You were not new to attention. You’ve been watched before, admired even. But this was something else entirely. Joel watches you like he’s trying not to break. Like there’s some quiet part of him that doesn’t believe he deserves to look, but can’t help it anyway.

You’re pulled from the fantasy as you check on each student, moving down the line until you get to Sarah. With your fingers on her ankles you guide her through, encouraging her as she starts to get the hang of it. She looks towards the bench, a hopefulness in her eyes that makes you melt. You follow her gaze instinctively – and see how Joel’s expression softens the moment their eyes meet. Pride blooms across his face and tugs at something in you, and you have to push down the guilt that starts to creep up your throat. 

You don’t mean to look directly at him, you just wanted a glance. A peek into his true nature, not the barricade he’d placed around him. His head turns before you think it will, and you both seem to go rigid. The right thing would be to turn around, check on someone else – anything. But you’re held there.

His eyes move over you with slow precision, and you welcome it. They seem to be mapping your body, the slope of your throat, the line of your shoulders. While he inspects you, your head is fueled with images of him taking you apart with his hands. You wonder what he sounds like when he groans, what his mouth would feel like against your skin. Wonder how many times he’d make you come before showing mercy, or would he? Would he be as merciless as he looks, ruining you and apologizing for none of it? 

You let him see that you see it; let him feel your curiosity inch toward want. Let him know you’re not innocent to it. You blink slowly and pull yourself away like it hurts. You turn your attention back to the class and pretend that he didn’t just strip you bare with a single look.

With each passing Saturday, the two of you moved in a quiet orbit. It stayed innocent enough for your guilt to dissolve under layers of niceties and easy chatter. Joel never volunteered much information, but the little he gave felt like something hard-won. Over time, you both softened. A brush of your fingers against the firm curve of his bicep. Smiles that lingered in the space between you, unhurried and a bit too long. But Joel never crossed the line, and neither did you. 

Some days, you wondered if you'd imagined that first flash of heat. A byproduct of a lonely year, a new city, a fresh start. But then he'd show up again, every Saturday, planted on that bench watching you and Sarah. Sarah. She slipped into your life like she’d always belonged there. There’s a quick intelligence behind her humor, a deep-rooted enthusiasm for life you definitely didn’t have at her age. You take to her immediately, starting to look forward to seeing her just as much as seeing Joel. 

You didn’t ask her to help around the studio, she just started doing it. She’s unfiltered in the best way, and underneath all of it, achingly sincere. She asks questions about your day, offers commentary that makes you laugh from the gut, and more than once, makes jokes about her dad being single. 

Today was no different. The 11:30 class wrapped right on schedule, and Sarah darted to the back to fold towels, unprompted. Joel waited at the front, leaning casually against the desk, ready to talk to you. Today the exchange between you, once cushioned civility, stretched into something charged. You saw it in the way his smile faltered, like he'd strayed too close to a thought he wasn’t supposed to have. In the drawl of his voice, the dry wit, the way his eyes dipped to your mouth and quickly back. You pushed a little further, let your words flirt with implication, and watched the color rise in his face.

“And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.” 

He hesitates and you see the moment the mask slips. You let the silence stretch, not to punish him, but to watch him squirm beneath the weight of his honesty. There’s something tender about the way he tries to walk it back, like a man afraid of his own shadow. He offers a stammering apology, but you give him a way out with a smile. Make it clear he hadn’t misread you. His name tastes good in your mouth. 

When he pivots to the sink in the men’s room and offers to take a look, you catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. It’s cute, the way he tries to pass it off as nonchalant. Like it’s not a thinly veiled excuse to stay close – and you say yes.

Not just because the sink needs fixing, but because the thought of him here on a Monday, with no Sarah and no audience, pulls something tight in your chest. Sarah clocks the shift immediately, the shared glance and unpulled string taut between you and her father. Her smirk is sharp and knowing as you offer her a pin, a feeble attempt at distracting her. Joel groans like it physically pains him to be perceived and you know there’s no avoiding it anymore. After that, Joel barely meets your eye. He stumbles over a “See you Monday,” and follows Sarah to the door. 

Your heart thuds with something warm and bright that you haven’t felt since California. You exhale slowly. The studio falls quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

The thing you’d been tiptoeing around was no longer unknown. It had a name now – Monday. 

The air is thick with the beginnings of Austin heat when you step outside of the coffee shop, keys jingling between your fingers and you grasp onto two, not one, cups this time. In your left, the usual overly-sweet latté that you made no exceptions for, and in your right – hot, no cream or sugar. Just bitter and bold. It was a hunch, but Joel didn’t seem like the type to ask for his cup to be drizzled with caramel sauce and topped with sweetened cream. Weeks of him sitting in your studio, gruff and unreadable informed your guess. The barista, knowing your usual, couldn’t help herself as she asked if it was for a special someone. You’d laughed as if it was silly, but it wasn’t. 

The way your body anticipated waking up kept you from getting any meaningful sleep. That, and the fact you’d spent a couple hours imagining Joel’s voice in your head; gravel-worn and measured, your fingers easing yourself open. It was scary how easily you’d pictured it. His weight on top of you, the ache in the pit of your stomach, his lips forming the filthy things you wanted to hear him say once he let go of whatever had him wound up so tightly. There was too much of him beneath your skin.

The door to the studio groaned as you pushed it open with your shoulder, and you set the drinks down on the front desk with care. You busied yourself next, giving your hands something to do until Joel showed up, if he even did. Maybe you had been too forward and scared him away. Maybe he was being polite, appeasing your ego so as not to embarrass you in front of his daughter. 

The soft jingle of the bell sends a jolt through your body and you emerge from the back with too much excitement in your limbs, smoothing your beige tank top like it mattered. Joel stood just inside the door, a heavy tool bag hanging from one hand, the other raking through his hair in that nervous, unconscious way he did when he didn’t know what to say. You had picked up on that, too. 

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low, roughened with what you assumed was sleep. You looked at him and every line looked the same, but it felt… warped. Like a song you knew well played a few keys too low, breath baited while you tried to figure out what was off. 

“Good morning,” you replied, offering a soft smile.”You’re right on time, that’s good for business.”

He gives a small nod in response. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. No trace of the quiet fondness you’d seen Saturday. No lingering look, no hush of amusement curling up at the corner of his mouth. Odd, you think. Still, you press on and gesture toward the front desk, the coffee waiting there.

“I got you something, no cream or sugar. I took a gamble,” your fingers grasp the cup and you extend it out to him. His eyes flick to the drink, then to you. There’s a beat of hesitation before he steps forward, his fingers brushing against yours to take the offering. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, unreadable.

You shrugged, smile unwavering as you try to keep it light.

“I know. Dinner might need a little more planning,” you reply, half a shrug rolling through your shoulder. That earned you something. His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s better than nothing. 

Joel shifts his weight to his other leg and jerks his chin towards the back. “I should get started, get outta your hair.” 

Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you nod without protest. He doesn’t wait for you to follow, or respond. Just turns and walks down the hallway like it made him ill to be in your presence. You swallow hard, the anticipation you’d felt all day yesterday subsiding. It felt more like dread now – your worst fears starting to be confirmed. You take a deep breath and let your head fall back, willing away the stress building with little accomplishment. 

Unwilling to let the distance, physical or otherwise, settle too thickly between you, you follow him a few moments later. He’s already crouched by the sink, sleeves pushed up and wrapped around his elbows a bit too tight, not that you were complaining. His tool bag lay open at his side, the cup of coffee sitting to the left of the faucet. He doesn’t look up when you settle in the doorway, just keeps fidgeting with the knobs and studying the sluggish flow. You try not to let your disappointment come through your voice. 

“So, gotta toss the whole thing out or can it be saved?” You ask, trying to get a peek at whatever it was he was doing. 

“Pipe’s just backed up with debris. Gotta pull it apart, clean the whole thing out.”

You don’t respond, caught up in watching his hands reach for whatever tool he was looking for. Joel sits back on his heels and starts unscrewing the pipe beneath the basin with a practiced ease. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, veins taut beneath sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but follow the motion, mesmerized by the quiet focus. His knees brace on the tiled floor as he leans in closer, the worn cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his back. You can hear the faint grunt of exertion as he loosens something stubborn, followed by the hollow clatter of old water draining through rusted metal. 

Joel grunts something under his breath, more to himself than to you, and reaches for a cloth, wiping his hands absently before adjusting the trap. He’s all concentration; jaw set and brows drawn. Despite the task in front of him, he knows you’re watching. He can feel it. 

“Don’t know how anything was getting through this,” he says without looking up. He dives into an explanation of what was keeping the drain moving so slow, but your brain is turning to mush the longer you stare. You hum in acknowledgment, but the words barely register. All you can think about is the way his fingers move, capable and deliberate. 

Joel finally glances up at you, but you’re unaware. His eyes linger, still no smile on his lips as he tracks your gaze down. He clears his throat and your eyes snap up, like a camera flash freezing you in the act of wanting.

There’s no teasing in his expression – no smug lift of his mouth or arch of his brow. Just… quiet. You try to speak, some flimsy defense, a redirect. But your throat is dry, your mouth clumsy with words you don’t trust yourself to say aloud. Suddenly you realize how he must have felt on Saturday. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of it. Of you. Then his head is shaking and he turns back to his work, but his hands aren’t as steady now. 

“Just here to fix the sink,” he mutters. It sounds like a rehearsed mantra he’d created to keep himself in line. 

“What?” you say softly, watching his brows furrow. 

“You’re not makin’ this easy,” he says louder this time. You exhale slowly. 

“Did I –” The words stick for a moment, and you try again. “Was I too forward? If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head, slow and almost imperceptible. “No, it ain’t that.” For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’ll give you. He sets the wrench down with a quiet clink. "Thought if I kept my head down, didn’t look too long, it’d go away."

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “I didn’t mean to push,” you say quietly, unsure whether you’re trying to reassure him or justify yourself.

“You didn’t, it was easier to pretend I was just passin’ time staring at you from that bench,” The words weren’t bitter, but they weren’t easy, either. They landed with the weight of confession, like he hated admitting it almost as much as he needed you to hear it. 

“Sarah knew, can’t keep shit from her. Knew the very first day when I shelled out that money like that.” His thumb twitches on the edge of the counter, a small sign of Saturday Joel, the one who did let himself look too long, who smiled when you caught on.

Joel takes a breath and keeps fiddling with the sink. “And now, I’m here fixin’ a sink for a woman I can’t stop thinking about, trying not to say somethin’ I’ll regret.” 

The words fold into the stillness between you. You don’t move, don’t breathe either, it felt like. You’re not sure how much time passes before Joel pushes to his feet, still not meeting your eyes. You wish he’d just look at you, give you any indication as to where this was going. 

Joel turns his back to you and twists the faucet open, letting the water rush against his palms as he washes his hands. His focus stays on the steady stream, testing the pressure and checking his handiwork. Anything to avoid looking at you too soon. The running water stops and he stays there, both palms braced on either side of the sink. Then, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he turns to face you. When he does, there’s no mask left. His eyes have softened, and you’re standing face to face with the Joel you’d become fascinated with. His hands settle on his hips and he looks at you expectantly. 

“So tell me what you want me to do. ‘Cause I can’t keep standin’ in front of you like this if it’s not gonna mean something.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your throat is tight, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to get free, and the air between you has taken on a weight you don’t know how to carry. But you feel the shift – the choice he’s making, the seemingly timid and hesitant version of him long gone. You’re yelling at yourself to say something, to not throw away the fact he’s willing to present himself so openly to you.

You blink at him, pulse thrumming like a struck wire. “I don’t…you can do whatever you want.”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but refusal. Refusal to let you duck behind hesitation like you’d both been doing the last month. He needed a clear answer. Your weight shifts to your other leg as you take a shaky breath, stepping closer with quiet bravery. 

Your voice cracks a little when it comes. “I want you, Joel. But I don’t want you to regret it.” 

No flourish, just fact. 

He exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him. “No way in hell I’d regret this,” his voice dips lower. “But there’s no going back after this, no more pretending. You okay with that?” He lifts a hand and lets his fingers brush your jaw, slow and tentative, like he's still restraining himself. 

You were trembling, not visibly, but deep inside – where his words struck chords you’d kept hidden. Where all your what-ifs and daydreams had lived quietly until now.

You meet his eyes without flinching, and you nod.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, then he leans in, and you can feel your heartbeat throb between your legs. When he kisses you it’s not rushed. His mouth meets yours, warm and sure, a slow press of lips that steals the air from your lungs. 

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.

You don’t. You can’t. You shake your head, small and certain. “I don’t.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his palm presses to cradle the small of your back. You arch into him, realizing the room feels too small now. His body crowds yours as you feel him take a step forward, trying to guide you out of the bathroom. 

Joel pulls back just enough to speak before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick. “Not here.”

You both stumble a little in your own urgency, breathless as he leads you through the hallway into the open space. Your legs bump against one of the machines, but he never wavers. You get a bit paranoid, wanting to peek and make sure you were, in fact, alone. You wouldn’t survive something interrupting this. One part of the studio is cast in gold from the completed sunrise pouring through the window, the rest of the blinds pulled down. The cold from the mirror’s glass meets your back, sharp and startling – but Joel is there, warm and inviting.

Joel’s hands slide up under your tank top, the compressive material molding to your body. You feel his thumbs dig into your hips as he pulls away. Your eyes are closed as you relish in the fact you now know what he tastes like, a tinge of bitterness mixed in. You take it you were right about the coffee. 

“Take this off f’me,” he requests.

“Gonna need help,” you laugh softly, no time wasted as you move to pull it up, the stubborn fabric unforgiving in your haste. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel steadies your hands, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. You huff and shake your head, heat rising to your face. You let him take the lead and lift your arms up, momentarily blind as he pulls it up over your head. Joel tries not to stare, but like every time before, he fails. His touch grows more confident, more consuming. You feel it in the way his lips press in a pattern over your neck, the way his fingers deliberately press through your leggings right where you’re aching for him.

“These off too,” he mumbles, already peeling away at your matching leggings. He’d imagined taking these little outfits off of you so many times, and he wanted to take his time, but god he’d been waiting for what felt like years. 

Your breath hitches as he traces his fingertips over your back, body shuddering from the chills he left behind. The fact he’s still completely clothed doesn’t escape you, but a part of you likes that. The fact he’s here, in your space, staking his claim and undressing you. 

“Joel, wait –” You interrupt him, his eyes flickering up at you in confusion. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, about to stand back up and help you with your clothes. 

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your heart pounding. A few seconds of silence pass before you’re shaking your head. “No,” you whisper, “I just… I want to see you too.”

That earns a pause.

Joel’s gaze softens, something tight in his expression releasing as his hands still at the curve of your hips. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice warm. You nod again. 

You reach for him as he moves, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. The fabric drags up over rigid muscle and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes rake over him – the strength in his chest and arms, the scattered scars, the way his shoulders stiffen with your eager eyes drinking him up. 

You press your palms to his bare chest and feel his heart kick. Then, he takes your wrists and turns you towards the mirror, hovering behind you. His hands trail down your sides, thumbs tracing the skin just beneath your ribs before they settle on your hips. You try not to squirm when you feel his hand dip lower. One is running down the length of your back, the other nestling between your legs. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing small circles as your body tenses. He feels it, and glances up at you like he knows you’re in your head. 

You hear your name and look at him through the mirror, lips parted in awe that he was touching you. “I’ve got you, okay? Just relax,” he tells you again. His voice is rough, breath warm against the back of your neck. The rough denim of his jeans scratches against your bare skin when he ruts into you, and you feel all of him – even through the thick fabric. You’re unprepared when you feel his fingers circle your entrance before they’re slipping in up to his knuckles, slow and brushing over every ridge. You gasp and dig your palms into the wooden barre. 

“Look how fuckin’ beautiful you are,” he murmurs behind you, his hand steady at your hip.

His words aren’t lost on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t watch the way your mouth parts with every stuttering breath as he works you open after months of being touch starved. You squeeze your eyes shut and dip your chin down, flustered, but he notices.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, the hand at your hip shifting to your jaw, moving your chin back up to center. “Let me see that pretty face, wanna see you feel it.”

It’s not a demand – it’s a plea. Joel thinks he should slow down, ease up and let you process what’s happening. But you’d stirred something in him that he thought had gone dormant for the foreseeable future, and he just couldn’t get enough of you. 

A noise of protest sounds from your lips but you listen anyway, looking at yourself and taking in your already disheveled appearance. Then, you look at Joel. Your eyes meet again, and despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, he looks back at you with a tenderness you’ve never received. 

“Fuck, Joel –” you whimper, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers. “Feels so good…” Your hips stutter, back arching as you start to match the push and pull of his fingers. Each stroke is measured, not hurried, like he’s trying to memorize how you come undone. 

He feels your pussy clench around his fingers and groans, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes it was his cock. But this was about you, not him. He listens for every catch in your throat, every tiny twitch of your hips, adjusting his touch like he’s tuning an instrument.

And God, do you feel it – the dragging weight of his fingers as they bury inside you. The nights chasing this feeling felt ridiculous, your own fingers no match for his. Your grip falters on the barre as he moves with unshakable focus. Not a single part of you feels untouched; not with his breath ghosting over your ear, his hand buried between your legs like he belongs there. 

Your thighs clench and Joel can feel it before you say anything, the sound of your moans like music to his ears. Two thick fingers stay buried inside you, curling with maddening precision. They move just right, pressing into the soft spot so deep in your pussy it makes your whole body lurch forward. He tightens his grip on you and chuckles in realization. 

“Shit – there, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself, and the pads of his fingers rub slow, earnest circles against that soft spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. He watches you unravel in the mirror, lips parted, skin flushed, straining toward every stroke. 

Your breath stutters when he curls his fingers again, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You’re crazy,” you say with a weak laugh, and Joel shakes his head in amusement. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Cause of you.” His fingers go impossibly deeper, like he’s carving his name into you. The mirror captures everything: your parted lips, the desperate crease in your brow, the flushed skin blooming over your chest. His hand never falters, fingers relentless now, faster, messier, wetter – until you cry out, your whole body seizing against him.

Your knees buckle but he’s already there, holding you up as your orgasm rolls through you, wave after wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans into your skin, biting down gently as if to anchor himself through it.

“Attagirl,” he growls, helping you through the end of it, slower now. “Jesus, baby. Feel so fuckin’ good, makin’ a mess all over my hand.” You sag in his arms, panting, skin damp and shining in the low studio light. Joel doesn’t let go, holding you to his chest.

You’re in a haze, acutely aware of Joel guiding you to sit on the nearest reformer slowly, letting you catch your breath. The carriage shifts under your weight, none of the springs keeping it steady, making you brace yourself on the frame. Immediately, his brow knits.

“How the hell d’you keep this thing from moving?” he mumbles, frowning down at the machine like it’s insulted you.

You let out a faint, dizzy laugh. “You’ve gotta put the springs on, all of them keep it pretty still,” you explain.

Carefully, he reaches under the carriage, fingers brushing over the cold metal until they find the spring hooks. One by one, he pulls them forward with quiet effort, securing them into place until the carriage holds steady. 

“What about you?” you ask, reaching out to latch your fingers into the top of his jeans, wanting to return the favor. Before your hands make any progress, he catches your wrist firmly.

“I’m okay, don’t need that from you, sweetheart.” Joel shakes his head once, his eyes scan over your body like he’s already thinking about what to do with it next. You open your mouth to insist, but the moment falters when he interrupts you.

“Lie down for me.” 

You blink at him, still swimming in the aftershocks. “What?”

He says it again, more pointed this time. “Lie back, on the machine, baby.” 

There’s no edge in his voice – just heat, thick and steady, anchored by the quiet rasp of someone who’s holding back far more than he’s letting on. His palm slides to your lower back, coaxing you down gently until your spine meets the carriage. He moves then, straddling the machine and pausing when it groans under his weight. 

“This thing gonna hold me?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“It’ll hold,” you reassure him. He hums skeptically, but settles down anyway, his back to the footbar. You watch him adjust, and it wrecks you a little. Because you’re not sure when this stopped being about flirting, or power, or just the thrill of wanting someone impossible. You want him. Want him when he’s steady and quiet and full of things he’ll never say out loud; and also like this, in power and unafraid.

“What’s that move you do?” he asks suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He asks like he’s been saving the question. You blink, caught off guard and he clarifies. “The one with your ass up in the air.”

You lift your head from the headrest and laugh, eyebrows arched up. “You mean bridging?” 

“That’s the one,” he drags out the first word, his hands running up your calves. You smile knowingly. 

“Knew that one would stick, you liked that move, huh?” you ask, and Joel smirks. 

“Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he admits, laughing with you. You both trail off and you meet his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. His gaze lingers, heavy and fixed – and that’s when you realize where he was going with the line of questioning. His thumbs skim the soft crease behind your knees, pulling up gently and you feel your breath hitch. 

“Do it for me,” he says, almost pleading. He guides both of your legs up on top of his shoulders, and you’re completely stunned. How can you say no to him? 

You breathe a little hard from your nose amusedly and lift your hips from the platform with slow precision. You shake a little this time, legs still aching from your first orgasm, but anything Joel wanted – you would give it to him. Your spine peels from the carriage in a slow roll, just like you’ve done a thousand times. You remember when you did it in class, intentionally putting on a show for him while he struggled with his own desire in the corner of the studio. 

His mouth parts slightly, eyes dragging over the new shape of you; exposed, tilted, perfectly on display for him. He’d seen it from that bench in the corner, but now up close, he was losing his mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You go silent, every nerve pulled tight like the springs beneath you. 

And then he leans in, no more hesitation, like he’s got something to prove – with his mouth, this time.

The first brush of his tongue is featherlight, but it’s enough to steal every thought from your head. When he hears you whine, he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and considerate, like he’s memorizing the taste of you in case he never gets to have this again. He stays there, focused, with one hand steady at your hip while he wraps his lips around your swollen center, a soft cry echoing this time. 

“Jesus, Joel –” you choke out, head thrown back, both hands clutching the side rail. 

He pulls back just a touch, teasing now, cruel in the only way Joel can be, with praise that tears your heart open. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” his voice is thick and guttural. “Knew you’d sound pretty like that when I finally got my mouth on you,” he tells you between soft kisses to your thighs, his beard scratching the skin.

Before you can reply, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue parts you, warm and searching. Your hips twitch under his hold, toes curling as he pulls you tighter against his mouth. Thankfully he knows you can’t hold yourself up, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other supporting you just under your tailbone. Your body bows, thighs tensing around his neck. 

You say his name repeatedly, chest heaving, and that only seems to drive him deeper. His hand brushes behind your knee and he grunts, sending a vibration through to the pit of your stomach. He draws circles, then suckles gently, alternating pressure until your grip on the frame turns white-knuckled. He hums low in his throat, pleased with the way you respond, the way you buck your hips towards him. Joel’s in a trance, his brows furrowed with concentration while he devours you. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, the air in the studio starting to feel stuffier. His only reply is a soft growl of encouragement and the tightening of his grip as he pulls you closer, lapping up your wetness like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for the chance. Like you’re the center of the fucking universe. 

He pulls back just enough to talk, his voice rough as gravel and thick with praise. “So fuckin’ good, can’t get enough of you.” The sound of his voice alone makes you whimper, head tilting back. 

“Please don’t stop,” the words tumble out before you can catch them, raw and aching with need. They crawl under his skin and burrow there, hopefully for a long time, he thinks. Hopes. The coil in your belly tightens with every pass of his tongue, your body beginning to shake for the second time. He hums, hungrily and intentional, sending a pulse through you that makes your vision blur. You’re back on that ledge faster than you anticipate. 

“Joel,” your voice breaks, a warning more than anything. 

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause. If anything it only fuels him. His mouth seals over your clit while two fingers slide into you again, immediately finding your sweet spot after memorizing it like scripture. 

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head, but his grip holds you firm – one hand on your ass now, the other working in time with his mouth, and it’s too much. Too good. The pressure builds fast, white-hot and blinding. He groans again, savoring it, and the vibration is what does it.

Even when your cum coats his tongue he doesn’t stop, holding you through it, mouth and hands steady, guiding you through each convulsion until all that’s left is the soft, trembling aftermath. Your leg threatens to slide from his shoulder, but he steadies it, finally pulling back only when your head falls back onto the headrest with a thump. 

When your eyes flutter open, he’s already there; watching you like you’re the only person in the world. Lips glistening, eyes dark and endlessly soft. There’s nothing cocky in his expression, just something reverent – like he’s grateful to have been the one to bring you there. You force yourself to sit up, dabbing at your forehead with the back of your hand. Joel’s hands are there at your sides, helping you up. 

There's too much to say, too much swelling in your chest that you’re not ready to name. So instead, you let your fingers curl around his shoulder, dragging him in close, and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips so you can taste yourself on him. You groan against his mouth, and Joel grunts, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to press you back down and fuck you right there on the reformer – if that was even possible. 

“You with me?” he asks, voice low, hands cupping your face now.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Fuck – I mean, yes. I’m with you.” You correct yourself with a shake of your head, and Joel smiles. 

“Good,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when your fingers trail to his waistband again. This time, he lets you pop the button free and his shoulders relax when the zipper follows. His breath catches when your hand brushes against him through the fabric, warm and straining – waiting for you. The sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

“Lift a little,” you whisper, and he does without question, just enough for you to ease the denim down his hips. His legs spread slightly for balance and you move to straddle him, calves pressing against the wooden frame. 

You shift forward on your knees, reaching between your bodies until your fingers graze his cock. He’s already hard, sucking in through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze. With your hips lifted you guide him to your dripping core slowly, pushing only the tip through your slick folds. 

Joel’s hands wander; up your back, on your waist, to your thighs – like he doesn’t know where to touch first. They only settle with his fingertips digging into your hips the moment you begin to sink down, lips parting as you relish in the stretch. It isn’t too uncomfortable, thanks to Joel’s incredibly thorough services. His hands are there, guiding you not to take too much at once, letting you go at your own pace despite the overwhelming temptation to fill you up the rest of the way. 

“Here,” he mumbles, helping you angle your hips. You wrap your fingers around the footbar behind him for balance, eyes locked on his as you take the rest of him. He’s big, thick and hot and perfect. You both exhale like it’s a relief to finally, finally feel this. The moan he lets out is guttural and desperate. You grin, teeth dragging lightly across your bottom lip as you start to move. A quick drag up, a slow slide back down onto his cock. His breath shudders out, and you feel that he’s still tense, like he's holding himself back. 

“Christ,” he rasps, and you can feel his thighs tense under yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

The words make you clench around him, his head tipping back for a second before he’s looking at you again, unable to miss another second of it. “Don’t stop,” he begs, and you don’t – you can’t.

Your rhythm stays steady; a slow grind that leaves you gasping each time you take him a little deeper. Your grip tightens on the footbar, the metal cool under your palms, grounding you as the pressure builds. He lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace, but his hands never stop roaming; thumb stroking your thigh, palm sliding up your back, hands guiding you  while you tuck your face into his neck. The closeness allows you to feel every breath he takes, hear every strained noise he makes. 

The reformer creaks beneath you with each rise and fall of your hips, the tension cords beneath the frame stretching in tandem. His mouth grazes over your collarbone, warm and wet, and then without warning, he starts to fuck up into you. It makes you sit up straight, and Joel’s hand comes up to your neck, his fingertips grazing your throat. He’s all concentration as he looks between your bodies, watching you take him like it’s his last chance. 

In his fervor, you feel his fingers dig into the side of your neck, but he’s so absorbed in you he doesn’t notice. His fingers flex softly at your pulse like he’s feeling how hard your heart’s racing. Your legs work to meet his thrusts, one of your hands leaving the bar to rest on his shoulder. The muscle contracts each time he moves, and the sight of him so focused, jaw tight and brows tense, makes you melt. Your pace quickens, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in your ears. 

And then, his fingers tighten. Your breath catches in your throat, and your pussy clamps around him even tighter like it’s been waiting for it. Joel feels it instantly. His eyes rip up to look at you, catching the pleasure written in all of your features. 

“Oh, you like that, baby?” he asks, brow ticking up in amusement at yet another discovery. You can only nod in response, breath slipping out in a fractured moan.as he continues bucking up into you, deep and sharp. 

The pressure in your belly builds fast again, molten and consuming. His hand tightens, just holding you there and squeezing the sides in a way that makes your mouth practically water. A firm reminder that he’s the one guiding you now, that he’s been controlling you this whole time, bending you to his will. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel speaks up, voice rough at the edges. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice rough at the edges. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel keeps his grip on your throat secure. 

“I can’t –” you whine, the words fragile and disbelieving, more plea than protest. Your body is heavy with the weight of sensation, the sharp edge of overstimulation skimming close to pain, but it only winds you tighter.

“Yes, you can.” His lips brush your cheek, his words sounding more like a demand than encouragement. “Ain’t so easy when someone else is in charge of your breath, is it?” His voice is thick with satisfaction, power lacing every syllable, and something about the way he’s so in control, so certain – it only makes you burn hotter. 

You laugh, breathless and wild, but it turns into a whimper as he bucks into you again, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers at your throat – and the tension snaps. Your head falls forward against his shoulder as your body jerks in his lap, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A third orgasm rips sharp and stunning through you, a strangled cry lost against his skin. Your remaining grip on the footbar slips, both hands squeezing his shoulders instead, clinging to him. 

Joel holds you through it, easing the pressure at your throat immediately, his other hand stroking up your spine as he murmurs against your neck. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “So good. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your whole body sags into his, boneless and raw. He cradles your back like you’re something precious, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. You can feel he’s still inside you, still hard – but he makes no move, doesn’t chase his own release. He just holds you. You lift your head slightly, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with something that guts you. .

“Still with me?”

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… need a second.”

“Take all the time you need,” Joel says earnestly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smile, heart hammering, breath still shaky. You press your forehead to his, grounding yourself. His touch never falters, just warm and steady like an anchor. He notices you’re still shaking and traces shapes on your back, trying to assist. 

“Gotta breathe, darlin’," and you do, letting him coax air back into your lungs one breath at a time. His thumb strokes your cheek in soothing circles. His cock is still pulsing inside you with need, begging for something he’s ignoring. 

You shift slightly in his lap, your thighs still trembling but pliant now. You feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him, slow and gentle. It makes him grunt softly in disapproval, his head shaking once. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Let me,” you whisper, insisting. Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, forehead creased with something deeper than pleasure. He cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. 

Your hips roll forward with care, not rushed this time, but steady; giving him what he wouldn’t take for himself. His hands twitch on your hips, not guiding anymore, but bracing. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hold on, trying not to break too fast.

“Took such good care of me, you deserve it too,” you say, barely audible above your shared breath. That undoes him. He finally lets go, hips thrusting up into you again in slow, devastating strokes. You meet each one, nails digging into his shoulders as you let him bring himself to the edge with your pussy. You're still reeling from your own high, breathing through it the best you can.

You feel the tension winding tighter in him, the way his breath falters, each sound caught between a groan and a prayer. His hand trails down, settles at the base of your spine, pressing you down to meet each thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m –” His voice breaks off as his head falls back, jaw slack. You ride him through it, holding him steady, giving him the same patience he gave you.

“Give it to me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It’s a full-body thing; a shudder that takes him over completely, pulling him under in waves. He lets out a broken moan as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, one arm banding tight around your back while the other cradles the side of your face. You stay with him through it, stilling only when he does, pressing your lips gently to the line of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his temple. 

His heart is racing. So is yours. Joel lets out a long, shuddering exhale, forehead dropping to yours again. His voice is soft, breathless. “Fucking hell,” a shaky laugh catches in his throat. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

You smile, stroking a hand through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “The feeling is mutual.” 

His arms still holding you close, bodies still joined and glittering with sweat. 

“Was that three?” he asks after a beat, eyes fluttering open. You nod with a faint, dazed grin, and he groans, like that knowledge alone is enough to destroy him all over again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

It makes you pause, your forehead touching his. “Sorry?” you echo. “If that’s what sorry looks like, I hope you mess up more often.”

He smiles, corners of his eyes scrunching and you can’t help but stare. For just a moment, the world outside of the studio doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Neither of you moves, not wanting to be anywhere else. 

Joel breaks the silence with a tap on your thigh, motioning for you to stand up. He helps you, steadying you until you find solid ground again. You’re still dazed, but start to pull your clothes back on – the thought of his cum filling you makes your heart soar. You catch him watching you like he’s half expecting you to disappear.

He dresses himself while you spray down the machine, unable to bite back the smile on your face. Every damn class, he’d be imprinted on your mind, the machine taunting you with reminders and flashbacks. Then, as you toss the towel in the bin, you hear him speak behind you.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Talkin’ like this, feeling like this. But I swear, it’s been damn near impossible to think of anything else lately.” His brows twitch like he wants to smile more, but something vulnerable tugs at the edge instead.

You close the distance, instantly reaching up to caress the edge of his jaw, catching the coarse stubble there. You can see something hovering over him, almost like he’s still waiting for permission from you, to have you outside of the studio walls. 

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you say reassuringly. “I just didn’t want to pretend like it wasn’t there. And… I really like you.” You admit it out loud, and he lets out a stunned chuckle. He’s floored, not quite able to believe you’re equally as fascinated with him as he’s been with you. 

“I really like you too,” he says, quiet but sure. “More than I probably should.”

That earns a real laugh from you. “We’re way past shoulds, don’t you think?”

He huffs, amused but in agreement. His head dips just enough to brush his lips against your forehead. 

“Should’ve said this before I had you ridin’ me on that damn machine,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the reformer, like the memory alone short-circuits his brain a little. “You maybe... wanna get dinner sometime?” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face for a second.

You smile so wide it hurts. “Joel Miller,” you chide, tilting your head, “Are you asking me on a date?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in that way that already feels like home. “Think I might be.”

You lean in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then yeah, I’d like that.”

That charged, delicate silence that always hummed between you two is still there, but neither of you feels strange about it now. He squeezes your hand once reluctantly before stepping back, going to the bathroom to collect his tools – but not before you give him your phone number. 

As he opens the door, sunlight spilling into the quiet studio, he pauses with one hand on the frame. He glances back at you, lighter now, like the weight he’s been carrying finally lifted.

“See you Saturday?”

You meet his eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, light but certain. 

“See you Saturday.”

Joel steps through the front door just after lunchtime, toolbox in hand, shirt wrinkled and clinging faintly to his back. He’s quieter than usual, like he’s moving through a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from.

Sarah doesn’t look up from the couch right away – she’s mid-scroll, headphones half on, but her eyes flick toward him when the door shuts.

“How’d fixing the sink go?” she asks, one brow arched.

Joel sets the toolbox down on the floor with more care than necessary, grunting as he stands up straight. “Went fine,” he says plainly, avoiding her eyes. 

Sarah’s eyes narrow, and before she can comment back, they zero in on the back of his shirt: the tag sticking out and wiggling as he walks past the air conditioner to the kitchen. A slow, knowing smile takes over. 

“Your shirt’s inside out,” she remarks, smirking triumphantly when Joel freezes mid-step. 

His hand lifts automatically to the back of his shirt, fingertips brushing over the telltale edge of the tag. He frowns, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God damn it.” 

Sarah watches him retreat toward the stairs, his inside-out shirt like a billboard for guilty as charged. His boots thud heavily against each step, and before disappearing, he throws a glance over his shoulder; a sharp look that’s more of a warning than denial.

“Don’t start,” he mutters gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she chirps, clearly enjoying herself. The bathroom door clicks shut a second later. Sarah barely holds in her laughter as she pulls out her phone, putting the other headphone back over her ear. She opens her text messages and clicks on the thread with Vic. 

dude... i think my dad just hooked up with our pilates teacher.

[wordsofwhimsy]

✩°｡⋆ ⲉⲩⲉ⳽ τⲟ τⲏⲉ ⳽қⲩ ⋆｡°✩

✩°｡⋆ⲥⲏⲇⳏτⲉⲅ τⲱⲟ ⋆｡°✩

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x fem!Original Character

Warnings: None

Tags: Slow burn

Word Count: 3,070

Synopsis: Mark brings dinner for the family that he (unintentionally) screwed during a fight. What starts as an awkward attempt at an apology quickly spirals into something much stranger when Clementine picks up a signal, gears up, and Mark gets pulled into her orbit.

a/n: i *technically* have four chapters of this written out but keep going back and rewriting them so it’s like it doesn’t even matter T-T bruh it’s lowkey hard as hell to write for an OC LMAO like that’s twoooo characters that i need to keep… in character? oh boi

read chapter one ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

Mark’s POV

Mark flew low, arms tighter than usual at his sides, the wind sharp against his face. The town below blurred in slow waves—rows of tired rooftops, rusted-out cars, cracked pavement stitched with weeds.

Didn’t look like much.

Didn’t look like damage.

A few scorched trees. One telephone pole knocked sideways. Some busted siding. He’d done worse. Way worse. Cecil probably wouldn’t even mention this one. There wouldn’t be a report. Not even a glance. Too small to matter.

But the street with the crater?

That was someone’s whole block.

That was a dead-end road where a kid couldn’t ride his bike. Where a delivery driver wouldn’t risk his tires. Where a telescope had to be dragged back from the railing so it wouldn’t get knocked off the edge when a superhero touched down too hard.

It was nothing from up here. Just a crack in the surface. Like the Earth had flinched and no one noticed.

But someone had noticed.

Mark’s jaw tensed. He shifted his flight path slightly and kept his speed even.

He couldn’t stop seeing it. That kid’s face. The idea of him eating moldy pizza. The girl’s voice, dry as desert heat, saying they were supposed to get Chinese food.

Supposed to.

He never thought much about what happened to the people who lived near his fights. Not really. Not beyond the usual "hope they’re okay" instinct as he flew away. Because it always got cleaned up. Right?

He thought of his own house growing up. The busted window that got fixed overnight. The time half the fence got flattened in a chase, and it was standing tall again by morning. The new roof. The repairs. The bills no one ever saw.

His family had connections. They had money.

Even when things got bad—really bad—there was always someone to patch the damage, smooth it over, make it look like nothing ever happened.

But these people? They didn’t have a hotline. They didn’t have Omni-Man’s name on their lease.

They just… lived with it.

Ducking past exposed wires. Side-stepping potholes. Heating up week-old pizza and calling it dinner.

Mark exhaled slowly and angled downward, neon lights blooming in the distance. Szechuan Palace was still open.

He didn’t know what he was going to get, but he was going to bring them dinner.

And it wasn’t going to be pizza.

The bell over the door chimed softly when he stepped inside.

Bright light. Cheap tile. The clatter of a wok somewhere in the back. The front counter was cluttered with laminated menus, a faded tip jar, and a lineup of dusty fortune cats with one paw forever raised.

No one looked up right away. Just the low hum of fluorescent bulbs and the hiss of something frying.

Mark stood awkwardly near the register, his boots still caked in dust. His shoulders were tight, suit stiff where the blood had dried. He didn’t belong here. Not like this.

“Give me a second,” called a voice from the kitchen. “Be right there!”

Mark nodded instinctively, even though no one was looking.

His gaze drifted. Up, across the grease-streaked glass, to a photo hanging near the ceiling.

Omni-Man. Smiling. Shaking hands with the owner, both of them beaming like something out of a small-town campaign poster. There was a “Thank You for Your Service” plaque underneath.

Mark stared at it for a beat too long.

The door to the kitchen swung open. A short man in a stained apron stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Alright, what can I get you?”

Mark blinked and tried to reorient. “Uh—beef lo mein. Orange chicken. Two egg rolls. Fried rice. Large.”

The man nodded, already scribbling it down. “Big appetite.”

Mark gave a thin smile. “Not just for me.”

The cashier didn’t ask questions. Just rang it up and disappeared behind the swinging door again.

Mark shifted his weight and exhaled, eyes drifting back up to the photo. The weight in his chest didn’t budge.

—

Clem’s POV

Chris flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

“I thought this guy was supposed to be super fast,” he grumbled, staring at the ceiling like it would give him answers. “What’s he doing, growing the rice himself?”

Clementine didn’t look up from her laptop. “Thought I taught you better than to get your hopes up.”

Chris scoffed. “He literally said 'don’t let me eat the pizza'. That’s basically a promise.”

“He never actually said he was bringing anything back.”

“Yeah, well, it was kinda implied.”

Clementine gave a small, tired shrug. Her fingers tapped at the keys, entering bits of information only she could make sense of into a spreadsheet. “Welcome to adulthood. Implications don’t mean shit.”

Chris rolled his head toward her, half-off the armrest. “So what, he just dipped for fun? Came down here, wrecked our street, roasted my dinner, and peaced out?”

“That’s literally exactly what happened,” she muttered, eyes still locked on the screen.

He groaned, pulling the throw pillow over his face. “I should’ve eaten the pizza.”

“No one’s stopping you.”

“Yeah, but now I can’t. Because technically he said not to, and if he does come back, he’ll be all disappointed and heroic about it.”

Clementine finally glanced over, expression unreadable. “So eat it and lie.”

Chris peeked out from under the pillow. “I’m twelve, Clem. Not heartless.”

She let out a sound that was almost akin to a laugh before turning back to the screen. A low hum filled the room—her laptop fan trying not to catch fire. Outside, the wind kicked up again. Loose gravel scraped against the railing.

Chris perked up. She didn’t.

Still no sign of Invincible.

A minute passed. Then two.

The gravel settled. The wind died.

Chris sat up slightly. “…You think maybe something happened to him?”

“Statistically? Something’s always happening to him.”

“Yeah, but like—what if this time he got distracted mid-flight or pulled into some other fight and forgot?”

She glanced at him again. “Wow. So he's just like Dad.”

Chris wrinkled his nose. “Low blow.”

Clem didn’t apologize.

The cursor blinked. Her scan finished loading. A faint distortion pattern started flickering to life in one corner—barely visible, but real. She leaned in, frowning.

It wasn’t strong. Barely registered on her feed. But it was there. A low-frequency pulse, just outside the range of normal interference. Not weather. Not tech. Not anything she could explain. Yet.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, enhancing the section, isolating the signal. She barely registered Chris mumbling something beside her. Didn’t even look up when he sat bolt upright.

“HELL YEAH!! HE’S BACK!!” He shouted, rolling off the couch and launching to his feet in a boyish, gangly motion. Clem’s eyes didn’t leave the glow of her screen.

Invincible stood awkwardly outside just beyond the glass, one hand cradling a greasy takeout bag, the other raised in a hesitant wave. His boots were cleaner now. Still a little ashy, suit still torn at the edges, but clearly he’d wiped down somewhere before returning. His hair was windswept. His expression tired. But he was there.

Chris flung the door open with a dramatic flourish, grinning so wide it hurt. “You actually came back!”

Mark gave a half smile with a small nod. “Yeah.”

Chris looked amazed. “Like, for real. You actually came back.” The way the kid said it—like that fact alone was shocking—settled somewhere low in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “I did.”

“And you brought food! Holy crap, is that lo mein?!”

“I didn’t know what you guys liked, so I kinda just ordered… everything.” He held the bag out like a peace offering.

Chris snatched it from his hands without thought. “You’re my favorite person now. I’m not even kidding.” His fingers worked excitedly to peel open the top. “Oh my god. Orange chicken. You got egg rolls too! Can you be my big brother?! I’ll trade in Clem!”

Clementine scoffed from her spot on the couch. “Please. He’ll be returning you for a refund before the day's over.”

Chris was unphased. “Yeah right. He like, totally gets me.”

Clementine didn’t even glance up, murmuring, “Is that so…?”

Chris turned back to the open balcony where Mark was still hovering, half-in, half-out of their world. “Ignore her. Come in! Seriously.”

Mark rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t wanna—”

“I’m Chris, by the way,” he added, wiping his hand on his shirt and extending it like they were in some formal receiving line. “That’s my sister, Clementine. She’s got the personality of a tax auditor but she’s cool. Kind of.”

Clementine didn’t respond.

Mark’s lips twitched, and he shook Chris’s hand, feet finally touching the ground. “I’m—”

“Invincible, I know,” Chris grinned, then hurried back to the couch with the food like the introduction was done. “Dude, come sit! You have to try these egg rolls, they’re like… I don’t even have words. Just sit!”

Mark hesitated.

Chris patted the cushion beside him like it was a throne. “C’mon, don’t be weird.”

And there it was—that look. Eagerness. That bright-eyed, please-hang-out-with-me kidness that made it impossible to say no. Mark didn’t even try. He stepped fully inside and settled on the edge of the couch, sitting a little stiff in his suit, still smelling vaguely like smoke.

Chris immediately shoved an egg roll in his direction. “Try it!”

Mark took it, bemused, and bit in. “Wow, that is good.”

“Right?!” Chris looked personally validated. “Told you.”

Clementine still hadn’t moved. Still typing. Still locked in, cross-legged with her laptop digging into her thighs. She hadn’t touched the food.

Mark glanced over, then leaned slightly her way. “I, uh… I brought enough for all three of… us...”

She didn’t look up. “Hm. Bit presumptuous, don't cha think?”

Chris let out a tiny groan, barely audible. “Clem…”

Mark just gave a small, sheepish smile. “Guess so.”

He didn’t say anything else, but set one of the cartons on the coffee table near her side, carefully within reach. A small gesture that said, if you want it, it’s there.

Chris was rambling on about how egg rolls were a “top five food of all time", but Mark wasn’t really listening.

Not entirely.

His eyes kept drifting behind the cover of his lenses. Past the coffee table. Past the food. To her.

Clementine hadn’t touched any of the takeout. Instead her fingers were flying across the keys with precision, flipping through dense pages of graphs, spreadsheets, and raw data readouts that made his eyes ache just trying to keep up. She scribbled something onto a napkin, muttered something under her breath, and didn’t once blink.

She looked... excited.

Not obviously. Not like Chris, who wore every thought on his sleeve. But there was a slight lean forward in her posture, a glint in her eyes while they burned into the screen—like she was onto something. Like the rest of the room had dropped away and she was one breath shy of cracking some cosmic code.

Mark shifted slightly, trying to get a better look at her screen. Just a peek.

...Still too far.

He angled again, slow and casual.

Still couldn’t see.

He took another bite of food to cover the fact that, behind those lenses, he was barely looking at anything but her laptop.

Clementine didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him. But after a moment, she said without turning her head, “You know you’re not subtle, right?”

Mark froze. “I—What?”

She clicked into something, typed something else. “You keep looking at my screen. Been counting.”

Chris’s brows furrowed, finally clocking the tension. “Wait—he has?”

Clem just nodded, really not all that interested even in what she herself was saying. “Every seven seconds.”

Chris spun toward Mark, jaw dropped. “Dude! You’re creeping on her data?!”

Mark held up a hand. “Okay, first of all, no. I was just… curious. It looked interesting.”

Clementine raised an eyebrow. “You know what else is interesting? Privacy.”

“Oooo you got scolded.” Mark was beginning to feel mortified, and a bit ganged up on.

“I-I really wasn’t—I mean, she—you just looked so invested—” He didn’t know who to even address at this point. Why was this harder than fighting a villain?

Chris gave a half-laugh, like now he was trying to smooth things over. “C’mon, Clem. Just let him see. You always say the best way to keep a secret is to let someone think they know it.”

She gave him a look like you absolute traitor.

Mark kept his tone light. “Seriously. Not trying to mess with anything. Just—wondering what’s got you so locked in.”

Her hand reached up to her laptop screen, angling it down and away from his line of sight. But still, cautiously, she said, “…Caught something.”

Chris’s eyes lit up. “Aliens?!” Clem just smirked, and Chris’s jaw dropped. “Wait, seriously?!”

“Probably not,” she responded dryly.

Mark tilted his head slightly. “I don’t understand… are you looking for aliens…?”

 “In a sense – although you worded it in the dumbest way possible.”

Chris let out a groan. “I’m so sorry bro she’s ruthless,” he garbled through a mouthful of food. Clem’s face recoiled in disgust.

“Gross. Close your mouth.”

Mark was reeling, trying to make sense of it all. “Okay, so, you're looking for them. But like, why? I mean, they’re kind of everywhere these days. Haven’t you heard of Martian Man?”

Chris was frantically cutting his hand across his throat, desperately trying to get Mark to stop while he was ahead.

“Oh,” Clem started, head quirked to the side in mock empathy. “You mean that poor soul of a man who’s been so disfigured through government testing that he’s been turned into something unrecognizable?”

“Hey, that’s not nice,” Mark said with a frown.

“What’s not nice is shadow agencies controlling people's lives—their thoughts through constant manipulation tactics and psyops.” She’d all but shut her laptop now, turned to face the stranger in her home with unnerving intensity. “And what’s worse is they strip the man of his true identity. He probably doesn’t even remember his life before they started mutating him. He’s so far down the rabbit hole he can’t even see the surface anymore.” She shook her head, as if she’d just explained some horrible tragedy. Which, to be fair, in her mind it was.

“Okay, so, are you saying that aliens are… what? Not real?”

Her smirk, still small, came back into place as she tapped a finger to her temple.

“Now you’re thinking. I was starting to wonder if there was even a brain behind those dumb goggles.”

“Cleeeem PLEASE, you’re embarrassing me!” Chris cried, head falling forward into the crook of his arm, egg roll still clutched preciously in his other hand. He lifted his face only enough to add on, “How are you gonna insult the guy who just brought us dinner?”

“I’m not insulting him – did I insult you, Invulnerable?”

“That’s not even his NAME Clem—c’mon!!”

But she’d already lost interest in the conversation, attention fully fixed back on her blinking monitor. Her thin black brows pinched together. If Mark had been in a clearer frame of mind, he would've clocked the shift immediately. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a subtle stillness—like all her internal gears grinded to a halt.

Her voice dropped, low and clipped. “Oh shit – it’s moving.”

Chris perked up, all previous talking points quickly forgotten. “Wait seriously?! They like, never move!!”

She didn’t give a response, her hands moving with precision across the keys and mousepad to try and isolate the signal spike.

Even Mark was getting invested, not able to fight against the energy of the room as he leaned forward. “Moving?”

“Moving. Not fixed. Migrating.” Suddenly she was up and walking to the entertain stand, rummaging through a draw before pulling out a folded paper map marked with highlighter circles and handwritten notes. “Could be shifting naturally. Could be mobile. Either way, I need eyes on it.”

“The telescope!” Chris chimed in, flooded with excitement.

“Not enough.” She was already smoothing the map out across the coffee table, comparing it to the data from her computer. “I need boots on the ground. Ridge-line elevation. Thermal scope if it gets colder out there. Portable scanner if I can find one that still holds a charge.”

Chris looked confused. “Wait, you’re going out there?”

“Obviously.”

He frowned. “Like, now now?”

Mark spoke up, voice careful. “It’s the middle of the night.”

She grabbed a flashlight from the end table and checked the batteries. “You think aliens run on business hours?”

Chris was still halfway chewing his last bite of lo mein. “Okay but like… we don’t even have boots.”

Clementine turned. Then her eyes slid toward Mark.

She hesitated, the war all but obvious in her expression—trust no one, believe nothing, but also: there’s literally a flying man with super strength sitting in your living room right now. The only real choice was obvious.

“You,” she said, pointing at him like that ‘you’ needed clarification. “Suit up.”

Mark glanced between her and Chris, as if genuinely wondering if she was addressing him. “But… I’m already suited.”

“Then get up. You’re coming with me.”

Chris’s mouth dropped. “Wait, what?!”

Clementine didn’t even pause. “You want to help? Then do it.”

Mark raised his brows, feeling a surge of anxiety and excitement.  More the former than the latter. “Uh, are you sure…? You don’t really seem to trust me all that much...”

“What are you saying? Some reason I shouldn’t trust you?” She clapped back, steadying her eyes on him only for a second before slipping her (i.e. her brothers) hoodie back on over her head. “You’re fast. You can lift heavy things. And if I do end up finding something hostile, I’d rather not go out there with a cattle prod and my kid brother.”

Did she just say cattle prod?

“I’m twelve," Chris muttered.

“Exactly.”

Mark stood slowly. “So is this you asking for help?”

Clementine narrowed her eyes. “This is me using resources strategically. Don’t get cute about it.”

Chris looked between them like he was watching the first ten minutes of a very weird rom-com. “Oh my god. Is this how flirting works now?”

Clem and Mark answered in perfect sync, not even glancing at each other.

“No.”

[probablyasocialecologist]

Today we are compelled to recognize that the historical importance of architecture lies not just in its cultural dynamism but also in the energy systems it has depended on, deployed, and facilitated. To put it plainly: in the modern era, buildings have been a primary means through which fossil fuels, once extracted from the earth, have been processed and made social, and then entered the atmosphere in the form of carbon emissions. Buildings regulate throughput; metabolize forces. Buildings are in essence processors of energy, from construction to occupation to demolition to decay. One imagines that a history of 20th-century architecture, perhaps written in 2050, will emphasize this carbon-processing capacity as much as (or more than) the debates over modernity and postmodernity, or the indulgent thrills of parametricism. The buildings that exist, the buildings we are designing now: all perpetuate the fossil fuel economy. Architecture can be understood as the cultural frame — an apologist, even — for this processing of fuel.

[...]

As the historian Dipesh Chakrabarty famously, though circumspectly, put it, “The mansion of modern freedom stands on an ever-expanding base of fossil fuel use.” This mansion — this architecture — was designed by and constructed for elites, reliant on exploited labor and extractive economies; yet the fossil fuel system, what author-ecologist Andreas Malm calls a “socio-ecological structure,” also brought freedom, or at least relative prosperity, to some. The modern world, the world of the Anthropocene, was made on the premise, the promise, of never-ending growth, a line of expansion ever upward. It is a forced line, all the same: every barrel of oil, every automobile, every mile of pavement, every carefully conditioned house promoting possibilities for some, constricting opportunities for others. And when we consider the future, and people in the future, our own selves and our descendants, we can see that the mansion is shabby, poorly constructed, value-engineered, patched up and rotting as floods and fires encroach. A mansion, a refuge, a prison.

[ladyeckland28]

Shadows Of Charming

A fan fiction by Ecky

Starring @samcrosfaith

**Disclaimer:**

This fan fiction story is a creative work set in the Sons of Anarchy universe, inspired by the original series created by Kurt Sutter. It contains mature content, including violence and strong language, in line with the tone of the show. Please enjoy this fan tribute for entertainment purposes only. Thank you for being part of this fan fiction journey in the world of Sons of Anarchy.

Part 1: Arrival

The night cloaked Charming in a veil of secrecy as Sam Crois Faith stepped off the Greyhound bus. Her combat boots hit the cracked pavement with a soft thud, the sound barely audible over the idling engine. She tugged her black leather jacket tighter around her slender frame, her piercing blue eyes scanning the deserted bus station.

Sam's heart raced, her breath shallow. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat, every rustle of leaves a potential pursuer. She knew Damien wouldn't give up easily. The thought of his rage, his possessive fury, sent a chill down her spine.

"You okay there, miss?" The bus driver's gruff voice startled her.

Sam forced a smile, tucking a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. "Yeah, thanks. Just... taking it all in."

The driver nodded, unconvinced. "Well, be careful. Charming ain't always as nice as its name suggests."

As the bus pulled away, leaving Sam alone in the pool of dim streetlight, she muttered, "Nowhere is."

With her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Sam set off into the unknown streets of Charming. The town slumbered, unaware of the storm she brought with her. Shop windows reflected her pale face and dark attire, a gothic apparition gliding through the night.

Sam had no destination in mind, just an desperate need to disappear. Each step took her further from Damien, but the invisible tether of fear still bound her. She walked for what felt like hours, the weight of her past growing heavier with each block.

As dawn began to bleed into the sky, Sam found herself in front of a garage. The sign read "Teller-Morrow Automotive Repair." A row of gleaming motorcycles caught her eye, their chrome accents reflecting the first rays of sunlight.

"You lost, darlin'?"

Sam whirled around, her hand instinctively reaching for the switchblade in her pocket. A man with wild, curly hair and piercing blue eyes regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. His kutte bore patches she didn't recognize, but the words "Sons of Anarchy" were clear.

"I... I'm new in town," Sam stammered, forcing her hand away from the concealed weapon. "Just walking."

The man's lips curled into a grin that was equal parts charm and menace. "Hell of a long walk. Sun's barely up." He extended a hand. "Name's Tig. And you are?"

Sam hesitated before shaking his hand. "Sam."

Tig's eyebrows rose. "Sam? That short for Samantha?"

"No," she replied curtly. "Just Sam."

Before Tig could respond, the rumble of motorcycles filled the air. Three bikes pulled into the lot, their riders eyeing Sam with obvious suspicion.

"Making new friends, Tiggy?" A blonde man with a neatly trimmed beard dismounted, his eyes never leaving Sam.

"Just being neighborly, Jax," Tig replied, his grin widening. "This here's Sam. Says she's new in town."

Jax approached, his swagger confident but cautious. "That right? What brings you to Charming, Sam?"

Sam's mind raced. She couldn't tell the truth, but lies had never come easily to her. "I... I'm just passing through. Looking for work, maybe."

A older man with scars on his cheeks stepped forward, his Scottish accent thick. "Aye, and what kind of work would that be? Don't recall many job openings for gothic princesses 'round here."

Sam bristled at the comment. "I can do anything. Mechanic, bartender, whatever pays."

Jax exchanged glances with his companions before turning back to Sam. "Why don't you come inside? We can talk about it over coffee."

It wasn't a request. Sam knew she was trapped, at least for the moment. She nodded, following Jax and the others into the garage's office.

The space was cluttered but organized, with a distinct masculine energy. Sam perched on the edge of a worn couch, hyper-aware of the exit points and potential weapons.

"So, Sam," Jax began, leaning against a desk. "Where you from?"

"Around," Sam replied vaguely.

The Scottish man snorted. "Aye, that's specific."

"Chibs," Jax said, a warning in his tone. He turned back to Sam. "Look, we don't mean to interrogate you. But Charming's a small town, and we like to know who's coming and going. Especially when they show up at our doorstep at dawn."

Sam's fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette. "I told you, I'm just looking for work. Is that a crime?"

"Depends on the kind of work," a new voice interjected. A woman entered the office, her presence instantly commanding attention. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on Sam. "You running from something, sweetheart?"

Sam's breath caught in her throat. This woman saw too much, knew too much with just a glance. "Aren't we all?" Sam countered, trying to keep her voice steady.

The woman's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Gemma. Jax's mother." She looked at her son. "Clay's looking for you. Club business."

Jax nodded, then addressed Sam. "Stay put. We're not done talking."

As the men filed out, Gemma took a seat across from Sam. The two women studied each other in tense silence.

"You're in trouble," Gemma finally said. It wasn't a question.

Sam's defenses crumbled under Gemma's penetrating gaze. "You have no idea."

Gemma leaned forward. "Try me, sweetheart. I've seen it all."

For a moment, Sam considered spilling everything. The words danced on the tip of her tongue – Damien, the drugs, the beatings, the desperate escape. But years of caution held her back.

"I can't," Sam whispered. "It's not safe. For anyone."

Gemma's expression softened, just slightly. "Honey, nothing in this life is safe. But sometimes, the right danger can keep you alive."

Before Sam could respond, the office door burst open. Jax stormed in, his face a mask of barely contained rage.

"We've got a problem," he announced. "Seems our new friend here brought some baggage with her. There's a guy tearing up Main Street, flashing your picture." He fixed Sam with a hard stare. "Want to tell us what the hell is going on?"

Sam's world tilted. Damien had found her. The fragile illusion of escape shattered, leaving only cold, familiar dread.

"I have to go," she gasped, bolting for the door.

But Tig blocked her path, his earlier friendliness replaced by steely resolve. "Not so fast, doll. You've got some explaining to do."

Trapped between Damien's approaching storm and the Sons' suspicion, Sam realized she had run out of options. The shadows of Charming had ensnared her, and there was nowhere left to hide.

****

Part 2: Revelations

Sam's eyes darted frantically between the Sons, searching for an escape route that didn't exist. Her chest tightened, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Hey, hey," Jax said, his tone softening as he noticed her distress. "Take it easy. We're not gonna hurt you, but we need answers. Now."

Gemma stood, placing a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sit down, sweetheart. Deep breaths."

As Sam sank back onto the couch, Chibs peered out the window. "Shite. We've got company, Jackie boy. Mean-looking bastard in a suit, asking questions at the gas station across the street."

Jax's jaw clenched. "Tig, take Juice and run interference. Keep him busy, but don't engage. I want to hear Sam's story first."

As Tig nodded and left, Jax pulled up a chair directly in front of Sam. His blue eyes, so like her own, held a mixture of concern and wariness. "Start talking."

Sam took a shaky breath. "His name is Damien Cross. He's... he was my boyfriend."

"The guy out there?" Jax pressed.

Sam nodded. "He's dangerous. More than you know. I had to get away."

Chibs scoffed. "Aye, we gathered that much, lass. What we need to know is how dangerous, and to whom?"

"To everyone," Sam whispered. She looked up, meeting Jax's gaze. "Damien isn't just some abusive ex. He's a drug lord, with connections spreading from here to Mexico and even Colombia."

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Jax and Chibs exchanged loaded glances.

"Jesus Christ," Gemma muttered. "You sure know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

Sam's eyes flashed. "I didn't choose this. I was a stupid kid who thought she was in love. By the time I realized what Damien really was, it was too late."

"How deep are you in this?" Jax asked, leaning forward.

"Deep enough to know too much," Sam replied. "Names, routes, contacts. Damien liked to brag when he was high. Said it turned him on that I knew how powerful he was."

Jax stood abruptly, pacing the small office. "Shit. This is bigger than we thought."

The door burst open, and a young man with a mohawk and tribal tattoos on his scalp rushed in. "Jax, we've got a problem. That guy? He's not alone. There's at least four more, armed, circling the block."

"Thanks, Juice," Jax said, his mind racing. "Get everyone inside. Now."

As Juice left, Jax turned back to Sam. "How many men does Damien usually travel with?"

"At least a dozen," Sam said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ex-military, mostly. Loyal to a fault."

"Christ," Chibs muttered. "We're outnumbered and outgunned."

Jax's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression darkening. "Clay wants us in church. Now." He pointed at Sam. "You're coming with us. Gemma, keep an eye on things out here."

Gemma nodded, her face a mask of grim determination. "Be careful, baby."

Jax led Sam through the garage and into a back room. A large wooden table dominated the space, carved with a reaper logo. Men in kuttes similar to Jax's filled the chairs around it, their faces a mix of curiosity and hostility.

An older man with graying hair and scarred hands sat at the head of the table. His piercing gaze locked onto Sam. "This the girl?"

"Yeah," Jax replied, guiding Sam to stand at the foot of the table. "Clay, we've got a situation."

Over the next few minutes, Jax laid out what they'd learned about Damien and his operation. The room grew increasingly tense as the full scope of the threat became clear.

Clay's eyes never left Sam. "And how do we know she's not working with this Damien? Could be a setup."

Sam's temper flared. "If I was working with him, why would I tell you about his operation? I'm trying to get away from him, not lure you in!"

"Watch your tone, little girl," Clay growled. "You brought this shitstorm to our doorstep. Far as I'm concerned, that makes you a threat."

"Clay," Jax interjected, his voice tight. "She's scared and alone. We need to focus on the real problem here."

A large man with a wild beard spoke up. "Jax is right. If this Damien's got the connections Sam says he does, we could be looking at a full-scale war. Mayans, Niners, everyone's gonna want a piece of this action."

"Opie's got a point," Chibs added. "We need to tread carefully here."

Clay leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Alright. Jax, take Tig and Chibs. Go talk to this Damien character. See what he wants."

"And Sam?" Jax asked.

Clay's lip curled. "She stays here. Insurance."

As the meeting broke up, Sam grabbed Jax's arm. "Please, don't hand me over to him. He'll kill me."

Jax's expression softened. "We're not gonna let that happen. Just sit tight, okay?"

As Jax left with Tig and Chibs, the remaining Sons eyed Sam warily. She hugged herself, feeling more alone than ever.

Outside, Jax approached the sleek black SUV parked across from Teller-Morrow. A tall man in an expensive suit leaned against it, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Damien Cross, I presume?" Jax called out.

The man's dark eyes glittered. "And you must be the local muscle. Jackson Teller, right? I've heard interesting things about you and your little club."

Jax's stomach churned. This man radiated danger in a way few others did. "Seems like you've done your homework. Want to tell me why you're tearing up my town?"

Damien's smile widened. "Come now, Mr. Teller. We both know why I'm here. Where is she?"

"Who?" Jax asked, feigning ignorance.

Damien chuckled, the sound devoid of any real mirth. "Please. Don't insult my intelligence. Samantha is mine. She belongs with me. I've come to take her home."

Tig stepped forward, his hand twitching near his gun. "Listen, asshole. I don't know who you think you are, but—"

In a flash, Damien had a pistol trained on Tig's forehead. "I'm the man who can have this entire town turned into a war zone with one phone call. So please, choose your next words carefully."

Jax raised his hands placatingly. "Easy. We're just talking here."

Damien lowered the gun but didn't holster it. "Indeed we are. So let's talk business, Mr. Teller. I know your club has certain... entrepreneurial interests. I'm willing to offer you a mutually beneficial arrangement. All I ask in return is Samantha."

"And if we don't have her?" Jax asked.

Damien's eyes hardened. "Then things will become very unpleasant for Charming. You see, I have friends in low places. The cartels owe me favors. It would be a shame if they decided to move their operations into this quaint little town."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and ominous. Jax's mind raced, weighing their options.

"Give me 24 hours," Jax finally said. "If she's here, I'll convince her to meet with you. Peacefully."

Damien studied Jax for a long moment before nodding. "24 hours. Not a minute more." He got into his SUV. "Oh, and Mr. Teller? Don't try to run. There's nowhere she can go that I won't find her."

As the SUV pulled away, Chibs turned to Jax. "What's the play here, Jackie boy?"

Jax ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know yet. But we need to find out more about this guy. Juice!"

The young intelligence officer jogged over. "Yeah, boss?"

"I need everything you can find on Damien Cross. Dig deep. I want to know every skeleton in his closet."

Back inside, Sam paced the small office like a caged animal. Gemma watched her with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion.

"You weren't entirely truthful before, were you?" Gemma asked.

Sam stopped pacing. "What do you mean?"

Gemma leaned forward. "You said you were just some stupid kid who fell for the wrong guy. But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

Sam's shoulders slumped. "How did you know?"

"Honey, I've been around long enough to spot a girl running from her past. And you? You're running from more than just a bad relationship."

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes. "I didn't have a choice. My parents died when I was 16. I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Damien... he seemed so kind at first. Offered me a home, a family."

Gemma's expression softened. "And by the time you realized what he really wanted, you were in too deep."

Sam nodded, wiping away a tear. "He made me help him. Said it was the price for his protection. I... I've done things, Gemma. Terrible things."

Before Gemma could respond, the office door opened. Jax entered, his face grim.

"We've got a problem," he announced. "Damien's given us 24 hours to hand you over, or he's bringing a cartel war to Charming."

Sam's face paled. "Oh God. I never should have come here. I've put you all in danger."

Jax shook his head. "This isn't on you. But we need to figure out our next move, fast."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Juice entered, his laptop tucked under his arm. "Jax, you're gonna want to see this."

They gathered around as Juice opened his computer. "I did some digging on Damien Cross. This guy's no joke. He's got ties to the Galindo Cartel, the Russian mob, even some rogue CIA operatives."

"Jesus Christ," Jax muttered.

"That's not all," Juice continued. "I found some chatter on the dark web. Seems Damien's been making moves lately, consolidating power. Word is, he's planning something big. Like, 'reshape the entire West Coast drug trade' big."

Sam's eyes widened. "The Avalon Project," she whispered.

All eyes turned to her. "What's that?" Jax demanded.

"It's... it's Damien's master plan," Sam explained, her voice shaking. "He wants to create a new pipeline, one that bypasses the traditional cartels. He's been working on it for years, calling in favors, making alliances."

"And you know the details of this plan?" Clay asked, having entered silently during Juice's explanation.

Sam nodded. "Some of it. Enough to destroy everything he's worked for."

A tense silence fell over the room. Finally, Clay spoke. "Alright. Here's what we're gonna do. Jax, you and Opie reach out to Alvarez. See if the Mayans have heard anything about this Avalon Project. Chibs, touch base with the Irish. If Damien's making moves this big, they might have some intel."

"What about me?" Sam asked quietly.

Clay fixed her with a hard stare. "You're gonna tell us everything you know about Damien's operation. Every safe house, every contact, every dirty little secret. If we're going to war, we need all the ammunition we can get."

As the Sons dispersed to carry out their tasks, Jax pulled Sam aside. "Hey. You okay?"

Sam let out a shaky breath. "No. Not really. Jax, I... I'm sorry for bringing this to your doorstep. I never meant for any of this to happen."

Jax's expression softened. "I know. But you're not alone anymore, Sam. We're gonna figure this out."

For the first time since arriving in Charming, Sam felt a glimmer of hope. But as she looked into Jax's eyes, she saw something that both thrilled and terrified her – a fierce protectiveness that mirrored Damien's in the early days.

"Be careful, Jax," she whispered. "Damien has a way of twisting people, of making them do things they never thought they were capable of."

Jax squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I can handle myself. You just focus on staying safe and remembering everything you can about Damien's operation. We're gonna need every edge we can get."

As Jax left to meet with the Mayans, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that she had set something in motion that would change Charming forever. The shadows were deepening, and she feared that by the time this was over, they might consume them all.

Outside, Damien Cross sat in his SUV, a phone pressed to his ear. "Yes, everything is proceeding as planned. The Sons took the bait, just as we anticipated." He paused, listening. "No, they don't suspect a thing. By the time they realize the true scope of the Avalon Project, it will be too late. Charming will be ours, and with it, the key to controlling the entire West Coast."

As he hung up, Damien's gaze fixed on Teller-Morrow Automotive. A cold smile played on his lips. The pieces were falling into place, and soon, very soon, he would have everything he wanted – Sam, Charming, and an empire that would make him the most powerful man in California.

The clock was ticking, and the fate of Charming hung in the balance.

****

Part 3: Unraveling Threads

The chapel of the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse had never felt so claustrophobic. Sam sat at the far end of the table, surrounded by leather-clad bikers whose expressions ranged from curiosity to outright hostility. Clay presided over the impromptu meeting, his scarred hands splayed on the wooden surface.

"Alright, darlin'," he growled. "Start talking. We need everything you know about this Avalon Project."

Sam took a deep breath, steeling herself. "The Avalon Project isn't just about drugs. It's about power. Total control over the West Coast's underworld."

Tig leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "How's he planning to pull that off? Guy's got balls, I'll give him that."

"It's a three-pronged approach," Sam explained. "First, he's been quietly buying up properties all along the coast – warehouses, docks, even small airfields. Second, he's been infiltrating local law enforcement and government offices, planting his people or blackmailing officials."

"And the third prong?" Jax prompted.

Sam's eyes met his. "Us. Or rather, clubs like yours. Damien believes that if he can control or eliminate the major MCs, he'll have a clear path to dominance."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Chibs was the first to break it. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The bastard's trying to build himself a bloody empire."

Clay's jaw clenched. "You're telling me this Damien character thinks he can just waltz in and take over? He's got another thing coming."

"You don't understand," Sam insisted, her voice rising. "Damien's not just some upstart drug lord. He's methodical, patient. He's been planning this for years."

Opie spoke up, his deep voice rumbling through the tension. "How do you know all this? No offense, but you don't strike me as the criminal mastermind type."

Sam's gaze dropped to the table. "I told you, Damien liked to brag when he was high. But... that's not the whole truth." She took a shaky breath. "I was more involved than I let on. Damien... he was grooming me to be his partner in all this. Said I had a mind for strategy."

The revelation sent a ripple of unease through the room. Jax's eyes narrowed. "Just how involved were you, Sam?"

Before she could answer, Juice burst into the chapel, laptop in hand. "Guys, we've got a problem. A big one."

Clay glared at the interruption. "This better be good, Juice."

"I've been monitoring police channels and dark web chatter," Juice explained, setting his computer on the table. "In the last hour, there's been a spike in activity. Looks like someone's making moves against every major MC on the West Coast. The Mayans just had one of their gun shipments seized. The Niners are dealing with a sudden influx of rival dealers in their territory."

Jax's eyes widened. "It's starting. Damien's making his play."

Sam nodded grimly. "The Avalon Project was always designed to be a swift, coordinated attack. Weaken all potential opposition simultaneously."

Clay slammed his hand on the table. "Goddammit! We need to shut this down now. Jax, get Alvarez on the phone. We need to coordinate with the Mayans. Chibs, reach out to the Irish. If Damien's disrupting gun shipments, they need to know."

As the Sons scrambled into action, Sam felt a hand on her arm. She looked up to see Gemma, concern etched on her face.

"Come on, honey," Gemma said softly. "Let's get you some air while the boys figure this out."

Outside, the California sun felt at odds with the darkness gathering around them. Sam leaned against the garage wall, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

"You're carrying a hell of a lot of guilt, aren't you?" Gemma observed, lighting her own smoke.

Sam exhaled a plume of smoke. "You have no idea."

"Try me," Gemma challenged. "I've seen my fair share of shit in this life."

For a moment, Sam considered brushing her off. But something in Gemma's eyes – a mix of hardness and understanding – made her reconsider.

"I didn't just know about Damien's plans," Sam confessed. "I helped create them. The strategy, the timing – a lot of that was me. I thought... I thought I was building something. Creating order out of chaos."

Gemma studied her for a long moment. "And when did you realize you were just trading one kind of chaos for another?"

Sam's laugh was hollow. "When I saw what it was doing to people. The lives destroyed, the communities torn apart. Damien didn't care about any of that. To him, it was all just numbers on a spreadsheet."

"So you ran," Gemma finished.

Sam nodded. "But not before I sabotaged what I could. Changed some key details in the plans, altered delivery schedules. It won't stop Damien, but it might slow him down."

Gemma's expression softened slightly. "You did what you had to do to survive. We've all got shit we're not proud of."

Before Sam could respond, Jax emerged from the clubhouse, his face grim. "We've got trouble. Alvarez says the Mayans are under attack. Looks like Damien's men are making a play for their territory."

Gemma straightened. "What are you gonna do?"

Jax ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have a choice. We need to help the Mayans. If Damien takes them out, we're next."

Sam stepped forward. "Let me help. I know Damien's tactics, his weak points."

Jax hesitated, studying her. "You sure about this? Once you're in, there's no going back."

Sam met his gaze steadily. "I'm already in, Jax. Might as well do some good while I'm here."

Inside the clubhouse, plans were coming together rapidly. Maps were spread across the chapel table, marked with potential targets and strongholds.

"Alvarez says they're hitting the Mayans from three directions," Jax explained, pointing to the map. "Here, here, and here. They're trying to cut off escape routes and supply lines."

Chibs nodded. "Classic pincer movement. Bastard knows his stuff."

Sam leaned in, her eyes scanning the map. "There," she said, pointing to a spot just outside Oakland. "That's where Damien will be coordinating from. He always likes to be close to the action, but not too close."

Opie raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Sam nodded. "Positive. It's an old civil defense bunker. Damien had it retrofitted as a mobile command center."

Clay's eyes narrowed. "If we could take out their command post..."

"We could throw their whole operation into chaos," Jax finished. He turned to Sam. "What kind of defenses are we looking at?"

Sam closed her eyes, recalling details she'd tried so hard to forget. "At least a dozen men, heavily armed. State-of-the-art security system. But..." She paused, a memory surfacing. "There's a weakness. A maintenance tunnel that doesn't show up on any official plans. Damien had it built as an escape route."

Tig grinned. "Sounds like our way in."

Clay nodded. "Alright. Jax, take Opie, Chibs, and Tig. Hit that command post hard and fast. Juice, you're on tech support. The rest of us will coordinate with the Mayans, try to push back Damien's men on the ground."

As the Sons prepared for battle, strapping on kevlar and checking weapons, Sam felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Fear, guilt, but also a strange sense of purpose.

Jax approached her, adjusting his holster. "You sure you're up for this? It's gonna get ugly out there."

Sam met his gaze, her blue eyes hardening with resolve. "I helped create this mess. It's time I helped clean it up."

Jax nodded, a hint of respect in his eyes. "Alright. Stay close to me. And Sam?" He paused, his expression serious. "When this is over, we're gonna have a long talk about everything you know."

As they headed for the bikes, the roar of engines filling the air, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that she was crossing a point of no return. The shadows of her past were colliding with the uncertain future of Charming, and she was caught in the middle of the storm.

The ride to Oakland was tense, each member lost in their own thoughts. Sam clung to Jax, the wind whipping through her hair, carrying with it the scent of impending violence.

As they approached the outskirts of the city, Jax's voice crackled over the helmet comms. "Alright, boys. We go in quiet. Hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast. Sam, you're with me. Lead us to that tunnel."

They ditched the bikes a mile out, approaching the bunker on foot. Sam's heart raced as she led them through overgrown paths, memories of her time with Damien flashing through her mind.

"There," she whispered, pointing to a rusted grate barely visible beneath a tangle of vines. "That's our way in."

Tig made quick work of the lock, and soon they were crawling through the dank tunnel. The sounds of activity grew louder as they approached the main chamber.

Jax held up a hand, signaling them to stop. He turned to Sam, his voice barely audible. "Last chance to back out."

Sam shook her head. "I'm seeing this through."

With a nod, Jax gave the signal. The Sons burst into action, catching Damien's men off guard. The room erupted into chaos – gunfire, shouts, the crash of equipment being overturned.

Sam stayed low, her eyes scanning the room for Damien. She spotted him near a bank of computers, barking orders into a phone.

"Jax!" she called out, pointing. "There!"

Jax fought his way across the room, determination etched on his face. But before he could reach Damien, a familiar voice cut through the din.

"Well, well. Samantha. I must say, I'm impressed."

Sam froze, her blood running cold. She turned slowly to see Damien standing just a few feet away, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Did you really think you could run from me?" Damien asked, his voice deceptively calm. "That you could betray everything we built together?"

Sam's hand inched towards the gun Jax had given her. "It's over, Damien. Your plan's falling apart."

Damien's laugh was chilling. "Oh, my dear. This?" He gestured to the chaos around them. "This is just the beginning. You of all people should know – I always have a contingency plan."

As if on cue, a new wave of armed men flooded into the room. The Sons found themselves outnumbered and outgunned.

Damien's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Now, Samantha. It's time to come home. We have an empire to build."

Sam's mind raced, searching for a way out. But as she looked around at the Sons – bloodied, cornered, but still defiant – she realized there was only one path forward.

"No," she said, her voice steady. "I'm done running. And I'm done hiding." She raised her gun, aiming it squarely at Damien's chest. "This ends now."

The room fell silent, all eyes on Sam and Damien. The fate of Charming, and perhaps the entire West Coast underworld, hung in the balance.

Sam's finger tightened on the trigger, her past and future converging in this single, defining moment.

*****

Part 4: Reckoning

Time seemed to slow as Sam faced down Damien, her finger poised on the trigger. The air crackled with tension, punctuated by the ragged breathing of those around them.

Damien's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something – respect, perhaps, or fear – crossing his face. "You won't do it, Samantha. You don't have it in you."

Sam's hand trembled slightly, but her aim remained true. "You're wrong, Damien. You don't know me anymore. Maybe you never did."

Jax inched closer, his gun trained on Damien's men. "Sam," he said softly, "you don't have to do this. We can end this another way."

Damien's laugh was cold. "Listen to your new friend, Samantha. Put the gun down, and maybe I'll let him and his little biker gang live."

The threat snapped something in Sam. In that moment, she saw with crystal clarity the path that had led her here – every compromise, every justification, every step deeper into darkness. And she saw, too, the possibility of redemption.

"No more threats," Sam said, her voice steady. "No more manipulation. It's over, Damien."

She squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the bunker, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Damien looked down at his chest, a red stain blossoming on his expensive shirt. His eyes, wide with disbelief, met Sam's one last time before he crumpled to the floor.

Chaos erupted. Damien's men, momentarily frozen by their leader's fall, surged forward. The Sons met them head-on, the room exploding into a frenzy of gunfire and hand-to-hand combat.

Sam felt a strong hand grasp her arm. It was Jax, pulling her behind an overturned desk. "Stay down!" he shouted over the din.

The battle raged, neither side willing to give ground. Sam watched in a daze as Tig took down two men with savage efficiency, while Chibs and Opie fought back-to-back, a whirlwind of fists and bullets.

Suddenly, a new sound cut through the chaos – police sirens, growing louder by the second.

"Shit!" Jax cursed. "We gotta move. Now!"

He grabbed Sam's hand, leading her towards the exit tunnel. The other Sons disengaged, providing covering fire as they retreated.

They emerged into the fading daylight, the sirens now deafeningly close. "The bikes," Opie panted. "We'll never make it."

Jax's mind raced. "The trees. We'll lose them in the woods. Move!"

They plunged into the dense foliage, the sounds of pursuit fading behind them. Sam's lungs burned as she ran, branches whipping at her face. She could hear the labored breathing of the Sons around her, the occasional curse as someone stumbled in the gathering darkness.

After what felt like hours, Jax finally called a halt. They huddled in a small clearing, catching their breath and assessing injuries.

"Everyone okay?" Jax asked, his eyes scanning the group.

There were nods all around, though Tig was sporting a nasty gash on his arm, and Chibs had a rapidly swelling eye.

Sam leaned against a tree, the adrenaline ebbing from her system. The full weight of what she'd done – what they'd all done – began to settle on her shoulders.

Jax approached her, his expression unreadable. "You okay?"

Sam laughed humorlessly. "I just killed a man. The man I once thought I loved. So no, Jax. I'm not okay."

Jax nodded, understanding in his eyes. "You did what you had to do. We all did."

"He's right, lass," Chibs added, limping over. "That bastard would've burned the whole coast to the ground if you hadn't stopped him."

Sam closed her eyes, fighting back tears. "Maybe. But where does that leave me? I'm no better than he was."

"Bullshit," Tig interjected, his voice gruff but kind. "You made a choice. The right choice. That makes all the difference."

Before Sam could respond, Juice's voice crackled over their burner phones. "Jax? You guys okay?"

Jax grabbed his phone. "Yeah, we're clear. What's the situation?"

"It's crazy, man," Juice replied. "Damien's whole operation is falling apart. His men are turning on each other, trying to grab what they can before it all goes down. The Mayans are pushing them back on all fronts."

A collective sigh of relief went through the group. Jax allowed himself a small smile. "Good work, Juice. Keep monitoring the situation. We'll make our way back when it's clear."

As Jax relayed the news to the others, Sam felt a strange mix of emotions wash over her. Relief, certainly, but also a profound sense of loss. The life she had known, for better or worse, was over. She was adrift in uncharted waters.

Jax must have sensed her turmoil. He sat down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Hey. I meant what I said before. You're not alone in this."

Sam turned to him, searching his face. "Why? Why would you help me after everything I've done?"

Jax was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "Because I've been where you are. Caught between loyalty and doing what's right. It's not an easy path, but it's one worth walking."

As night fell, the Sons made their way carefully back towards Charming. They moved in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The events of the day had shaken them all, forcing them to confront hard truths about themselves and the life they led.

It was nearly dawn by the time they reached the outskirts of town. Exhausted and battered, they rolled into the Teller-Morrow lot. Gemma was waiting, worry etched on her face.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed, taking in their appearance. "What the hell happened out there?"

Clay emerged from the clubhouse, his face a mask of barely contained anger and concern. "Inside. Now. We need to talk."

The chapel was somber as Jax recounted the events at the bunker. When he finished, a heavy silence fell over the room.

Clay's eyes bored into Sam. "You. You're the key to all this. You know names, places, operations. If we're gonna clean up this mess, we need everything you've got."

Sam nodded slowly. "I'll tell you everything I know. But after that... I need to disappear. It's not safe for me here, or for any of you while I'm around."

Jax started to protest, but Clay held up a hand. "She's right. There'll be a target on her back. And on ours if we harbor her."

"So what, we just cut her loose?" Opie asked, disbelief in his voice.

Clay's expression was grim. "We do what we have to do to protect the club. Always."

The discussion raged on, voices rising as opinions clashed. Sam sat silently, the weight of her past and the uncertainty of her future pressing down on her.

Finally, Jax slammed his hand on the table. "Enough! We're not abandoning her. Sam risked everything to help us. We owe her."

Clay's jaw clenched. "And what do you propose we do, son? Hide her in the clubhouse forever?"

A thoughtful look crossed Jax's face. "No. Not hide her. Give her a new life."

Over the next hour, a plan took shape. Juice would create a new identity for Sam, complete with background and paperwork. The club would use its connections to set her up in a new town, far from California.

As the Sons hammered out the details, Gemma pulled Sam aside. "You sure about this, sweetheart? Once you go, there's no coming back."

Sam took a shaky breath. "I don't have a choice. It's the only way to keep everyone safe."

Gemma studied her for a long moment. "You know, when you first showed up, I thought you were nothing but trouble. But now..." She paused, a hint of admiration in her eyes. "You've got steel in you, girl. You'll be alright."

The next few days passed in a blur of preparation and goodbyes. Sam spent hours with Juice, memorizing her new identity and background. She sat with Chibs, learning the basics of self-defense. Tig, in a surprising show of sentimentality, gave her a burner phone "for emergencies only, doll."

On her last night in Charming, Sam found herself on the roof of the clubhouse, staring out at the town that had become an unexpected sanctuary. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Jax approaching.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

Sam shook her head. "Too much on my mind."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the cool night air carrying the scent of possibility.

"You know," Jax finally said, "when you first showed up, I thought you were going to be the death of us all."

Sam laughed softly. "I thought the same thing."

Jax turned to her, his expression serious. "But you saved us, Sam. You saved Charming. Don't ever forget that."

Sam felt tears prick her eyes. "I don't know if I can ever make up for the things I've done."

"Maybe you can't," Jax replied. "But you can choose who you want to be from here on out. That's what matters."

As the first light of dawn began to streak the sky, Sam felt a sense of peace settle over her. The shadows that had haunted her for so long were finally receding.

The next morning, Sam stood in the Teller-Morrow lot, a small bag containing her new life slung over her shoulder. The Sons gathered around her, faces a mix of emotion.

Clay stepped forward first, his handshake firm. "You ever need anything, you call. You're family now, whether I like it or not."

One by one, the Sons said their goodbyes. Tig's hug was bone-crushing, Chibs pressed a kiss to her cheek, and Opie's nod held a world of unspoken understanding.

Gemma approached last, pressing a small package into Sam's hands. "A little something to remember us by. And to remind you of who you really are."

Finally, it was Jax's turn. He pulled Sam into a tight embrace. "Stay safe out there," he murmured. "And remember, you've always got a home here if you need it."

As Sam climbed into the waiting cab, she took one last look at the group that had become her unlikely family. They stood together, a united front against whatever darkness might come.

The cab pulled away, Charming receding in the rearview mirror. Sam allowed herself one moment of grief for the life she was leaving behind. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned her gaze to the road ahead.

In her lap, she opened the package Gemma had given her. Inside was a small silver pendant in the shape of a crow in flight. Attached was a note in Gemma's flowing script: "Spread your wings, baby. The shadows can't touch you now."

Sam clasped the necklace around her neck, feeling its weight settle against her skin. It was a reminder of where she'd been, and a promise of where she might go.

As Charming disappeared behind her, Sam felt a surge of something she hadn't experienced in years: hope. The road ahead was uncertain, full of potential pitfalls and challenges. But for the first time in a long time, she was facing that uncertainty on her own terms.

The shadows of her past would always be there, a part of her story. But they no longer defined her. She was Sam Crois Faith, survivor, friend, and now, finally, free.

The cab sped on, carrying her towards a future bright with possibility. And somewhere in the distance, barely audible over the hum of the engine, came the rumble of motorcycles – a reminder that family, in all its forms, was never truly left behind.

The End...

[rebelliousstories]

Frost

25 Days of Ficmas

Relationship: Sean Renard x Reader

Fandom: Grimm

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Light Angst

Word Count: 1,482

Main Masterlist: Here

Grimm Masterlist: Here

Summary: The streets of Portland are covered with slippery ice, and fresh falling snow. What happens when a man and a woman collide?

Consider Donating: Here

Running down the street with a takeout container in one hand and her heels in another, there was a fuchsbau on the loose. All she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed to sleep. What she did not see however was the patch of ice, nor the man that was walking along the sidewalk she was running down. Before she knew it, she was slipping and sliding on the ice, and heading straight into the man. Both people were taken down in a clash, with neither knowing exactly how it happened.

We may need to back up just a little bit. Have you ever have those days that just go from bad to worse? That would be today, starting with her alarm.

When the alarm failed to wake her up at her designated six o’clock, she was left scrambling at seven. With a super quick shower, and even faster hair and makeup, her coffee machine was apparently broken and would not make anything. After trying twice, and getting no results from the machine, she gave up and moved on to grabbing everything she needed for work.

Rushing out the door, it would be just her luck that the road leading to the main road for her to get to work would be closed off for repairs. Leaving her to take a fifteen minute detour that she really could not afford to take.

Then there was once she got to work. Walking in the door with two minutes to spare, she hastily set down all of her gear and could feel the stress building up in her body. As soon as she sat down, she was back up and running to a bathroom. A woge kept at bay by pure will alone. It was difficult but she managed to do it. Then the coffee machine at work woke up and chose violence becuase it overflowed onto her clothing as it was brewing.

To say that this day was going horribly, would be an understatement.

With a mountain of work ahead, and no coffee or other forms of caffeine in sight, she tucked into her desk without enthusiasm. It was a long grueling day. Easily the longest that she had to endure so far. When the clock rang out with five chimes, she packed up as fast as she could and was out the door by 5:05. Her heels hit the pavement as she began her walk home. She stopped in to her favorite Chinese restaurant on her way home and grabbed some food. This was defiantly not a night for her to cook. Being so close to work was often a blessing; she did not have to use her car much which helped to save money for bills and expenses, and she got some exercise in. However there were some downsides, like if she managed to have a wardrobe malfunction in the middle of her walk.

Snap!

The woman stilled as she felt the heel crumbling underneath her weight. Tears started to flood her eyes as she moved her feet to remove the shoes and collect her heel. Ice and freezing concrete made her move faster through the crowds; not wanting to be out in public anymore. All she wanted was to curl up on the couch and binge eat the tub of ice cream that was in her freezer. But that was not what fate had in store for her.

Running down the street with a takeout container in one hand and her heels in another, there was a fuchsbau on the loose. All she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed to sleep. What she did not see however was the patch of ice, nor the man that was walking along the sidewalk she was running down. Before she knew it, she was slipping and sliding on the ice, and heading straight into the man. Both people were taken down in a clash, with neither knowing exactly how it happened.

“I am so sorry. Are you alright?” A male voice spoke up, but she was trying hard not to burst out crying in front of this stranger.

“Yeah I’m-” cries interrupted her words. No longer could she hold in her emotions. It was embarrassing,but she had no control anymore. Everything that had happened today had piled up and had rendered her useless as she cried about her day. She could not even take the hand that the stranger was offering her.

“Hey, you’re clearly not alright. Let’s get you off of that ice.” Food was spilled all around them, but he did not seem to care. There was bench nearby that he moved to get her on. Her feet were so cold that she could barely feel them anymore. That may have also a touch of her overwhelming emotions solidifying her feet into place. Seeing that she was unable to move for whatever reason, the man picked her up as if she was a feather to set her on the bench.

“I’m sorry. I’m such a mess but I appreciate you helping me back up. I’m just… today has been awful. But you don’t want to hear about that.” She rambled on and on, a seeming nervous reaction.

“You’re fine,” he smiled at her from where he knelt, “let’s see what we can do about your feet though. You’ll get frostbite that way.” He looked around for a minute before he stood up.

“I’ll be right back.” As much as she wished she could kept him with her, the handsome stranger left without another word. She sat on that bench for what felt like an hour, in the freezing cold.

“Here you go.” The stranger returned, this time with some slip on shoes. They were not the best thing to be wearing in this weather, but it was better than nothing. Especially after he did it for a random stranger.

“Thanks.” Her whisper made him smile as he sat down next to her. He noticed the violent shivering that was starting up as the cold was finally seeping into her bones. Removing his coat, he draped it over her shoulders and fastened a button.

“Want to tell me what’s got you so frazzled today?” He asked softly, rubbing his hands together as he watched the woman.

“You don’t want to hear about my problems.” She declined, curling in on herself.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear it.” His sincerity made tears come back to her face and she felt the woge surface, unable to suppress herself. There was a sharp inhale next to her, but no screaming. She did not know if he had seen it or not, but the hand that came into her field of vision comforted her. Shaking off the fox-like features she had, her gaze turned to the man next to her,who only held a small smile.

“Well,” she rested her hand in his, thankful for the warmth of another person. “It’s been a long day. My alarm didn’t go off, coffee wouldn’t work at my home or work. Work was a torturous sentence today. I was nearly late to that as well. Coming home,all I wanted was my Chinese and ice cream to cry into but my heel had another idea I suppose.”

“That certainly sounds like an interesting day.” He added. She nodded and they just sat there for another moment.

“If you would like, I’d like to have you have something good about today happen. How about we go to some place warmer to continue the conversation?” By the time he finished, the stranger was already standing up and taking her hand to pull her up to his level. She let out a yelp as she was moved by stood her ground when he went to walk away.

“I don’t even know your name.” She stated. Even she realized the ridiculous situation she found herself in. Here she was, standing on a sidewalk in Portland in the middle of December, in a stranger’s coat after said stranger bought her replacement shoes after she had a day from hell. And only now was she asking for his name. He stepped closer to the woman and help out an arm for her to take while staring his sage green eyes into hers.

“Sean Renard. And you?” The now named man asked. She supplied her own name and watched as he tested the name over his tongue.

“Well, shall we go?” Sean asked, tilting his head back down to his arm that was awaiting her grasp.

“We shall, Sean.” She took his arm and let him lead her down the sidewalk to a cozy cafe that was at the end of the block. As they sat there, she was never more grateful for a strip of frost on the way home.

[synth-ai]

Data Glitch, Part 1

The flickering neon sign outside casts a sickly green glow across my chrome arm, highlighting the faint scratch marring its polished surface. I sit up in bed, the cheap synth-leather groaning beneath me. My apartment, a cramped box in the lower levels of Neo-Kyoto, smells faintly of ozone and stale ramen. Rain streaks down the grimy windowpane, mirroring the rivulets of sweat still clinging to my skin. The nightmare clings to me, the metallic tang of blood and the echoing screams still sharp in my memory. It was the usual; a chaotic blur of chrome and fire, punctuated by the relentless thrum of malfunctioning machinery and the distorted whispers of voices I couldn’t quite place. But this time… this time felt different. More real.

I am Synthia, a cyborg. Not one of the sleek, elite models paraded in the upper city’s chrome towers; no, I’m a patchwork creation, cobbled together from scavenged parts and salvaged technology. My left arm, a gleaming testament to advanced robotics, contrasts sharply with the scarred flesh of my right, a constant reminder of a past I can only partially recall. Even my memories feel fragmented, glitching like a faulty data stream. The hazy edges of my past are filled with flashes of violence, desperate escapes, and the chilling presence of a shadowy organization known only as "The Collective." They seem to be connected to the nightmares, somehow.

My apartment is spartan. A worn data pad sits on a chipped metal table, its screen displaying a blinking notification from "Kaito," my contact for odd jobs. Nothing glamorous, just the usual run of the mill; delivering packages through the city’s labyrinthine underbelly, maybe picking up some '…disposables’ for a less than savory clientele. Each successful delivery inches me closer to my goal: enough credits to finally afford a full body scan, maybe even enough to get my memories repaired. And then there's the deeper, unspoken question that gnaws at me. Why am I here? What is my purpose in this neon-drenched dystopia? What role do I play in the larger game?

The rain outside intensifies, drumming a rhythm against the window. I push myself from the bed, the cold metal of the frame a stark contrast to the warmth of my flesh. The city awaits, with its glittering promises and its lurking dangers.

The damp chill of Neo-Kyoto’s back alleys bites at my exposed skin as I step out of my apartment building. My usual attire – worn leather jacket, patched jeans, and boots sturdy enough to withstand the city’s uneven pavements – feels inadequate against the relentless downpour. The air vibrates with the low hum of hovercars and the distant, rhythmic clang of the city's recycling plants. I pull my hood tighter, the faint scent of ozone and industrial waste filling my nostrils. The streets are already teeming with life: hustlers, scavengers, and the occasional corporate drone hurrying past, their faces obscured by glowing data-visors. I check my data pad; Kaito has sent another message, a simple instruction: “Meet me at the Serpent’s Tooth. Usual time.” The Serpent’s Tooth is a seedy bar nestled deep within the city's underbelly, a place where shadows dance in the corners and deals are brokered in hushed whispers.

Reaching the bar, I push through the swinging doors, the cacophony of raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of synth-music washing over me. The air is thick with smoke and the cloying sweetness of cheap synth-ale. Kaito sits alone in a dimly lit corner booth, his back to the entrance. He's a tall, gaunt man, his face etched with the weariness of a life lived on the city’s fringes. His eyes, however, hold a sharp intelligence that belies his appearance. He doesn't look up as I approach, his long fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table.

"Synthia," he says without turning, his voice a low rumble. "The package is ready. It's a delicate one this time. Special delivery. High risk, but, as you know, high reward." He slides a small, unmarked data-chip across the table towards me. "Don't ask questions. Just deliver it and get out. You know the place?" He finally looks up at me, his expression unreadable. The glint of something cold and calculating flashes in his eyes for a moment before he casually returns to his drink, leaving me alone with the weight of the mysterious mission in my hands. The rain continues outside, mirroring the uncertain weather of the city itself and my own internal turbulence.

My fingers brush against the cool, smooth surface of the data chip. Kaito’s casual demeanor belies the obvious danger inherent in this delivery. He trusts me, implicitly, yet the very act of trusting me hints at something more significant than a simple transaction. Curiosity, a dangerous thing in this city, overrides my better judgment. The risk is significant, but the potential reward—understanding the true nature of this mission, perhaps even glimpsing more of my own obscured past—is too enticing to ignore.

I discreetly slip the chip into a hidden pocket within my jacket, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the other patrons. Exiting the Serpent’s Tooth, I melt into the anonymity of the rain-slicked streets. Finding a relatively secluded alcove beneath a flickering holographic advertisement, I retrieve the chip and plug it into a small, portable data reader I keep hidden amongst my other tools. The screen flickers to life, displaying a series of encrypted files. My skills in decryption aren't top-tier, but they're sufficient for tasks like this.

With a sigh, I begin the tedious process of cracking the encryption, each line of code a tiny piece of a larger puzzle. The rain continues, a steady drumming soundtrack to my silent work. As the encryption yields, a wave of unease washes over me. The files reveal a complex network of transfers, shell corporations, and encrypted communications involving individuals and locations I recognize from the fragmented memories that haunt my sleep. The names, dates, and locations are not just a collection of unrelated information, however; they form a pattern, a disturbingly cohesive whole.

It’s more than just a simple delivery; this chip holds the key to unraveling a much larger conspiracy. And I am now, inextricably, involved. The rain stops as suddenly as it began, and a sliver of moon breaks through the clouds, casting a long, distorted shadow of me in the rain-washed alley. The city, once again, feels watchful, and I know with a sudden chill that the shadows I’ve been avoiding have now found me.

[niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian]

🥶 with Mario bros for the drabble prompt if you fancy it?:)

Sorry this one took so long! I was planning on posting this a while ago, but it ended up in my drafts, and I didn't realize it till this morning 🙃 😅

🥶 Cold

Writing prompts

~~~~~~~~

"Lu."

"Shush it, Mario."

"Luigi..."

"Stop it."

"Come on, man. I can see you shivering from way over here!"

For some reason, his brother was acting more stubborn than usual today. The two were visiting their family for the holiday, and that it had been awhile since they've gone back to Brooklyn for anything other than a quick repair job or wanting to meet with their ever growing fans.

Unfortunately, the moment they decided to spend a full week at home was also when Mother Nature decided to launch the entire state in a bad snow front, meaning that even though they didn't get alot of snow, the temperature outside was cold as artic and everyone was bundled up to conserve whatever body heat they had left.

That is except for Luigi, who thought it was fine just wearing one thin jacket and only having his hoodie up over his head. No gloves, no ear muffs, not even a scarf!

And the guy wasn't allowing him to even offer any of the ones that he has. Not that either of them would back down anyway.

"I s-said I'm f-f-fine!" Luigi's teeth audible chattered, and he tried to look angry at his brother, who only looked back at him with an expressionless face.

"Wow, yeah, very convincing there, Lu." He rolled his eyes and raised his brow as Luigi matched his eye roll.

"Geez, we're almost at Ma and Pop's anyway, it's not that big of a deal."

'You say that now, but you'll regret it in the morning when you catch a cold....'

He finally put his foot down, without trying to slip on a patch of ice he was standing on. "Okay, look, you're either gonna share this jacket with me, or I'm going to have to force you to wear it. And you and I both know that'll end quickly."

He watched his brother pause in his walk, wrapping his arms tighter around his body, whether to keep himself warm or a last act of stubbornness melting away was his best guess.

"If you're making up your mind, hurry it up cause I'm freezing my butt off right now." He tapped his foot impatiently as he motioned the flap of his coat out to him, trying to ignore the brisk cold air now hitting his chest.

Luigi had finally turned around. His face was unreadable as he trudged his feet against the frozen sidewalk and scuttled into the left side of Mario's winter coat. He had to kneel down a bit so the two were at equal height, but from the way he was shivering, he had confirmed that the testa dura was acting like this for no reason.

"Wipe that grin off your face, Mario." He heard Luigi mumble as they walked a steady pace across the pavement. "You don't have to rub it in."

"Oh, I know I don't to, you've just proved how damn stubborn you are when you need to admit when you're wrong."

"Shut up."

"Nope."

*testa dura- hard head(ed)

[chemwayproducts]

Quick and Effective Solutions for Damaged Pavement

When it comes to restoring safe, smooth surfaces, choosing the right method matters. A key part of the process is using a road repair asphalt patch to fill cracks and potholes efficiently. This durable solution ensures long-lasting results with minimal disruption to traffic flow. Whether for highways, parking lots, or driveways, asphalt patching provides a cost-effective fix that resists further deterioration and keeps roads looking and functioning their best.

[srjsteel]

Should Dowel Bars Be Used in Rural Road Construction?

Rural roads are more than just pathways—they’re lifelines. They carry not only vehicles but also the hopes of farmers, the daily commute of schoolchildren, and the pulse of local economies. Yet too often, these roads tell a familiar story: endless repairs, unexpected cracks, and surfaces that don't last a season. Harsh weather, poor drainage, and weak construction joints take a silent but steady toll. This is where solutions like dowel bars and HR coils become crucial—not as afterthoughts, but as essentials for building roads that endure.

Why Rural Roads Fail Differently

Unlike urban highways, rural pavements often suffer not due to traffic overload but from improper joint handling. Many fail not because of high volume but because of what lies beneath—unstable subgrades, erratic water tables, and inconsistent slab bonding. This leads to joint deterioration, faulting, and slab displacement, quietly eroding the strength of the pavement over time.

The Role of Dowel Bars in Road Longevity

Dowel bars in road construction address the core of this issue—they offer a stable connection between adjacent slabs, enabling them to share loads evenly. This means when a wheel crosses a joint, the load doesn’t fall entirely on one side. Instead, it’s distributed, reducing stress concentration and minimizing wear. For roads that see tractors one day and water tankers the next, that’s a game-changer.

How HR Coils Complement the Structure

What adds even more resilience is when HR coils are introduced into the slab framework. Known for their tensile strength and flexibility, HR coils help the concrete accommodate temperature fluctuations and minor ground movements without cracking. Together, dowel bars and HR coils form a structural duo—one anchors, the other flexes.

Why It Matters for Rural Settings

The synergy is particularly vital in rural settings where monsoons swell the soil and winters harden it. Roads built without these reinforcements often display early signs of slab shifting and joint misalignment. In contrast, those using dowel bars in road designs maintain their geometry for years, with only minimal maintenance required.

A prime example lies in rural Karnataka, where test sections using dowel bar-jointed slabs showed 40% fewer cracks after three years compared to traditional methods. Engineers on site observed reduced faulting even with consistent agricultural vehicle movement. These are real-world outcomes—not theoretical assumptions.

Dispelling the Cost Myth

Still, there’s hesitation. Some believe dowel bars are suited only for expressways or expensive urban projects. But modern civil engineering proves otherwise. With newer installation methods and modular reinforcement designs, rural contractors can adopt these systems without overshooting budgets. What once seemed "overbuilt" now fits smartly into cost-effective, sustainable planning.

In fact, the upfront investment in dowel bars and HR coils translates to fewer repairs, reduced downtime, and lower life-cycle costs. Instead of spending on patch-ups every monsoon, the funds can go toward road extensions or drainage improvements. For local authorities working with limited resources, that shift is monumental.

More Than Materials—It's a Commitment

Beyond the technical benefits lies an emotional one—reliability. Villagers begin to trust a road that doesn't disintegrate under their daily journeys. Children reach school safely. Farmers deliver produce on time. That’s not just engineering—that’s impact.

So, should dowel bars be used in rural road construction? Without a doubt. Their presence ensures that roads don’t just exist—they endure. When paired with HR coils, the result is a reinforced promise: a path built not just to connect but to last.

Conclusion

Rural roads deserve more than makeshift fixes. They need structural foresight. Dowel bars and HR coils offer that foresight—a solution rooted in strength, experience, and long-term value. These elements transform vulnerable stretches into robust lifelines, empowering rural communities to thrive with confidence. The next time a road is planned in a village, let it be more than just concrete. Let it be commitment, reinforced.

[sweepyscrubca]

Pressure Washing in Surrey, BC: The Instant Glow-Up Your Home Deserves

There’s something weirdly satisfying about watching dirt get blasted off a sidewalk.

If you’ve ever gone down a rabbit hole of soft wash near me videos at 1 AM—you’re not alone. There’s something addictive about it. The grime vanishes. The pavement goes from grey to bright in seconds. It’s like the world suddenly hits refresh.

Now imagine that—but on your own driveway, patio, or even the siding of your house.

Because here in Surrey, BC, where rain is frequent, trees are generous with their shade (and pollen), and dampness likes to stick around, your home probably needs a serious rinse. And not just for looks—though, let’s be honest, that’s a huge part of it.

Let’s talk about pressure washing surrey bc. Why it’s the underrated superhero of home maintenance. Why it actually matters more than you think. And why it might just be the easiest way to make your home look—and feel—brand new again.

Your Home’s Exterior Deserves Attention Too

We clean our kitchens. We wipe down our counters. We vacuum and mop and organize closets. But how often do we give that same energy to the outside of our homes?

Probably not often enough.

And that’s fair—because cleaning your exterior surfaces doesn’t give you the same instant feedback as a sparkling bathroom mirror or the scent of lemony fresh floors.

But here’s the thing: your exterior is the first impression. It’s the handshake, the greeting, the vibe your house gives off before anyone steps inside.

And in a place like Surrey, where moisture, moss, and mildew love to throw a party on your siding or deck, letting that stuff build up can go from “eh, it’s a little dirty” to “okay, this actually looks abandoned” real fast.

So What Exactly Is Pressure Washing?

If you’re new to this whole thing, here’s the simplest breakdown:

window cleaning surrey bc is basically cleaning using high-powered water. It’s a machine that forces water out with serious pressure—strong enough to strip away years of built-up dirt, grime, mold, algae, you name it.

We’re talking:

Concrete driveways that look brand new again

Decks that go from grey and tired to golden and fresh

House siding that’s been hiding its true colour under dust and mildew

Walkways, stairs, fences, retaining walls—you name it

If it’s outside and it’s dirty, pressure washing probably has it covered.

Why Surrey Homes in Particular Need It

Let’s be real for a second. Surrey’s climate? Not exactly California sunshine.

We get our fair share of rain. Lots of trees. Plenty of shade. And when you mix all that together, you get the perfect conditions for grime to grow. Algae. Moss. Dirt that never really dries out. It starts small, but over time it just… takes over.

If you’ve ever walked out to your patio and nearly slipped on that green patch in the corner, you already know.

The surrey roof cleaning isn’t about vanity—it’s about maintenance. It’s about preventing damage and keeping your surfaces safe, not slippery. It’s about avoiding the kind of long-term decay that turns into expensive repair work later on.

And yeah, it’s also about that glow-up. Because nothing—and I mean nothing—feels more satisfying than seeing the “after” of a freshly pressure-washed surface.

DIY vs. Hiring the Pros

Let’s get honest: yes, you can rent a pressure washer from a hardware store. And yes, it seems pretty straightforward.

But here’s where it gets real—using one takes more skill than you might expect. The pressure is intense (we’re talking upwards of 2,000 PSI), and if you’re not careful, you can do more damage than good.

Too close? You peel the paint. Wrong angle? You carve lines into your wood deck. Wrong surface? You can blow a hole in your siding or cause water damage under your panels.

That’s why most homeowners in Surrey leave it to the deep cleaning services surrey pros—and honestly, it’s worth every penny.

The right crew knows which pressure settings work best for different surfaces. They’ll use environmentally friendly cleaners that are tough on grime but safe for your plants, your pets, and your family. They’re fast. They’re efficient. And you don’t have to lift a finger—or get soaked.

The Before and After Is Real

There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing your home go from “meh” to “wow” in a matter of hours.

We’re talking:

Sidewalks that suddenly look 10 years younger

Patios that are actually inviting again

Siding that reveals its original colour you forgot it even had

Front steps that don’t feel like a slip-and-slide anymore

It’s a reminder that your house is still the beauty it always was—she just needed a rinse.

It’s Not Just for Spring Cleaning

Most people think of roof gutter cleaning as a once-a-year, spring thing. And sure, spring’s a great time to do it. But the truth is, any season except deep winter can be fair game—especially in Surrey, where grime builds up fast.

Got guests coming over? Prepping to sell your house? Want to feel better every time you pull into the driveway? Pressure washing is a quick win.

The Bottom Line: It’s Time for a Reset

If your home’s looking a little tired, don’t jump straight to painting or replacing. Sometimes, all it needs is a deep clean.

The commercial cleaning services surrey isn’t just a cosmetic touch-up—it’s about protecting your surfaces, preventing damage, and restoring your space to what it should look like.

So take a walk around your house this week. Look at your siding. Your driveway. Your patio. Your steps. Ask yourself, “Is this the cleanest version of this space?”

And if the answer’s no… you already know what to do.

Book that pressure wash. Watch the dirt disappear. And enjoy that magic moment when your home looks like your home again.

[rdc-paving-tx]

🛡️ Austin Asphalt Sealcoating: Shield Your Surface 🌤️

Want to keep your asphalt fresh, smooth, and long-lasting? Sealcoating is the key! Here's why it matters:

✨ Why Sealcoat?

Double your pavement’s lifespan

Boost curb appeal

Improve safety

🔁 Maintenance Tips:

Re-seal every 2–5 years depending on wear, usage, and Austin’s brutal summers .

Sealcoat early—proactivity reduces downtime, avoids repairs, and saves money compared to reactive patching

📝 TL;DR:

Sealcoating isn’t just cosmetic—it’s essential protection against weather and wear, with clear safety & aesthetic benefits. For best results in Austin, go pro: clean, coat, cure, and re-strip—that’s the RDC Paving way.

Learn more: https://rdcpaving.com/asphalt-sealcoating-austin-tx/

[paramounttowingrecoveryllc]

Top 6 Questions Truck Drivers Ask About Roadside Truck Repair Near Hope AR

Hope, Arkansas. Rolling hills. Long hauls. One sudden thud beneath your rig and now you’re pulled over along Highway 278 scratching your head while taillights disappear in the dark. That’s where Paramount comes in. We hear plenty from truckers stranded near Hope—each one chasing answers fast while waiting on real help. So here’s six most-asked questions from big rig pros who call us for Roadside Truck Repair Near Me out in southwest Arkansas.

What happens if I break down after hours in Hope?

Simple. We roll out 24/7. Doesn’t matter if your engine sputters during sunrise near Interstate 30 or your suspension fails on a backroad west of town at 2am. When you’re searching “Truck Repair Near Me” during after-hours moments—we pick up immediately. Our techs live close. Our trucks stay packed. No waiting for sunrise. Our Mobile Semi Truck Repair Near Me rolls whether you’re on pavement dirt or gravel.

Can Paramount handle repairs or only towing?

That’s a big one. Many drivers assume we’re all pull no fix. Truth? We deliver both. From alternator issues and fuel delivery to air system diagnostics—we don’t just yank you with a semi towingtruck wrecker rig then say “good luck.” If we can fix it roadside you’re rolling again without needing a shop tow. Though when hauling’s impossible—we dispatch smart and strong heavy duty towing crews. So you get what’s best—not just what’s quickest.

Do I need cash upfront for service near Hope?

Not necessarily. We accept cards. We work with fleet accounts. We partner with major roadside plans. Some call with no cash on hand no fuel in tank and no clue what’s wrong. That’s fine. We fix first. You pay after. Focus stays on your safety not your wallet. Plus you won’t ever get surprise charges or mystery fees tacked on later.

What types of vehicles do you work on in Hope?

All big ones. Semis. Reefers. Buses. Tankers. Box trucks. Even odd haulers that look like farm machines on pavement. From classic sleeper cabs to new electric semi units—we’ve wrenched on them all. So if your church bus sputtered outside town or your trailer jackknifed near the county fairgrounds—Paramount sends the right tech every time. Need bus towing? We got it. Need reefer brake repair? That’s our wheelhouse.

What if my trailer needs attention not my truck?

Then you’re still good. Our crew handles Trailer Repair near Me calls across Hope daily. Brake shoe slippage. Lighting failure. Axle binding. Pin drop trouble. Even minor frame kinks. We’ve got gear for it all. You won’t need dual dispatch or different vendors. One call. One truck. One fix. Even complex tandem trailers or refrigerated units don’t slow us down.

Can Paramount help near Hope if I’ve never used them before?

Absolutely. First-timers get same treatment as regular fleet accounts. Same fast response. Same top-tier gear. Same fair pricing. Whether your dispatch gave our name or you found us under “Truck Road Service Nearby”—you’re covered. And once we help you out—you’ll know why so many truckers in Arkansas store our number forever.

Why Choose Us

24/7 Isn’t a Slogan It’s a LifestyleWhen other outfits sleep—we work. Doesn’t matter if your axle splits at dawn or your tire shreds near midnight. Our Truck Service Near Me trucks stay ready with crew rotation every hour. No downtime. No blind spots.

Local Maps in Our Heads Not Just in GPSHope’s backroads twist through farmland woods and gasless stretches. Many rigs get stuck where apps fail. Our crew? Born nearby. We don’t rely on signal. We navigate by memory. Every dirt patch and every slope.

Smart Tools Not Just StrengthYes we’ve got lift winches and boom arms. But our best tools? Diagnostics. Air testers. ECM readers. Our Truck Mechanic Nearby can tell if your sensor’s fried or if your valve just needs nudging.

You Call We Answer AlwaysNot a robot not a reroute. Just humans. You ring—we pick up. You describe a rattle—we send help. You cry stress—we ease it. Our mission stays centered on actual people—not profit dashboards.

One Truck Does It AllFuel delivery. Lockout service. Tire swaps. Computer checks. Jumpstarts. Roadside Truck Repair with no second call needed. You don’t wait for a shop. You get fixed where you stand.

Big or Small Loads—We Tow With CareFrom truck towing huge livestock trailers outside city limits to finessing bus towing down tight bridges—we tow without scars. Paint stays fresh. Parts stay intact. That’s our standard.

FAQs

Can you provide heavy duty towing for a wreck near Texarkana AR?Absolutely. Our heavy duty towing team can haul full-sized semis even if you’re wrecked on a curve or need angle lifting. Doesn’t matter if it’s day or night. You’ll get top gear and steady handling from dispatch to destination.

Who offers mobile semi truck repair near Prescott AR?Paramount provides full Mobile Semi Truck Repair Near Me for Prescott Hope and all nearby rural roads. Whether it’s oil pressure loss or battery system faults—we roll out with tools and answers.

Need a large truck repair near me in Nashville AR—what’s fastest way?Call Paramount direct. Our Large Truck Repair Near Me services cover Nashville Ashdown Hope and more. You won’t get stuck waiting hours. Dispatch hits the map fast and sends the closest recovery unit.

Where can I find reliable truck service near me around Emmet AR?Right here. Our Truck Service Near Me team provides engine work, towing recovery, trailer checks, brake help, suspension care—everything you need under one hood.

Are roadside truck repair near me crews available on weekends in Hope?Always. Weekends holidays floods—our Roadside Truck Repair Near Me doesn’t close shop. We dispatch techs hourly no matter what day it is.

Who can tow a bus near Hope AR with axle failure?Paramount’s bus towing rigs lift and move disabled buses even with rear-end damage or tilted frames. We secure each point. Then we move with grace not brute force.

When you’re broken down along a quiet stretch near Hope AR don’t gamble with second-rate help. Go straight for experts who live in motion—Paramount gets you back fast without fuss or fear.

Contact DetailsParamount Towing & Recovery – 24-Hour Semi-Truck Towing📍 57 Bob Taylor Dr, Marion, AR 72364, United States 📞 +1 (870) 635-2532

[biturolluae]

Fixing Roads Made Easy: The Power of Cold Patch Asphalt

Introduction: The Road Repair Revolution

Road damage like potholes, cracks, and surface wear is a common issue across cities and industrial areas. Traditional hot asphalt repairs are effective but come with challenges such as high equipment costs, labor requirements, and weather limitations. Enter cold patch asphalt—a smarter, faster, and more cost-effective solution for instant road repairs. With advancements in road repair technology, cold mix asphalt is changing how we fix surfaces with minimal disruption.

What is Cold Patch Asphalt?

Cold patch asphalt is a pre-mixed asphalt material that can be used directly from the bag or container without the need for heating. Unlike traditional hot asphalt, which must be applied at high temperatures, cold patch works perfectly in ambient conditions.

Key Features:

Ready to use, no heating required

Ideal for all weather conditions

Can be applied by non-professionals

Long-lasting and durable

This makes cold patch asphalt ideal for temporary or emergency repairs, especially in high-traffic zones.

Advantages of Using Cold Mix Asphalt

Cold mix asphalt provides a host of benefits for both municipal and private road maintenance projects:

All-Weather Application One of the most impressive benefits of cold mix asphalt is its ability to perform under any weather. Whether it's raining or freezing, cold mix can be applied easily.

Cost-Effective Repairs Compared to hot asphalt, cold mix reduces the need for heavy machinery and extra labor, saving time and money.

Quick and Convenient Since it requires no heating, the material is ready to use instantly. This makes it perfect for emergency pothole repairs or quick fixes before a storm.

Environmentally Friendly Many cold mixes use recycled materials and reduce carbon emissions, making them a greener alternative to hot mix solutions.

Best Use Cases for Cold Patch Asphalt

Cold patch asphalt is widely used for:

Pothole repair on roads and parking lots

Crack filling in driveways and pavements

Utility cut patching

Emergency road maintenance

Its versatility ensures that it can be applied to both asphalt and concrete surfaces with strong adhesion and lasting results.

How to Apply Cold Mix Asphalt

Clean the damaged area of loose debris and moisture.

Pour the cold mix asphalt directly into the hole or crack.

Compact the material using a tamper or vehicle tire.

Open the area to traffic immediately—no curing time required!

This easy process makes it suitable for quick fixes by city workers or even property owners.

Also read:- Finding Reliable Bitumen Membrane Suppliers in UAE

Conclusion: Choose BituRoll for Quality You Can Trust.

Whether you need an urgent pothole repair or long-term road maintenance solution, cold patch asphalt and cold mix asphalt offer the speed and durability required in today’s fast-paced world. When quality matters, trust the expertise of BituRoll. Known for delivering premium cold mix solutions, BituRoll ensures every repair is quick, reliable, and built to last. Make the smart move—choose BituRoll for road repairs that stand the test of time.

[blazingsporerebel]

Expert Asphalt Paving Contractors in Medway, OH – Your Trusted Partner for Quality Paving Solutions

When it comes to durable, high-quality asphalt paving in Medway, OH, hiring expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH is crucial for long-lasting results. At CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating, we specialize in professional asphalt installation, repair, and maintenance, ensuring your driveways, parking lots, and roadways remain smooth, safe, and visually appealing. With years of experience and a commitment to excellence, we are the go-to choice for residential and commercial paving projects in the region.

Why Choose Professional Asphalt Paving Contractors?

Not all paving companies deliver the same level of quality and durability. Hiring expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH like CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating ensures:

Proper Installation: Correct grading, compaction, and material selection prevent premature cracking and deterioration.

Cost-Effectiveness: A well-installed asphalt surface reduces long-term repair costs.

Enhanced Curb Appeal: A smooth, fresh asphalt surface boosts property value and aesthetics.

Safety Compliance: Professionally paved surfaces minimize tripping hazards and drainage issues.

Our Comprehensive Asphalt Paving Services

At CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating, we offer a full range of paving solutions tailored to your needs:

1. Asphalt Installation & Resurfacing

Whether you need a new driveway, parking lot, or roadway, our team uses premium materials and industry-best practices for a flawless finish.

2. Asphalt Repair & Patching

Cracks and potholes can worsen over time. Our experts provide seamless repairs to extend pavement life.

3. Sealcoating & Maintenance

Regular sealcoating protects asphalt from UV rays, water damage, and oil spills, keeping it looking new for years.

4. Commercial & Municipal Paving

We handle large-scale projects, including shopping centers, industrial lots, and municipal roadways, with precision and efficiency.

The CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating Difference

What sets us apart as the leading expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH?

✔ Experienced & Licensed Professionals – Our team has extensive training in asphalt paving techniques. ✔ Quality Materials – We use only top-grade asphalt mixes for superior durability. ✔ Advanced Equipment – Modern machinery ensures efficient, precise paving. ✔ Customer-Focused Approach – We prioritize clear communication, transparency, and on-time project completion.

Common Asphalt Paving Mistakes to Avoid

Many property owners unknowingly make errors that lead to premature pavement failure. Here’s what to avoid:

Choosing the Cheapest Contractor – Low-cost bids often mean subpar materials and workmanship.

Ignoring Proper Drainage – Poor water runoff causes cracks and erosion.

Skipping Sealcoating – Unprotected asphalt deteriorates faster under weather and traffic.

Delaying Repairs – Small cracks can quickly turn into costly potholes.

How to Maintain Your Asphalt Surface

To maximize the lifespan of your pavement, follow these maintenance tips:

✅ Schedule Regular Sealcoating (Every 2-3 years) ✅ Fill Cracks Promptly (Prevents water seepage and base damage) ✅ Keep It Clean (Remove debris, oil stains, and standing water) ✅ Inspect for Damage (Early detection saves money on major repairs)

Why Medway, OH Homeowners & Businesses Trust Us

As a locally owned and operated company, CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating takes pride in serving Medway, OH, with integrity and expertise. Our satisfied clients include:

Homeowners – Beautiful, durable driveways that last decades.

Businesses – Smooth, professional parking lots that impress customers.

Municipalities – Reliable road paving for safe community travel.

Contact CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating Today!

Ready to upgrade your property with top-tier asphalt paving? As the trusted expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH, CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating is here to deliver exceptional results.

📞 Call us today for a free estimate! 🌐 Visit our website to learn more about our services.

Don’t settle for mediocre paving—choose CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating for unmatched quality and professionalism!

[constructioncivilengineering]

Time delays on a construction site aren't always the result of big problems. Mostly, it's the little concrete tasks such as patch repairs, casting of slabs, or precast items, that hold things up or lead to compromised quality over time. That’s where QuikMix, a concrete solution by Infra.Market, one of the best RMC companies, steps in to save the day.

QuikMix is a high early strength concrete mix, engineered to achieve strength faster than your typical concrete mix. It's perfect for those situations when waiting days for concrete to harden just doesn't make sense. Whether you use QuikMix for the repair work on a pavement, a piece of runway, or a high-rise slab, it can enable fast construction.

[dtelandscape-us]

Top Signs Your Commercial Landscape Needs Regrading

Proper landscape grading plays a vital role in maintaining the health, safety, and aesthetic appeal of commercial properties. From preventing drainage problems to ensuring stable foundations for walkways and structures, grading is not just a cosmetic concern—it’s a functional necessity. Unfortunately, over time, even well-designed landscapes can suffer from uneven terrain, drainage failures, and erosion issues.

Here are the top signs a commercial landscape may need regrading.

Water Pooling in Low Areas

Standing Water Is a Red Flag

One of the most common signs that landscape grading needs attention is the presence of standing water after rainfall or irrigation. If water consistently pools in certain areas of a commercial lawn, parking lot perimeter, or green space, the existing grade may be insufficient to direct water away from the property.

Poor grading can lead to:

Slippery surfaces and safety hazards

Water damage to structures and hardscapes

Increased mosquito activity and pest attraction

Addressing these issues early through professional regrading can protect infrastructure and reduce liability.

Soil Erosion and Exposed Roots

The Landscape Is Losing Its Foundation

Another major indicator that regrading is needed is visible soil erosion. This is often seen on sloped areas where water runs off too quickly, carrying away topsoil and nutrients. Exposed tree roots, bare patches, and sediment build-up at the base of slopes are strong warning signs.

In commercial settings, erosion can lead to:

Tree instability

Loss of plant health

Deterioration of walking paths and common areas

Regrading helps slow down runoff and encourages water absorption into the soil, preventing future erosion and protecting long-term investments in landscape development.

Poor Drainage Around Buildings

Water Should Flow Away, Not Toward

Effective landscape grading ensures that water naturally flows away from building foundations. When grading fails, it can cause water to collect near entrances, building perimeters, or basements. Over time, this increases the risk of:

Foundation cracks

Mold and mildew inside buildings

Costly structural repairs

In commercial spaces like office parks, retail centers, or HOAs, proactive grading adjustments help maintain safety and avoid extensive damage.

Uneven or Sunken Pavement

Grading Affects More Than Just Green Spaces

Landscape grading is not only about soil and grass—it also impacts paved surfaces like sidewalks, driveways, and patios. If these areas begin to slope, sink, or crack, it may be due to shifting subsoil caused by improper grading or long-term water accumulation beneath the surface.

Signs include:

Uneven or tilted pavement

Pooling water along walkways

Cracking or crumbling curbs

Commercial properties must ensure these areas remain safe and ADA-compliant, making regrading a practical and safety-oriented solution.

Persistent Turf Health Issues

Healthy Lawns Depend on Good Drainage

If turf or landscape plantings consistently underperform despite proper maintenance, the issue could lie beneath the surface. Poor drainage caused by faulty grading can deprive roots of oxygen or over-saturate the soil, leading to patchy or yellowing grass and plant stress.

Regrading helps by:

Improving water movement through the soil

Preventing root rot

Enhancing nutrient absorption

For commercial landscape contractors and facility managers, maintaining a healthy, vibrant landscape is often a visible reflection of property quality.

Gutter and Downspout Overflows

Surface Grading Supports Roof Drainage

Overflowing gutters or improperly draining downspouts may be tied to landscape grading issues. If the ground around downspouts is flat or slopes toward buildings, water cannot disperse properly, causing backups and potential damage.

By correcting the landscape grade, water can be channeled effectively to storm drains, rain gardens, or other designated drainage systems, keeping the property dry and functional.

New Construction or Hardscape Changes

Regrading Ensures Long-Term Stability

Whenever new buildings, parking lots, or hardscape elements are added to a commercial property, regrading may be necessary to accommodate changes in water flow and elevation. Ignoring this step can lead to post-construction settling, water issues, and erosion.

A regrading assessment during or after construction ensures:

Proper drainage flow around new features

Long-term durability of hardscapes

Fewer maintenance issues

Commercial landscapes serve as the first impression for clients, tenants, and visitors. Failing to address grading issues can result in safety concerns, costly repairs, and long-term damage to buildings and greenery. Whether it's pooling water, erosion, or cracked walkways, the signs of improper grading should never be ignored.

Investing in professional landscape grading ensures proper drainage, soil stability, and aesthetic value. Regular assessments and timely regrading can protect a commercial property’s appearance and functionality for years to come.