#share and light your path

[sophsweet]

How to Pick and Stick to your purpose, share it and light your path

I’m doing a day on Zoom today, 5th January 2024, with lots of “mindfulness” exercises, which aren’t my thing personally. I like tools and learning. I’m reading a book on stand-up comedy by Adam Bloom and it illustrates the power of talking to an audience as already filled up with ideas and showing them how to release those ideas with minimum barriers while maximum learning by doing. Although my…

[furiousfinnstan]

URGENT!!!Help Abdul Salam Al-Anqar and his family get through this war in Gaza!!!

(URGENT) THEY ARE AT €3,445 OUT OF €50,000 GOAL

I was asked by @nader5555 to make this, if u cannot donate please please share this post. Copy pasted from a message i was sent:

"Only a Few Hours Left Before We Enter Our First Year of War, Genocide, Starvation, and Displacement A Final Plea from the Heart of Hell: Save Us Before Hope Dies 💔🔥 I am Abdel Salam, and I have nothing left but words written by a trembling hand ✍️. The war has not only destroyed our lives; it has taken everything from us. Our home, which was once our refuge, is now a pile of rubble 🏚️.

My car, my only source of livelihood, was destroyed in a sudden strike 🚗, and the work that sustained us is now a distant memory 💼. Today, I live in an endless nightmare. Under a sun that burns everything in its path 🌞🔥, my family and I sit in a worn-out tent, a tent that shields us neither from the summer heat nor the winter cold ❄️. Insects 🦟 invade the place, diseases consume our bodies 🩺, and my younger siblings cry from hunger and thirst 🍞💧. We have no clean water or a crumb of bread to ease our hunger. Each passing day deepens the weight of this hell we live in.

My Daughter Eman is Dying from Malnutrition 😨 My daughter Eman suffers from malnutrition; I have nothing to feed or treat her with. The deterioration of her health is killing me slowly. Every glance in her eyes, every pain she endures, crushes my heart 💔. How can I explain to her that what was once our hope has now turned into nothing but a mirage? The Night Only Adds to Our Pain 🌙 The night does not bring us rest; it only adds to our pain. We sleep on hard ground, feeling the cold in every bone of our bodies 🥶, with nothing but pieces of cardboard 📦 to cover us. My wife Aya cries in silence 🥺 as she watches our daughter’s future fade before her eyes. My mother Eman suffers from illness and needs urgent medical care 🩺💊.

My Father Ahmed is Sick with Cancer and Needs Emergency Treatment My father Ahmed, who is sick with cancer, needs emergency treatment outside Gaza, and the cost of his treatment is at least $10,000, not including accommodation. As he suffers from severe pain, I cannot provide the treatment he needs due to our dire situation.

My Siblings Are in Constant Suffering ⚰️ My brother Omar was unable to continue his studies due to the situation. My brother Nader could not take his high school exams, and my younger brother Mohammad suffers from brittle bones and needs treatment we cannot afford. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the end. Death surrounds us from every side: if not from hunger 🍽️, then from illness 🦠. And if not from illness, then from the despair that devours our souls. Where is Humanity? Where is the World? 🌍💔 We want to leave the devastated Gaza Strip to escape the machinery of destruction and killing and the severity of hunger and poverty. The cost of travel for each person is $5,000, and we are a family of seven members, bringing the total cost to $35,000.

Where are the compassionate hearts? Are you waiting for us to disappear into the depths of this suffering? Are you waiting until death takes us before you act? We are drowning, and we don’t have enough strength to scream for help 🆘. Will you let this cry go unanswered? 😭 Your donation today is our last thread of hope. With the little support I received, I was able to buy a simple phone 📱 to reach out to you. But the bitter truth is that what I and my family need is much greater. We are not asking for much; just enough to save our lives from this hell 🔥. Every donation, no matter how small, could be the difference between life and death for us 👐. Don’t Let Us Disappear in the Darkness of Suffering 🌑 Don’t let our story end here. Be the light that guides us to salvation 🕯️✨.

With every tear, with every pain, I write this final plea to you, Abdel Salam."

taglist

@butchniqabi @xinakwans

@batekush

@appsa

@nerdyqueerr

@butchsunsetshimmer

@biconicfinn @stopmotionguy

@t4tvampireisms

@strangeauthor

@bryoria @shesnake

@legallybrunettedotcom

@lautakwah @sovietunion

@neechees @evillesbianvillain @antibioware

@akajustmerry @dizzymoods

@ree-duh @neptunerings

@explosionshark

@heritageposts

@ibtisams

@schoolteacher

[fatoam232]

A Plea from the Heart: I Am Fatima, and This Is My Story

My name is Fatima, a teacher from Gaza. I used to work in a small school I loved dearly, planting hope in the hearts of children and teaching them that tomorrow could be better. But the war took everything away. My school was bombed, I lost my job, and our home was reduced to rubble. Yet, I refused to give up. I set up a small tent amid the destruction and continued teaching children, showing them that knowledge is a light that cannot be extinguished, even in the darkest times.

My husband, Akram, was my partner and pillar of support. But he was severely injured in an attack targeting civilians. His abdominal injuries are so severe that he can no longer work or even lift basic items. Every day, I see the pain in his eyes and feel the weight of helplessness, but I try to stay strong for him and for our children.

Our eldest, Manar, is four years old, and she’s missing out on her childhood amidst this devastation. Our youngest, Ibrahim, was born under bombardment just a year ago. He has suffered greatly due to the lack of milk and proper medical care. Yet, sometimes, he smiles, and in those brief moments, I find the strength to keep going.

We now live in a fragile tent that doesn’t shield us from the cold or rain. Every day is a new battle for survival. I write these words while holding my children’s hands, with nothing left but my faith in God and the hope that your kind hearts will hear our plea.

Please help us provide milk and food for our children, ease Akram’s pain, and rebuild even a small part of the life the war has destroyed. Every donation, no matter how small, makes a big difference in our lives.

I ask you to share our story and be our support during this harsh and unforgiving time.

Donation link

Ghost 90 verified

Les escribo con gran pesar. Pedí a alguien que creara una campaña de recaudación de fondos para mis hijos, para que pudiéramos sobrevivir a los bombardeos y el hambre. Se recaudó un total de $4,531. Desafortunadamente, los fondos nunca me llegaron😭, ya que fui yo quien cerró la campaña sin entregar el dinero. Este dinero no era solo para mí; era la esperanza de mis hijos de tener algo de comer para alimentarse en estas duras circunstancias. A pesar de la decepción y la traición, no he perdido la fe en sus corazones compasivos. Hoy💔 empiezo desde cero... con la única esperanza de que me apoyarán. Yo misma he creado una nueva campaña de recaudación de fondos💔 y les ruego que me ayuden de nuevo y compartan este enlace con la mayor cantidad de personas posible🫂. Ustedes son nuestra última esperanza.🙏❤️

[iydiamartinx]

RIDDLE ME THIS, HOODS GOT A GIRL?

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 1.7k synopsis: The Bats need information, Jason has an informant...who might also be more. a/n: I feel so utterly single writing these imagines, but I only want one of the bat boys 😭

The night sky over Gotham shone with its usual smog-streaked clouds faintly glowing orange from the city’s lights.

Inside the Batcave, it was a whirl of activity as the team tried to figure out the Riddler's location.

“We need someone who knows Riddler’s movements—someone who’s worked with his patterns recently,” Bruce said, gaze narrowed on the glowing map display.

Jason leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, helmet tucked under one arm. “I’ve got someone.”

Tim paused mid-keystroke. “You’ve got someone?”

Dick raised a brow. “Someone you’re willing to share with the class?”

“She’s not exactly a people person,” Jason said with a lazy shrug, already turning to leave. “But she’s solid. I’ll get the info.”

“No way,” Damian said flatly. “If there’s an informant involved, we’re all going.”

Jason sighed. “She’s not exactly an informant.”

“But she has intel,” Dick added, voice teasing. “And you just happen to be the one she’s willing to talk to? Sounds suspicious.”

Jason shot him a look that could’ve cracked concrete. “Just stay out of the way.”

They met you beneath the derelict train yard off Kane Street—barely lit, long forgotten, and exactly the kind of place no one stumbled into by accident. The rusted metal groaned in the breeze, and the distant hum of Gotham felt muted here, swallowed by shadows and silence. You were already waiting, perched atop a decaying train car like a sentinel, one leg bent, the other dangling with casual ease.

The moment they stepped into view, you jumped down with fluid grace, boots landing soundlessly on the gravel below. The black and steel tactical gear you wore clung to every sharp line of your body, outlining lethal efficiency. Twin pistols were strapped tight against your thighs, and the half-raised hood left your expression mostly concealed—save for the sharp glint of your eyes.

“You’re late,” You said, voice low and smooth.

Jason smirked beneath the helmet. “Traffic.”

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t sound convinced.

That was when Nightwing stepped forward, all charm and sunshine grins, as if that smile of his could melt any armour. “And who might you be, gorgeous?”

Your eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “Not interested.”

Tim coughed into his hand, clearly trying to hide a laugh. Damian smirked, crossing his arms with a tilt of smug satisfaction. Both of them had encountered you before—brief run-ins during missions that didn’t last long. You were direct. Cold. All business. No patience for pleasantries or ego-stroking.

It was one of the reasons Bruce was even considering pulling you into the fold. Claiming, he needed more serious people but everyone was sure he needed someone who brooded as much as him. But tonight you didn’t seem as broody.

Jason tilted his head. “Play nice.”

“I am,” You shot back, then turned back to him—and your tone shifted. 

You took a few deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between you and Jason until the toe of your boot nearly touched his. Your fingers reached out, grazing the edge of his chest armour.

“You look good, Hood,” you said, voice low and sly. “Still wearing red for me?”

Jason’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk pulling beneath his helmet. “Figured it hides the blood.”

Your lips curved into dark dangerous amusement. “You always did bleed pretty.”

A cough from behind broke the charged silence.

“I didn’t know you two had met,” Tim said, cautious, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“We’ve crossed paths,” you replied smoothly, gaze still locked on Red Hood like no one else existed. “Several times.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, his stance loose but alert. “She saved my ass once.”

“And he returned the favour,” You replied.

“You got something for me?” he asked, jumping into business.

You reached into her jacket, producing a drive between two gloved fingers, holding it just out of his reach. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

“You know what I want,” You crooned.

Jason’s reply was steady, unwavering. “You know I always deliver.”

That earned a smirk from you. You leaned in just a touch more, voice a soft purr. “You gonna say please, Hood?”

Jason reached out, his hand closing lightly around your wrist. The grip was firm, a warning more than a threat. “Don’t push.”

Your eyes sparked with interest—delight, even. “Oh, but it’s so fun.”

Still, this time, you relented. Slowly, purposefully, you stepped closer and tucked the drive into the utility pouch strapped at his hip. Your hand lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the gear, grazing the curve of his waist.

“Under Tricorner,” you said quietly, close enough now your breath warmed the space beneath his helmet. “He’s nesting under the old cathedral ruins. You’ll want to take the west tunnel—avoid the gas traps.”

“Appreciate it,” he replied, but his voice was a little rougher now.

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You always know how to say thank you.”

And then, with the same casual audacity you wielded like a blade, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the underside of his helmet leaving behind the faintest mark of your lipstick

Backing away, you turned on your heel, already fading into the fog that clung to the edges of the train yard. But your parting words were clear. “You know how to find me… to pay up, Hood.”

Then you were gone, swallowed by the dark as if you’d never been there at all.

The boys stared at Jason in stunned silence.

He turned slowly, expression unreadable beneath the helmet, and said dryly, “What?”

Dick blinked, visibly thrown. “You and her?”

“I told you she’s not a people person and…” Jason shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “We’ve got history.”

“I—how long has this been happening?” Tim asked, looking genuinely lost.

Jason was already walking past them, shoulders relaxed, “Long enough.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, trailing behind. “What kind of payment is she demanding from you?”

Jason didn’t even look back.

“None of your business, Demon Spawn.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

Riddler had been taken care of and Jason was finally off the clock. But instead of heading to his apartment, he headed over to another.

He slipped through the open window, careful not to get tangled in the curtains as they fluttered in the warm breeze. The light in the kitchen dimmed low. The soft trace of gunmetal and something sweeter, like vanilla lingered in the air.

His armour peeled off piece by piece, left in a silent trail across the hardwood. Chest plate. Gloves. Utility belt. Boots. Until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

The bedroom door was cracked. Light from the street spilled across the bed in thin golden ribbons, illuminating the figure curled beneath the sheets.

She was there. Tucked into the centre of the mattress, tangled in a nest of linen and shadows. His shirt—an old, faded thing he’d once bled in and meant to throw out—was all she wore, slipping off one shoulder and riding high on her thighs.

She always looked like a contradiction like that. Sharp in every moment of the night—cold eyes, cutting voice, touch like a weapon—and soft here, in the early mornings. Laid bare and defenceless in the place no one else got to see.

Jason paused in the doorway, his breath catching for reasons he didn’t want to name. He didn’t get softness often. He didn’t let himself want it. But here… here it waited for him.

Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fanned against her cheeks, one hand curled beneath her chin.

He moved quietly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he settled behind her. She stirred—just a little—but didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t need to. Her body curved instinctively back into his.

“Mm,” You murmured, barely a whisper. “Thought I felt you…”

Jason’s voice was rough, low against your ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Liar.” Your voice was sleep-drenched, teasing. “You always do.”

He let his arm curl around your waist, pulling you close until your back was flush against his chest, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck.

“Riddler’s out of the picture,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Gotham’s quiet… for now.”

You smiled against the pillow, but it was fleeting—because a heartbeat later, you moved.

With a slow arch of your spine and a shift of muscle, you rolled, tossing your leg over his hip in one fluid, practiced motion that had him flat on his back before he could blink. You were straddling him now, perched above with that smug, lazy grin he’d come to recognize—and maybe dread just a little.

“Which means,” you purred, voice low and velvet-rich, “it’s time for you to pay up.”

Jason huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “You made that up,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like he was trying not to smile. “You spun that whole ‘transactional intel’ stuff just so my brothers wouldn’t find out about us.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your fingertips ghosted over his chest—trailing from the dip of his collarbone to the ridges of muscle, your nails skimming along the old scar just over his heart, making him twitch. “Doesn’t matter,” you whispered, leaning down so your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “You agreed to the terms.”

Your voice dropped to a sultry murmur, wicked with promise. “And what I want… is you. All to myself. For the next few days. No patrol. No Bat drama. Just you. That’s how this works, baby.”

His arms encircled you before you could fully retreat, keeping you flush against him. One hand tangled into your hair, possessive and grounding, while the other slid along your thigh, reverent and slow, stopping just beneath the hem of his shirt that barely covered you.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice husky now, low and warm.

“Guilty,” you breathed, lips brushing against his.

And then he pulled you down.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. Deep and warm, burning slow and sure as his hand tightened in your hair and yours slid along his ribs. You melted into him like you always did.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to press his forehead against yours. His voice was barely more than a breath.

“You know you always have me to yourself.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good. Because I don’t share.”

Jason smirked, voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you if you tried.”

[gaza-giving-tree]

Imagine spending the night under relentless bombing, unsure if you or your children will see the morning light. Imagine being told to flee—again—not knowing where safety lies.

Images: (Top) Hossam and his daughter Diana (Middle) Map of the evacuation notice given to about 80% of Khan Yunis residents (Bottom) A close up map of the evacuation area. Hossam's family is in square #111.

@naimq

Story written by @rumiandroses

Hossam Al-Qazzaz, his wife Hanan, and their four young children, are among the 80% of Khan Younis residents now ordered to evacuate toward the coast.

They are currently in Square 111, a region dangerously close to the so-called "evacuation zones" that are actively being bombed.

Hossam has shared that their area is expected to be targeted next—and they fear that when the next order comes, they will be forced to flee into even deadlier zones.

Last night (05/18/2025) was horrific. “We never imagined that we would be alive in the morning,” Hossam wrote. Now, with communications at risk of being cut off, Hossam has asked the world to share his message and pray for his family’s survival.

His hope is to find a path to safety, to protect his loved ones, and to stay alive long enough to rebuild.

Please, share this post, pray for Hossam and his family, and consider donating if you can, so that this precious family can continue to survive.

You can donate to Hossam's GoFundMe here:

Hossam's campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters and is (#287) on their list of verified campaigns.

[ryusjwks]

yapping abt nonmc

Non-MC reader fanfics are always written by authors who know exactly how to hurt a person. The pain is so intense and so well-crafted that, dear God, sometimes I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. And after a while, I start to see myself as that woman—waiting to be loved but never receiving it in return.

Imagine loving someone. Looking at them with the most fragile, the most human part of your heart. When you hear their voice, everything inside you comes to a halt, and your entire existence shifts toward them. But they… they don’t even notice you. Or if they do, their recognition is not with the powerful grasp of love, but with the light touch of mere acknowledgment.

To you, they are a star, the very center of the universe. But to them, you are just another speck of light in the sky. If you were to disappear, they wouldn’t feel your absence. You turn back, realizing your hands are empty, crushed under the weight of your love. And they? They continue revolving around another world, another sun.

You are a meteor, trying to rise and shine, but unable to enter their orbit—shattered by the gravity of a planet that was never meant to hold you. You dissolve into dust, fading into silence. And they move on, as if nothing ever happened.

This plays out differently for each character, but the ending remains the same.

In Zayne’s case, you are either his fiancée or his wife. He is always cold and distant. His words are measured, his presence heavy yet quiet. Even if storms rage behind his eyes, his face remains unreadable. He has always been this way, and you have accepted it.

But then, he smiles—at her.

That smile is like spring breaking through the ice, subtle, warm, and gentle. As if, for just a moment, the layers of frost within him have melted. And in that moment, you realize he was never truly like this—not for everyone. He is not just a distant man; he is only distant toward you.

And that’s when it sinks in. A weight settles inside you, stealing your breath for just a second. Because you have seen it now—he can be affectionate, he can be warm, he can smile. But that smile was never meant for you.

You are likely Sylus’s assistant, though in rare cases, you might be his wife. Sylus has always been indifferent—to everyone. To you. You walked in his shadow on the battlefield, threw yourself in front of bullets for him, but to him, it was merely necessity. A duty. Your presence was nothing more than part of the mission. Until she came along.

With her arrival, Sylus changed. His face softened when he looked at her, the sharpness in his voice faded. He made sacrifices for her, and when he spoke to her, the rigidness in his posture eased. Sylus was no longer the man you knew. Everyone questioned if he was still the same person, but you already knew the truth.

He hadn’t changed. He had simply never been yours.

With Xavier and Rafael, the pattern is almost identical. You are nothing more than a companion who has traveled through centuries with them, defying time itself.

As time weaves its path, they always take the lead—making decisions, guiding, fighting. And you? You are merely a shadow beside them. A witness. While they sacrificed their homelands for love, you were the one who heard the cries of the people they left behind. On one side was their passionate devotion, and on the other, your quiet grief.

For them, time had stopped. But for you, the world kept turning, though it no longer resembled the place you once knew.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb was always by MC’s side. He was her protector, her shield, her most trusted person. And you were there too. You grew up in the same house, sat at the same dinner table, shared the same stories. But his eyes always sought only MC.

Through the years, you watched how he looked at her. How he stepped forward at the slightest sign of danger, how every word he spoke to her carried an unshakable certainty. You bore witness to his protection, his sacrifices, his unwavering love—but never once was any of it directed at you.

You were there too. You lived those same moments. But you were never the center of his world.

Some see her as a mistress, a backup, an extra wedged between the main character and the LI. As if she were a mere footnote in someone else’s story, placed there by mistake. But she’s not.

She is not just someone trying to insert herself where she doesn’t belong. She was there from the very beginning. She walked the same path, fought the same battles, gazed at the same sky. She was never a stranger lingering on the edges of the story—she was a part of it.

The difference is that her name was never written into the main plot. Her words never echoed, her presence was never at the center. And yet, she was never just a replacement. Because love isn’t a competition, it isn’t a role to be filled, it isn’t about winners and losers.

She simply loved. With everything she had, without expecting anything in return. Her eyes were always on him, but his eyes were never on her.

[chamisulgrape]

i need a big boy 𖤐 [p.sh]

you've heard the stories and you know what happens to bunnies that enter the woods at night. really, it’s your fault. you knew this would happen. it’s like you wanted this… no? oh, but didn’t you?

pairing → wolf!sunghoon x afab bunny!reader word count → 3.9k tags → oneshot, wolf!sunghoon x bunny!reader, little red riding hood inspired, petnames (bun, bunny, u get it), reader is a little dumb smut tags → pwp, noncon/dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f!receiving), loss of virginity, some blood, blood kink, virginity kink, breeding kink, mentions of womb/cervix/cherry-popping, knotting, saliva/drool, squirting, biting/claiming, mentions of death, this is just a tiny bit nasty :3 warnings → pls heed the tags! noncon/dubcon claiming :3 lapslock + not proofread i’m sleep deprived and Crazy rn. a/n → wrote this trying to get out of my writer’s block </3 pls enjoy my belligerent 1am insanity

♪ all the girls are needing, i need a big boy give me a big boy, i need a big boy

minors dni. dark content ahead.

“h-hello? is anyone there?”

your voice is soft and shaky. your soft, plush white ears stand tall as they flick, listening for something—anything. your tail is stiff in fear and you can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

you don’t know how you got here; the middle of the dark, dangerous woods that are in no way a place for something like you, at least not this late at night. you’ve never ventured this far at night, you know better—you know that it isn’t safe for bunnies like you.

you’ve heard the stories of what happens to bunnies like you when they get caught. you’ve seen the bodies brought back to your village—bloodied, mangled, dead and used. every corpse that was brought back reeked of… of wolves.

you were just supposed to be on your way to your grandma’s house. every month, on the same day, your grandma calls you to her house for a visit. usually you make the journey with your mother, but your mother is terribly sick with a cold and told you it was okay for you to venture alone.

“you’ll be okay, sunshine. whatever you do, stay on the trail. do not leave the path. if it starts getting dark, come back.” your mom’s voice was sweet and caring as she packed you a basket with treats for you and your grandma to share.

your mother trusted you enough with this, and you didn’t want to let her down. you missed your grandma terribly and wanted nothing more than to make it to her house safely.

but—there’s always a but.

you’re lost.

somehow you managed to stray from the trail. something distracted you, but in your fear you can’t even seem to recall what it was. one second you were walking the trail like a good daughter, and the next the sun was gone and so was the path.

you tried to find your way back, but it only caused you to be more confused and lost. it was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the full moon. you were whimpering in fear. the full moon only means one thing: wolves.

somewhere along your search back to the trail, you heard something. there was a snap! then it was quiet, too quiet. the silence is eerie, uncomfortable. you feel like you’re being watched… like something is there with you, watching you, waiting for you.

you let out another sound of distress, your ears flicking anxiously. you freeze when you hear the sound again, closer this time. you don’t move—you can’t. you’re frozen in place, just like a helpless prey.

“hello? is anyone there?” your voice shakes. you’re trembling, your fingers gripping the basket so tight that the wood starts to splinter. “hello?”

then, you hear a chuckle. the sound is low, deep, and it echoes and resonates deep within you.

“tsk, tsk, tsk.” the voice is getting closer. “poor little bunny, are you lost?”

your eyes widen like saucers when the owner of the voice shows itself. a wolf. you’re frozen in fear still, not knowing whether to run and hide or to freeze and accept your fate.

“w-wolf!” you stutter, your voice not able to reach a complete scream. you can’t scream, you can’t run. it’s too late.

“pretty bunny, are you lost?” the wolf repeats himself. “i can show you the way. i don’t bite.”

the wolf emphasizes the word with a big grin, the moonlight glints and his canines radiate.

“oh, what sharp teeth you have,” you whimper. “you’re not going to eat me?”

“no, bunny,” the wolf still has that wolfish grin on hus face. “i would never eat a bunny. i’m a nice wolf, you can trust me…”

“_____,” against your better judgement, you tell the wolf your name. “will you really show me the way?”

“yes, bunny,” the wolf nods, taking a few steps closer. his eyes rake up and down your trembling body, and his gaze stops at the very end of your cloak. “my name is sunghoon, bun.”

“s-sunghoon?”

the wolf, sunghoon, nods. “sounds so pretty comin’ from your mouth, bun. what are you doing out here all alone? it isn’t safe for an innocent bunny like you. you’d be eaten alive by some real bad wolves by now if i hadn’t found you.”

your cheeks heat, and your gaze drops to the floor. your ears droop at the shame of being lost. “i’m just trying to make it to my grandma’s house, mr. wolf. she lives near the middle of the forest, by the big lake.”

“ah, does she now?” sunghoon licks his lips. “i know exactly where that is. you’re lucky you ran into me tonight, bun. i can show you the way.”

“really?” you perk up, meeting his eyes again. he’s closer now, so close that if you reached your arm out you would be able to touch him. he smells… oddly okay, not like how the other bunnies at your village describe wolves to smell like. he smells of grass and flowers and oak, not like the blood of bunnies. “please, please, please!”

sunghoon chuckles, his gaze dark as he looks down at you. the height difference is jarring, he’s over a head taller than you, and from up close you can see that he’s big.

he’s way bigger than you, his arms are so big that the plain t-shirt he’s wearing looks small, way too small for his body. he has prominent veins along his forearms and hands that pop out and twitch with his every movement, and his chest is so extremely large that it looks as if he has ginormous pecs. his shoulders are so broad, and you think that sunghoon is probably very strong.

“of course, bunny. you just have to follow me. i know a shortcut to the lake. it’s very close, just up ahead. maybe another half mile.” sunghoon reaches his hand out, offering it to you. “come, bun. let me take you.”

you’re trusting—too trusting for your own good—as you take his hand, letting him enclose his large palm over your small hand.

sunghoon leads you deeper into the woods, and you follow him blindly. you can’t wait to be at your grandma’s house, and you trust that sunghoon will lead you there in no time.

it’s odd, though. you haven’t seen or heard a single animal or creature near you in minutes.

“you’re very pretty, bunny. your cloak seems so soft and warm.” sunghoon’s voice breaks the silence. “i wonder, what are you wearing underneath it?”

“thank you. my grandma gifted me this cloak,” you say, softly. “i’m wearing a dress my grandma also handmade for me.”

“mmm,” sunghoon hums. “you smell very good, bun. like chocolate and vanilla. i wonder how you taste, too.”

you shiver. “what?”

“nothing, bun. we’re almost there.”

you start to tremble again, but then you smell the water, and you know the lake is near. your parents always told you to not trust wolves, that wolves will only tear you apart and lick your bones clean one by one, but this wolf—sunghoon, has been trustworthy. he didn’t eat you.

the lake comes into view moments later, the water practically sparkles underneath the moonlight.

you gasp. “sunghoon! you really brought me here! thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“i told you, bunny,” sunghoon grins. “your grandma’s house should be near. are you staying overnight?”

“no, i’m supposed to return home tonight, my parents will be worried sick if i don’t…”

“then i shall wait for you, bun. i will accompany you on your way back home to make sure you make it safe and sound.”

“oh,” you say, surprised. “you would do that?”

“of course. i have to make sure you don’t get eaten by any wolves… hm?”

“o-okay,” you murmur, sheepish. “i shouldn’t be long.”

sunghoon nods, and you rush off to your grandma’s. her house is only around the corner, so the walk is quick.

you think about sunghoon the whole way there. he proved that wolves aren’t all bad. some wolves can be trusted and some wolves won’t eat you. everything you’ve learned about wolves was wrong, and you can’t wait to go back to your village and spread the new information you learned.

“grandma! i’m here!”

your grandma’s house is warm and comforting as you enter. you set the basket of goods on her small wooden table.

“dear! you made it!” your grandma approaches you, rushing you into a hug. “i was so scared, dear. it’s so late at night.”

“yes, grandma. i’m safe.” you reassure her. “mom packed you some sweets, your favorite.”

“ah, did she—” your grandma stills. “dear, what’s that smell?”

you sniff the air. “what do you mean?”

“you—you reek of wolf!”

“grandma, it’s okay! please, calm down! the wolf helped me here! he didn’t try to eat me!”

“you’re a traitor—traitor!” your grandma backs away in horror. “you brought a wolf here? you need to leave, now.”

“no, grandma, please! he wouldn’t hurt me, or you!” you reach for her, wanting to console her, but she flinches away like she’s been burned.

“no family of mine will be in contact with a wolf,” your grandma spits the word like it’s poison. “get out. never come back.”

“no, grandma!”

she rushes you out the door, locking it behind you and leaving you out in the cold with nothing but your cloak. you sniffle, hot tears making their way down your cheeks as you sob and knock on the door rapidly.

“grandma! please! let me in!” you cry, helplessly holding onto the doorknob like she’ll open it. “please!”

it seems like an eternity that passes before you get tired of trying. your grandma disowned you and left you in the cold. you can’t go back, what if the rest of the town also treats you the same way? what do you do?

you get a brilliant idea then. you’ll go to the lake and wash yourself. you’ll wash the scent of sunghoon away and make it back home. nobody will know.

you make it a few steps before you smell it again—him.

“bunny? what’s wrong?” sunghoon steps into view. his face is masked with concern and pity. “poor little bunny, why are you crying?”

“my grandma—she,” the thought of your grandma has you breaking down once more. you rush into sunghoon’s arms, his big chest comforts you. “she left me! she told me to get out as i smell like a wolf, and told me she never wanted to see me again!”

sunghoon cradles your head as you sob into his chest. “shh, there, there. it’ll be alright, bunny. she just doesn’t understand.”

“i have to go to the lake—i have to wash off before i go home. or else they—they won’t accept me back.”

“okay, bunny. let’s go to the lake and wash you off. then i’ll walk you home, okay?” sunghoon’s voice is deep and low, and somehow comforting.

you nod, sniffling, and let sunghoon lead you to the lake, hand in hand.

sunghoon is quiet as he leads you both knee deep into the water. he reaches for your cloak, and you let him undress you. your cries quiet now, only sniffles escape every few moments.

sunghoon drops your cloak somewhere below you, before reaching for the straps of your small, silk babydoll dress.

he sucks in a breath, but you’re too overwhelmed by your grandma to pay any mind to it. he undoes the straps one by one, before letting your dress slide down and fall into the water as well.

“bunny,” sunghoon murmurs. “kneel and wash yourself.”

you obey, making sure to rinse yourself and get rid of the wolf scent on you. after your fur is soaked and your body is freezing, you consider yourself clean enough.

“bunny, you’re shaking,” sunghoon says. “are you cold?”

you nod, and sunghoon coos. “but your clothes are all wet. whatever will we do?”

“i-i don’t know…” you’re freezing and trembling so much that your teeth chatter as your tail drips water into the lake. “it’s so cold.” you whine.

“aw, is my bunny cold?” sunghoon coos again. “do you need me to warm you up?”

you nod, and sunghoon grins. “come here, bunny. come to me.”

you step closer to him, and he pulls you in roughly. he wraps his arms around you, enclosing your body with his larger one. he’s so warm, extremely warm, and you let out a soft sigh as your body finally starts to warm up.

“you’re so small, bunny,” sunghoon’s breath hits your ears as he speaks. “and so soft, so supple and soft.”

you whine, shy, and then you feel it.

“s-sunghoon… something is poking me,” you whisper.

“is there?” sunghoon murmurs, his voice low and dripping something you aren’t sure of.

the hardness you feel twitches, pressing deeper against your thigh. you’re scared to look down, scared of what you might see.

“sunghoon, it—it’s…”

“fuck,” sunghoon growls, suddenly. you flinch at his outburst, your ears stiffening and standing tall upon your head. “i can’t hold back anymore.”

“sunghoon, what?” you say, your voice shaking.

sunghoon ignores you, picking you up and out of the water, carrying you in his arms as he reaches grass and mud again.

“you make me crazy, bun,” sunghoon’s voice is rough as he speaks. “i can’t hold back anymore. not when you’re nude and presenting yourself so nicely to me.”

“s-sunghoon?” you tremble in his hold. he releases you, then, to put you back onto your feet.

when you meet his eyes again, he looks different. gone is the comforting face you thought you knew, and now there’s a predatory, evil look in his eyes.

“please, sunghoon, you’re scaring me.” you plead, whisper. “sunghoon?”

it’s like he can’t hear you. he doesn’t answer as he leans down, his hands on your bare waist as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply.

“fuck, bun, you smell so good,” sunghoon groans, and you feel the hardness return. sunghoon grinds against your leg, and your tail stiffens in fear. “you smell so delicious, bunny. so perfect for me. i’m going to tear you apart.”

“sunghoon, no! please!” you cry and beg. he wouldn’t eat you, he’d never, right?

“don’t worry, bun. i’m not going to eat you,” sunghoon chuckles and it vibrates against your skin. he licks a stripe from your collarbone to your ear, before whispering, “but i’m going to ravage you. you’re mine now, bunny.”

you tremble in his hold, cringing at the feeling of his tongue against your skin. “no! sunghoon! please, please!”

then suddenly, sunghoon lets you go. “no?”

“no!” you cry, pleading. “please!”

“run, bunny,” sunghoon smirks, his sharp canines making an appearance again. “i’ll count to three. i’ll give you a headstart. if i catch you, i get to take you.”

you turn on your heels immediately, scrambling to run for your life. you’re still naked, and the ground is rough on your feet as you try to dodge rocks and branches.

“one…”

you’re heaving, running so hard that you feel like you might throw up.

“two…”

but bunnies are known for being quick, aren’t they?

“three! i’m coming, bunny. you can’t hide from me!”

your heart drops. you don’t know where you are, but you know that sunghoon is already close, you hear his footsteps gradually getting closer to you, and you have nowhere to hide. you look around frantically, looking for something, anything.

your eyes land on a small hole, just big enough to burrow yourself in. that’s it, you think. you’ll hide there.

you’re almost in the hole, digging yourself deeper when you smell him.

“poor little bunny,” sunghoon’s voice is too close. “are you lost?”

he growls, and you feel his fingers close around your ankle as you get violently dragged from the hole. you were so close.

you let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“found you.” sunghoon looks crazy. he’s panting, his eyes wide with excitement. “i told you, you can’t hide from me. you’re mine. i could smell your fear from a mile away. could smell your sweet, little pussy calling out to me.

“no! please, let me go!” you thrash in his hold, but it’s no use. sunghoon is stronger than you as he straddles your hips, your wrists above your head and held by one of his hands as the other explores your body.

“shhh, bun. i’ll take good care of you,” sunghoon laughs, in a frenzy. “you smell unmated, fresh and sweet. i’ve never taken a bunny before. it’ll be both our first times, hm?”

you can’t reply anymore, you’re choking on your spit and tears, and you’re more than sure that there’s snot rolling down the sides of your cheeks as well.

“sweet, virgin bunny,” sunghoon leans in to lick your cheek, eating up all your tears and wetness. “you taste so good, i wonder how you taste down here.”

you kick your legs and thrash when sunghoon lifts his hips. it’s the wrong move, because sunghoon comes back up to snap his teeth at you. he bites at your jaw, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you go limp—tranquilizing you.

“stay still, bunny. or i really might just eat you instead.”

you cry silently, finally giving up as sunghoon disappears below you. he spreads your legs open, exhaling at the sight of your pussy, all presented to him.

“you look delicious,” sunghoon leans in, inhaling deeply as he uses his fingers to spread your folds, exposing yourself to him. you feel wetness as he licks a stripe from your asshole to your clit. “you taste so good—i’m never going to get enough of you, bunny.”

you whimper as he licks you—practically eating you with his mouth. your clit is sensitive, the nub starting to swell against your will as he continues to devour you with his tongue.

“bunny,” sunghoon murmurs. “you like this, don’t you?”

“n-no! no, no!” you say, weak. you shake your head, trembling as your ears flatten.

“oh? but your body betrays you. your hole is already getting itself ready for my cock.” sunghoon chuckles, evil. “so wet already.”

sunghoon trails his fingers from your thighs to your pussy, and your hole flutters as he slowly sticks his two fingers past your entrance.

“fuck, bun, you’re so tight,” sunghoon groans. “your little virgin pussy is going to break when i get my cock in you. how are you going to take my knot like this?”

your eyes widen in fear. “knot? no—sunghoon, i can’t!”

“but you will,” sunghoon raises himself, and you’re horrified to see that he’s already nude. his cock is huge, hard and leaking. his cock is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple with how hard he is. “you’ll make it fit. it’s okay if it doesn’t. i’m still going to take you anyways.”

you shake your head as he gets closer to you, one hand around his cock as the tip prods at your entrance. “no! sunghoon! i’m not ready—you’re going to break me! please!”

sunghoon growls. “shut up. take it. take it like the innocent virgin bunny you are. i’m going to ruin you, you’re going to reek of alpha once i’m done with you. you’ll never be able to go home after this.”

he pushes into you roughly, and you can’t hold back the scream you let out. your voice cracks with the intensity of your scream. the pain is unbearable, your body just wants to cave in on itself and shut down.

“fuck, you’re so tight. i’m going to break you. i’m going to fill you with my litter. you’re never leaving, you’ll take my cum and carry my pups forever.”

sunghoon groans, his eyes never leaving yours as he fucks into you roughly, his balls slapping against your buttcheeks with every thrust. you smell the blood—the blood that leaves your cunt as sunghoon’s cock breaks past the first layer inside of you. it drips down your cheeks and onto the dirty ground beneath you, and you’re ashamed.

you’re no longer a virgin anymore. you’ve been taken and broken in by the worst kind—a wolf.

sunghoon growls, animalistic, slamming into you at a pace ao brutal that it bruises your insides—bruising your cervix. then you feel it, the tip of his cock breaching so deep into you, practically reaching your womb.

“you feel that?” sunghoon groans, rolling his eyes. “i’m so deep inside you, bunny. i’ve broken you, i’m going to fuck you so good, every day, every day until your stomach is round with my pups. and then i’ll do it again, and again, and again.”

you cry, but your body betrays you. the pain and pleasure makes you want to just die. you’re torn between submitting and fighting back.

your body seems to decide for you as you tighten around sunghoon’s cock.

“fuck, yeah, you like this, don’t you? you like being used by me, huh? fucking whore. just wanted to get your virginity stolen away from you by a big, bad wolf, hm? that’s all you really needed, right?”

sunghoon never lets up. his cock pushes past the entrance of your womb with every thrust, and he’s losing himself in the feeling of being inside your tight, wet heat. your walls are so soft, so tight, practically sucking him in every time he pulls back out, just to slam back in harder than before.

your body keeps betraying you, because on a particularly hard thrust, you seize up, releasing wet, clear liquid all over sunghoon’s cock.

“i’m—i’m peeing!” you squeal, your release still squirting like a waterfall on sunghoon’s cock.

“fuck, bunny, your little pussy just squirted all over me. you like it that much? fuck, fuck,” sunghoon growls, leaning down and pressing his face into your neck. “that’s it, keep squirting on alpha’s cock, just like that. make it all wet for me, fuck!”

sunghoon does the unimaginable then; he bites you. his teeth sink deep into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting down and breaking skin, his canines drawing blood from you.

you cry and scream and thrash in his hold, your pussy weakly clenching around his cock as he forces his mating bite onto you—claiming you as his for life.

you feel his cock swell, growing larger and bigger. you panic, trying to push him off of you, but it’s no use. he’s going to knot you, and you have no choice but to take it.

he pushes into you, breaking you open and shoving his knot inside of you. it hurts, you feel like you’ve been ripped open, and you can feel his body shake with pleasure as he finally releases his cum into your womb.

he keeps grinding and grinding as his cock shoots out more cum, filling you up with his white, hot release, marking you from the inside out.

he releases your neck, then, finally pulling his teeth out of you. you meet his eyes in horror, your mouth dropping open with a sob when you see blood—your blood all over sunghoon’s lips and chin.

he smirks, his teeth stained red, as he licks his lips.

“you’re mine now, little bunny. you can’t ever hide from me again.”

sunghoon grinds his cock, inflated with his knot, inside of you, and you know now—this is never going to end.

a/n: i feel insane it’s 2am i finished this in an hour pls bare w me if there r any mistakes…

masterlist

[stylesispunk]

"I don't want to look at anything else but you"

post outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

summary: You and Joel had found peace in the quiet life you had built together in Jackson. Despite him hurting from the growing distance between him and Ellie, he knows he has you and you have his back.

wc: 6,4k.

warnings: a bit of angst for joel but is mostly fluff. Age gap but not specified. Remember English is not my first language and i'm lazy when it comes to checking.

a/n: okay. I didn't write a lot of blind faith during this week and I'm giving you this other joel fic as a sorry and because i'm already grieving Joel. I hope you like it 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Ever since you and Joel had settled into a normal, quiet life in Jackson. The dynamic between the two of you changed. The cold mornings spent outdoors turned into mornings wrapped in sheets. Just the two of you, your head on his chest and his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible. The first taste of normalcy Joel had experienced since the world had ended that September, back at more than twenty-three years ago.

It hadn't been the easiest path, not for you, nor for him. Years ago, when your paths connected, everything was just a form of ashes and violence; the QZ had been nothing more than a temporary shelter with concrete walls and a rot at its core. But somehow, in that rotten place disguised as the safe, you had found Joel. Or perhaps he had found you. Either way, you clung to each other ever since.

He was older than you, weathered by loss no human could even bear, hard edges above the walls he had built around himself, walls that didn’t crumble easily. And you, well, you were younger, yes, but you’d also seen enough to understand him without needing him to utter a word. You both learnt the secrecy of a language driven by gestures and glances. That's exactly what got him first. The way you looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with a kind of love that had grown as a rose after a long winter.

You were his constant, the thing he always saw beyond the horizon. The light at the end of the alley was where everything seemed to be driven by madness. He had never told you just how much that meant, how many nights he lost sleep, awake beside you in that worn-out mattress you both shared at QZ, eyes tracing the ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve someone like you. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. But you stayed anyway. Even when the Fireflies spread lies about change. Even when the world outside called to you both with the promise of something more deserving of a life.

And then came Ellie. The girl who turned everything upside down. The moment Joel took her in, you followed without hesitation, without question. Because you never questioned, you followed your heart, and your heart was him. You were the only one who never questioned him. Not even when he made the choice that changed everything. You didn't utter the truth of your mind, but instead you just held his secret like your own, wore the burden of it in silence. And when the truth finally tore open the fragile thread between Joel and Ellie, you were the one caught in the middle, because you had learnt to love them both in different ways.

And what was love in days like these? A tool that could give you strength or weaken your strength. A tool, still, after all.

Ellie had barely spoken to Joel in months now, but you still caught her glancing toward your porch sometimes, like she missed him but couldn’t quite forgive what he did, what he had taken from her. You didn’t push. You gave her space, the same way you gave Joel comfort when he needed it. Even when he didn’t say it, you could feel the guilt radiating off him in waves crashing into his charade.

But he still came home to you. Always. His hands shook slightly when he poured whiskey into a glass at night, the ghosts of the past flickering behind his tired eyes. And you would press your fingers to the side of his face and whisper that he was not the man he used to be. That maybe, finally, after all this time, he deserved peace.

The quiet life he was used to before the world ended.

He didn’t say much in response. Joel wasn’t one for poetry or pretty words, but his love was there in the way he kissed your forehead in the mornings before you even opened your eyes. It was in the way he made sure the firewood was stacked high so you’d never get cold. It was in every silent glance across a crowded dining hall, in every soft murmur against your temple when the nightmares woke him.

Joel had built a warm home for you. A place where both of you would end up dying after cherishing all the love you had shared for each other. After a fulfilled life, a happy life.

He became a fundamental part of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, and not just by you. While Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson.

And when you rode out past the gates on patrol, he stood on that porch, arms crossed, waiting for your silhouette to disappear into the trees. He never said “be careful,” never asked you to stay. Because he knew you wouldn’t. But he always waited for you to come back home to him.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter what came between him and the world, he knew one thing:

You were the one thing he had never wanted to live without. He would rather die before seeing life leave your body in a lifeless frame.

Joel had become a fundamental part of the heart of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, but not just by you.

And while Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson, bringing people in, making sure the community was at peace.

Today was one of those freezing days of winter when snow covered all paths. Winter had hit the streets, and each minute outside seemed to threaten to take one of your fingers away.

You'd been riding with Rick for nearly two hours in silence, save for the sound of snow crunching under your horses’ hooves and the occasional radio crackle from the patrol team. The morning was cold, but sunlight still broke through the trees in patches, casting gold across the frostbitten forest. You were glad for the silence. Patrols were always easier when you didn’t have to think too hard or talk too much.

But Rick was fidgeting, and that was making you nervous.

You noticed it as you dismounted to check the broken fence line on the north perimeter. He stayed unusually close behind you, clearing his throat every few seconds like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

You finally turned to him with a raised brow, snowflakes sticking to your lashes.

“Spit it out, Rick. You’re twitchier than those clickers.”

He looked at you, flushed already from the cold but turning visibly redder. “Okay, so, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Like… ever. But if I don’t, I think I’m gonna explode."

You leaned on the fence and blinked. “That sounds pretty dramatic.”

“It is. I’m being dramatic,” he admitted, letting out a nervous laugh. “Look, I know you’re with Joel. Everybody knows you’re with Joel. Joel definitely knows you’re with Joel. And he could probably kill me with, like, just with a stare. But… I....I kinda like you. I have for a while.”

You stared at him, not sure if you’d misheard him or if he’d actually just said that. “Rick.”

“I know! I know. It’s not cool. It’s kind of stupid. But I figured maybe if I just said it out loud just once, I could move on and stop acting like a dumbass teeneager every time you’re around.” He ran a hand over his face, half laughing, half mortified. “Jesus, you’re gonna tell Joel and he’s gonna bury me under the tomato garden, huh?”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed. Hard. Rick blinked at you like he wasn’t sure whether he’d just been spared or sentenced.

“I’m not gonna tell Joel,” You said, still chuckling as you shook your head. “Unless I need an excuse to make him do the dishes.”

Rick exhaled loudly, shoulders slumping in relief. “God, please don’t do that.”

“Hey, I might. That’s great blackmail material,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow before getting back to work on the fence. “Look, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. It’s weird, but kinda sweet, in a ‘high school crush’ kind of way.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “I’ll take it.”

“But Rick,” you added, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice gentler now, “Joel’s it for me. I love him. He is my husband, law or no law. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “Hell, everyone does. Just needed to clear my chest.”

“Well, chest cleared,” you said, patting him once on the shoulder. “Now let’s go back to our work or something. You’re not gonna make me do all the work just because you embarrassed yourself, are you?”

He laughed, finally relaxing. “Nah, I’ll take point. You just hang back.”

“Perfect,” you muttered, smirking as you mounted your horse.

As the two of you rode off, the moment settled behind you like footprints in snow. Something a little strange, a little uncomfortable, but harmless in a weirdly comforting sense. You knew Rick wouldn’t cross any lines. He wasn’t that kind of guy. And besides, by the time the sun dipped low and Jackson came into view again, your thoughts were already back at home.

To the porch where Joel would be waiting, arms crossed, pretending he was there spending time instead of waiting for you.

The way his jaw would twitch the moment he saw you, trying and failing to hide the relief in his eyes. To the warmth of his hand on the small of your back when he pulled you close and muttered a “Took you long enough.”

Because no matter what happened outside those walls, you always came back to him. You always would. Until the end of your life.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time you and Rick made it back to Jackson. The patrol had been uneventful after the confession, thank God, and Rick had thankfully returned to his usual self, cracking a dumb joke or two to break the tension. You left him at the stables with a casual wave, brushing the snow off your coat as you handed off the reins.

As you stepped out into the chilly late afternoon, your breath puffed white in the air. The lanterns strung along Jackson's paths were starting to flicker on, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered streets. You shoved your gloved hands into your pockets and turned toward home.

And then you saw Joel walking your way, just down the path near the greenhouse, shoulders relaxed in that slow way of his, with the glasses still perched low on his nose that made you pause and smile like a fool. He rarely kept them outside. Said they made him look too damn old. But there they were, catching the glow of the lanterns as he walked, reviewing something in a worn notebook.

He looked up as if sensing you before he even saw you.

The second his eyes found yours, his entire face shifted, like watching ice melt under a flame. His mouth tugged into a lopsided smile, soft and real and just for you. And God, it still got you. After all this time. After all the hell, the healing, the hurt, he still looked at you like that.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and warm as he closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” you replied, unable to keep the grin off your face.

He huffed. “Didn’t mean to. Just got caught up in the numbers. Didn’t wanna strain my eyes again.”

You stepped closer, heart easing in your chest the way it always did when he was near. “You look good.”

Joel gave you a look, tilting his head. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arms around his middle.  “I mean it. There’s something kind of... sexy librarian about you.”

He let out a dry laugh, hand coming up to tug the glasses off and hook them into the collar of his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know, but you love it, though.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze shifted a little more serious, a little softer. “Everything went alright out there?”

You nodded, leaning your shoulder into his chest. “Yeah. Nothing we couldn’t handle. Rick confessed his love for me, though.”

Joel stopped mid-step. “He what?”

You burst out laughing at his expression. “It was harmless. Kind of awkward. I think he mostly just needed to say it to get it off his chest.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, but there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his face, just amused disbelief. “Poor boy.”

“Right?” you said, still grinning. “He looked like he was about to faint. Said you’d probably bury him under the tomato garden.”

Joel gave a thoughtful nod. “Not a bad idea.”

You swatted his arm as he slipped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close against him. His body was warm, solid, familiar.

“You know I only love one grumpy man in this town,” you murmured, tucking your hand into the space between his coat and flannel.

He looked down at you, something tender and unspoken in his eyes. “I know.”

Your steps slowed, gravel crunching gently beneath your boots as the space between the two of you closed even more. You turned to face him, chin tilted up, your hands sliding into the open edges of his coat to rest against his chest.

Joel's brows lifted just a bit, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You leaned up and kissed him softly, just enough to make him pause and breathe you in. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always made you feel like you were something rare. Something precious under his stare.

The kiss lingered, unhurried because you had all the time in your hands now.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “Tell me about your day,” you whispered.

Joel hummed low in his chest, his nose brushing against yours. “Not as exciting as yours, apparently,” he muttered, and you could hear the faint smirk in his voice.

You grinned. “Still wanna hear about it.”

He sighed, but it was soft. Content. “Well, I argued with Tommy about expanding the southeast fence. Again. He’s still convinced we need to pull it in tighter. I told him he’s just scared of dealing with the extra patrols.”

You chuckled. “He is scared of extra patrols.”

“Damn right,” Joel muttered, clearly pleased you agreed. “Helped Maria sort through some of the winter inventory. Got roped into fixing a leaky pipe in the clinic because somebody thought I was the only one with ‘good hands.’”

You looked up at him with a grin. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

That made him laugh again, the sound low and rough and good. “Are you flirting with me, darling?”

“Maybe.”

“After all these years?”

“Especially after all these years.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a beat. “You keep that up and I’m gonna have to warm you up properly once we get inside.”

You raised a brow. “Promise?”

Joel groaned and gave a playful shake of his head. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you said again, smiling as you slipped your hand into his and started walking toward home, where the hearth was probably still warm and the bed even warmer.

And God, you really did love this life. This normal, beautiful, quiet life with him.

As you reached your home, Joel’s hand squeezed yours gently before slipping away. He paused on the porch, his eyes drawn toward the garage across the yard. A faint flicker of light glowed from the crack beneath the door, soft, irregular, probably from that old lamp Ellie refused to replace. You followed his gaze, the air suddenly still around the two of you.

“She’s in there,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now. Not tense, exactly, but something sad, almost wary. You knew that tone. He’d been using it a lot when it came to her lately.

You nodded, shrugging off your coat. “Yeah, she seems to spend a lot of time in there.”

Joel lingered, eyes fixed on the garage like he could see right through the wall and into her thoughts. “Do you know if she’s going to the New Year’s thing tonight?”

You turned to look at him, reaching out to take his gloves from him as he pulled them off. “She didn’t say a lot to me this morning.”

Joel nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked older when he worried, shoulders heavier, jaw tighter. “I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn´t.”

“Things are different now,” you said softly, brushing a bit of snow off his shoulder. “She’s still figuring out how to be... okay with everything. With you, okay. With both of us.”

“I don’t blame her,” he said after a moment. “I just… I hate not knowing how to make it better.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand against his chest. “Maybe it’s not the right time. You’re still here, waiting, still being there for her.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He looked at the garage one more time, eyes soft with regret and longing, something like hope, but worn thin.

Then he turned back to you, lips brushing your forehead as he let out a long breath. “Come on," he said quietly. “Let’s get inside before you freeze that smart mouth off.”

You smiled and nudged the door open. “Too bad. I had plans to use it tonight.”

Joel laughed under his breath as he followed you inside, letting the door close gently behind you.

The world felt warm and still when you opened your eyes.

That fuzzy kind of stillness where the light was soft and golden through the curtains, and your limbs were heavy in the best way, boneless and relaxed under the weight of a thick blanket. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the calm, to the scent of pine still lingering from the firewood and Joel’s flannel shirt close by.

Your head was resting on his lap. Joel sat slouched back against the couch cushions, legs stretched out, a book open in one hand, his glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t noticed you waking yet. Or maybe he had, and just didn’t say anything.

The fingers of his free hand combed lazily through your hair, tracing slow, thoughtful paths over your scalp and down to the nape of your neck. Over and over again, like it was as natural to him now as breathing. That kind of tenderness that wasn’t loud or showy, just there, anchoring and steady.

You smiled, sleep still in your voice. “You’re gonna put me right back to sleep doing that.”

Joel’s eyes flicked down from the page to meet yours, and a slow smile spread across his face. “And that's a bad thing?”

“No,” you murmured, shifting just slightly to curl closer into his thigh. “It’s a really, really good thing.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, low and warm. His thumb brushed along your temple in a soft arc. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You were out cold.”

“Blame your lap. It’s cozy for this kind of weather.”

He chuckled, eyes returning briefly to his book. “Didn’t think you’d fall asleep halfway through telling me about how Rick nearly dropped his gun while trying to impress you.”

“He did!” you laughed, eyes closing again. “It slipped right outta the holster when he tried to be all cool and stretch like nothing hurt. I nearly fell off the damn horse.”

Joel shook his head, the quiet amusement clear in his face. “That man is a disaster.”

“Mmm, but at least a harmless one,” you yawned.

Another beat passed, quiet except for the sound of pages turning and the fireplace crackling low in the background. His fingers never stopped moving in your hair.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure where the question had come from. “Before here. All the chaos we used to live in. The constant movement. The adrenaline. Sleeping on the dirt, perhaps?"

Joel’s hand slowed, just slightly. You felt the pause. Then the steady rhythm picked up again, gentler.

“Sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Not the danger, but the feeling of having to keep going. No room to think too hard. Now Ellie doesn’t talk to me.

You nodded, eyes still closed. “That will be temporary, you know.”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, more thoughtful. “But I’d trade a hundred years of running for one of these. You and I like this.

That made you laugh again, and his hand cradled the back of your head as you shifted to look up at him.

“You’re getting soft in at your old age, Miller.”

He looked down at you over the rim of his glasses, brow raised. “Say that again and see if I let you keep using my lap as a pillow.”

You smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“I would,” he said quietly, and just like that, the teasing faded into something real.

You smiled at him, “I should start getting ready for the party tonight.”

“You look perfect just like this.”

“How romantic, Joel Miller, but I probably smell bad.”

Joel snorted softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he closed the book and set it aside. “Darling, we’ve both smelled worse. Remember when we reached Bill’s house?”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face into his thigh. “Don’t remind me. That was not my best moment.”

“I didn’t mind it then either,” he said, his fingers grazing down your jaw, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could be covered in mud and I’d still think you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by how easily he could say something like that now. It hadn’t always been like this. It used to come out in actions, his silence, his worry, the way he stood between you and anything that even looked like a threat. But now he let himself say it. He let himself mean it.

And you never took that lightly.

“I’ll take the compliment,” you murmured, sitting up slowly and stretching under the blanket. Joel helped you out of it without a word, and you lingered just a second longer to brush your lips over his before standing.

He watched you, content and quiet, as you moved toward the bedroom. “Do you want me to wear that sweater you like?” you asked over your shoulder.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “The one with the buttons?”

You nodded, already pulling your hair back into a messy bun.

“Hell yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “That one drives me crazy.”

You laughed as you disappeared around the corner, the sound making Joel lean his head back against the couch with a quiet, contented sigh. His hand drifted absentmindedly to the spot where your head had been resting only moments ago, like some part of him still needed to hold on.

From the window, he noticed the light in the garage had gone dark. Maybe Ellie was getting ready too. Maybe tonight would be a little bit closer to feeling whole again.

You stepped out of the bedroom a few minutes later, brushing the last bit of lint off the front of your sweater, the one with the buttons Joel never shut up about. It was a little snug at the waist, hugged you just enough to make you stand out. Paired with the jeans he said made your legs look dangerously good, you were banking on at least a solid double-take.

Joel looked up from the couch, still lazily sprawled across the cushions, glasses sliding down his nose.

And damn if you didn’t get more than a double-take.

His hand went straight to his chest like he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, then closed again like he forgot how to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, sitting up straighter, eyes trailing slowly from your boots to your eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You grinned, one hand resting on your hip as you posed, just a little. “What, this old thing?”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You look…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “I don’t even get a word for it. Beautiful doesn’t do it justice.”

“You’re such a liar,” you teased gently, though your cheeks were already warm.

“I’m not,” he said, still staring. “You walk into that party looking like that, I’m gonna have to fight half the town.”

You walked over and stood between his knees, his hands naturally coming to rest at your waist, thumbs sliding along the hem of your sweater.

“Don’t worry,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair with deliberate slowness. “I’m only going with one man tonight.”

His eyes met yours, serious under all the teasing now. “You’re mine,” he said lowly, not like a warning, but like a vow you would say at a wedding.

“I always have been,” you whispered back.

And for a second, it didn’t matter where you were going or who’d be at the party. There was only this, his hands steady on you, your breath soft against his, and the quiet thrum of a life you’d built together piece by piece.

“Come on, Miller,” you said, pulling back with a smile. “Get dressed. Can’t show up to a New Year’s party looking like you just came in from the stables.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I was gonna wear the flannel you like, but now I’m reconsidering.”

You leaned down and kissed him slowly, “Wear the flannel. Then you lose it later.”

Joel groaned into your mouth. “You’re evil.”

You smirked. “You love it.”

He planted a kiss on your lips before standing up from the couch.

.......

The lights in the main hall of Jackson’s community center glowed warm and low, casting golden halos over strings of mismatched decorations, handmade banners, old Christmas lights, paper stars that crinkled every time the door opened and let in the wind. Music played softly from an old radio in the corner, laughter and voices mingling with the hum of people pouring in, already loosening up with drinks and stories.

You stood near the back wall, a glass of something vaguely sweet in your free hand, the other laced tightly with Joel’s. His thumb brushed slow circles over your knuckles as you chatted with Maria, who was animatedly retelling something Tommy had done earlier that day involving a runaway chicken and a very confused patrol dog.

You were half-listening, smiling and nodding along, but you felt it more than saw it, that Joel wasn’t really paying attention. His body was here, steady beside you, but his focus had shifted.

You followed the subtle line of his gaze, and there she was, Ellie.

She was standing on the edge of a table, watching Dina dance in the middle of the place. Her hair was surprisingly neat. She wore one of the jackets Joel had patched for her last winter, and she looked better. Not completely at ease, but not avoiding people either. Laughing at how Dina enjoyed herself, her face lit up in that rare, open way that used to be more common. That Joel hadn’t seen in too long.

Your fingers squeezed around his, gently tugging his attention back to you. He blinked, then looked down, sheepish.

“She showed up,” you said quietly, so only he could hear.

Joel nodded, but didn’t speak at first. His jaw worked slightly, like there was something caught there that he couldn’t quite get out. “Didn’t think she would,” he murmured eventually.

You leaned your head into his shoulder, your hand still holding his like it anchored you both. “She’s trying,” you said softly. “Just like you are.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Ellie for another long moment. His face unreadable, but you could feel the storm behind it, the guilt and the love and the endless what ifs he carried like extra weight on his worn-out back.

“She still wears that jacket,” he said finally, voice a little rough.

“She still loves you,” you said, just as sure.

Joel looked down at you then, the depth in his eyes something that stole your breath a little. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was?”

You turned slightly to face him, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist. “No,” you said honestly. “But maybe it’ll become something new eventually.”

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to believe it. Maybe tonight helped.

The minutes had stretched into hours, in a few ones. A new year would come into your lives and you were enjoying the hope that brought to all people in the community. Yes, you were enjoying the party, until something completely shifted the ambiance.

When Ellie’s voice came.

Loud. Angry. Hurt.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

You froze. The room quieted, just a little. Just enough for you to react to it.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You watched his face, how it closed off, his expression almost neutral except for the way his jaw clenched. There was something like shame in his eyes. Like he’d overstepped. Like he knew this was coming after him.

He turned. Not fast. Just quietly stepped back, like every inch he put between himself and Ellie was one he’d deserved. He didn’t look at you. Just walked toward the door of the hall, shoulders tight, hands in his pockets, and disappeared outside.

You turned slowly, your gaze falling on Ellie.

She was still standing there. Chest rising and falling like she'd just finished running. Dina was beside her, wide-eyed, unsure whether to step in or stay back. The room had started to move again around them, but you stayed where you were, heart sinking.

Ellie looked at you. And you didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown or shake your head. Just stare at her.

There was disappointment in your eyes—yes. A flicker of sadness too, not just for Joel, but for her. For the pain stitched between them. For the ways she still didn’t understand that Joel didn’t defend her to take control, or because he thought she was weak, but because he loved her.

Because she was still his. And whether she was ready to admit it or not, he would always be hers.

Ellie looked away first. Back to her shoes. Her jaw tensed like she was biting back words. But she didn’t say anything else.

You waited another beat, then gently set your glass down, excused yourself from the people at your table with a small nod, and went after Joel.

The cold had settled deep by the time you made it back home.

The porch light cast a soft glow across the wooden steps, and there he was sitting in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, guitar in his lap, hands quiet on the strings. He wasn’t playing. Just holding it, his fingers curled around the neck like they used to when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

His glasses were off, resting on the side table next to him. The soft creak of the porch boards under your steps made his head lift, and his eyes met yours.

You smiled gently. “Hey, cowboy.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, just gave you the ghost of a smile before looking down at the guitar again.

You crossed the porch and crouched in front of him, resting your hand on his knee. “She didn’t mean it.”

He let out a breath, slow and tight. “Yeah, she did. Maybe not in the way she thinks. But she did.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you just leaned your head against his leg, wrapping your arms around his knee. “Come inside,” you murmured. “It’s freezing.”

“I like the cold,” he said quietly.

“You’re getting old,” you teased, tilting your face up toward him with a smile. “Your bones can’t handle it anymore.”

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. “You keep talking like that, and you’re getting a snowball to the face next time it drops.”

“Promises, promises.”

You stood up and reached out a hand to him. He hesitated for a moment before placing the guitar gently against the wall. His hand slid into yours, warm and rough and steady, and you led him inside.

The house welcomed you with its familiar warmth, soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp. You tugged him into the living room and stopped, turning to face him, fingers still wrapped around his.

“You remember how to dance, Joel?”

He raised a brow. “Now?”

You nodded. “Now. Just us.”

There was no music, just the sound of the wind outside and the hum of life still buzzing faintly in town. But you stepped closer, placing your other hand on his chest as he found your waist, and you started to sway slowly, like there was a song only the two of you could hear.

You looked up at him, voice soft. “You know there’s no life for me after you, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching. Quiet.

You swallowed. “Not just no one else… No life. I’m not made for this world without you in it.”

His jaw tensed, his hand tightening slightly on your hip.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I even thought I could love anyone."

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you saw the fight in him, the weight of it all, the doubt, the guilt. But you also saw the way his heart ached for you. How much he wanted to believe he deserved it.

“You’re all I have,” he said finally. “You and her. And I keep messing it up.”

You shook your head and pulled him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t mess anything up tonight. You stood up for her. That’s what love looks like, even if she doesn’t know how to take it right now.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “Always.”

And with his arms wrapped around you in the middle of that quiet living room, Joel let himself hold on.

You kept swaying with him, barely moving, your arms snug around his broad frame like you were afraid he might drift away if you let go.

The firelight from the hearth flickered softly across his face, casting shadows that danced along the lines etched into his skin. You lifted your gaze, taking him in, really taking him in.

His hair was more silver than brown now, especially at the temples, and his beard had followed suit, peppered with white that hadn’t been there when you first met him back in the QZ. The creases around his eyes were deeper, more permanent, carved by years of worry, loss, and that rare, secretive laughter you’d always tried to pull from him like a prize you needed to win. His hands, still strong, still steady, were rougher too, scarred by more than just time. And his eyes, God, those eyes. Still the same deep brown, still full of everything he never said out loud, but they were heavier now, more tired.

But even in all of it, in every reminder that time had passed, that the world had taken its toll on him, he had never looked more beautiful to you than this.

This was the man who had survived when others hadn’t. The man who had chosen you when he could’ve kept his walls up forever. The man who still held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Your fingers slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel before curling lightly at the collar. You rose up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering there. Then another, along the edge of his jaw. One at his temple. His brow.

Joel's hand tightened on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head now, and his breath caught when your lips found the corner of his mouth.

You pulled back just an inch and whispered, “I love all of it. All of you. Then. Now. Always.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face.

And then you kissed him, soft, deep, like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. His lips moved against yours with that familiar tenderness, that unspoken hunger that had never gone away, no matter how many years passed. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slowly marked by the safety that glued you together.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm on your lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You shook your head gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Joel let out a quiet, broken laugh and kissed you again, softer this time, like a thank you.

You leaned in again, drawn to him like the tide to the moon. Your lips brushed over his once more, slower this time, tender and unrushed. A kiss that said everything without needing words. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, your noses still touching, you smiled against his mouth. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

He exhaled softly, his breath warm as his eyes opened to meet yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart full. “This is to us,” you whispered, “to spend more years like this. Together.”

Something flickered in his gaze, quiet, reverent, a little disbelieving, like the weight of your love still knocked the air out of him every time. His thumb stroked along your jaw, rough and careful all at once.

“Until the end, darling,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, resting your head against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. And there, in the soft quiet of your living room, with the muffled echo of tiny fireworks somewhere in the distance and his arms holding you like a vow, you knew there was no one else you’d ever need.

Joel held you there for a long, quiet beat—his hand resting at the small of your back, the other curled at your nape, cradling you gently like the world might crumble if he let go.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes finding yours again under the soft glow of the fire. There was something raw in them now, unguarded, soft in that way only you ever got to see properly.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, voice low, gravelly, full of something deep and real. “To more years. However, we’re lucky enough to get.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words catching in your chest. But then he said it, firm, steady, like it had lived in him for years.

“I love you,” you said at the same time, putting a smile on both of your faces.

Your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the slight stubble there. His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into the warmth.

This was your beginning. Again, and again. Every year. Every moment. Joel was your home. You were his. As long as the world allows you.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

How to Start Writing Again When the Spark Fades

Sometimes the well of creativity runs dry, leaving you staring at a blank page with nothing but frustration. But trust that the art of writing is as much about the journey as it is about the destination. Here are some ideas to help you reconnect with your writing practice when you feel like your passion has dimmed.

Redefine Your Environment Consider taking a deliberate step outside your usual writing space. The environment in which you work can drastically affect your mindset and creative flow. Even if it’s setting up in a different corner of your home, finding refuge in a local café, or enjoying the subtle distractions of a park bench, a change in scenery often signals a mental reset. This isn’t about permanent relocation, just a simple shift can break the monotony and stir new ideas that have been hiding in plain sight.

Embrace Imperfection The pressure to produce perfect prose can be paralyzing. Give yourself permission to create something imperfect yet honest. Think of every sentence you write as a rough sketch, a necessary experiment in understanding your own voice. When you allow yourself the space to write without the weight of perfection, you invite experimentation and genuine self-expression. That freedom lies at the heart of rediscovering why you fell in love with writing in the first place.

Set Incremental Goals for Continuous Momentum When the idea of diving into a full chapter feels overwhelming, scale back to manageable, bite-sized projects that feel achievable. Instead of demanding a polished page, challenge yourself to write a paragraph or even a single sentence each day. These micro-goals build a foundation of small successes, gradually restoring confidence and momentum. Over time, these consistent efforts enrich your creative reservoir, proving that every little step is indeed a victory.

Engage Deeply in the Process of Freewriting Allow yourself to spill thoughts onto the page without judgment or expectation. Freewriting is an exercise in vulnerability and self-exploration, offering you a space to unburden tangled ideas and unexpected insights. In these unfiltered moments, you might stumble upon a germ of an idea or a rediscovered passion that rekindles your creative fire. Embracing this unstructured approach can transform an intimidating blank page into an open canvas of potential you haven't tapped back into.

Rekindle Old Inspirations There is power in revisiting the work and moments that first ignited your creative spirit. Even if it’s rereading an old journal entry, rediscovering a favorite piece of literature, or reflecting on the stories that once moved you, reconnecting with your past inspirations can shed new light on your present creative journey. This reflective practice not only reminds you of your original passion but may also reveal new directions for your current writing endeavors.

Create a Consistent, Loving Writing Routine Creating a structured yet gentle routine can help reestablish your relationship with writing. Treat your writing time as a vital appointment, a moment carved out just for you. Even if inspiration seems scarce, the simple act of sitting down, opening your notebook, and letting words flow without self-censorship can be incredibly healing. Over time, this practice transforms writing from an obligation into a ritual of self-discovery and mindfulness.

Connect with a Community That Understands Engaging with fellow writers can remind you that you’re not alone in this struggle. The shared experience of creative highs and lows can be profoundly comforting. Join writing groups, participate in online forums, or simply reach out to someone whose work inspires you. These interactions foster a sense of belonging and accountability, encouraging you to keep writing even when the path isn’t clear. In the gentle exchange of ideas and feedback, there is often a spark that reignites your dedication.

Every writer’s journey is unique, filled with ebbs and flows. If you’re feeling disconnected, know that these moments are integral to growth. Embrace each phase as an opportunity to rediscover writing on its own terms, and allow your passion to guide you back into the words you love. If you need any advice from me, never be afraid to send me an ask.

Until next time, Rin T.

[elementalevolutions]

Navigating the Waves: Writing About Past Trauma with Love and Light

A Warm Welcome In the garden of life, we each have our patches of shadow and sunshine. Writing about the shadows, especially those cast by past trauma, is like planting seeds in the hopes of blooming resilience and understanding. This guide is a gentle hand in yours, walking you through the tender process of turning your experiences into stories that not only heal but also illuminate paths for…

[capricornlevi]

nanami x reader - w.c 3k, marraige of convenience, mentions of societal pressure but everything is consensual!, nsfw, mdni!

without even meeting him, you agreed to marry nanami kento without any expectations of future love, romantic or otherwise.

the pairing is advantageous for the both of you; you get access to the impressive nanami family fortune that has grown substantially now that kento is managing it, while he gets to enjoy a close association with your prestigious family and the subsequent educational opportunities that your children will benefit from. it's sensible and by far the best option you'd been presented with.

you've exchanged letters with him, polite and concise. you can read between the lines and see that he shares a disillusioned view of jujutsu society, but is more than willing to step up for the good of his family.

you weren't coerced by anyone. far from it -- your mother and father had sat you down and asked if you were sure, that they would understand if you wanted to take more time or to choose a different path for yourself altogether.

but you know the rest of society would not be so kind or understanding. marriage between two sorcerers, as antiquated as it seems, is how you survive amongst all of these competitive, power-hungry families.

from what you've read and heard about him, nanami will provide stability. he's progressive in his thinking, and so wont expect anything from you that he wouldn't be willing to do as well. you've learned that he's a teacher at tokyo tech, and has received glowing reviews; he'll be a good father.

and so on this misty thursday morning, you lay eyes on your fiancé for the first time as he slips a ring on your finger and promises to stay by your side forever.

the ceremony is as bare-bones as your reputation will allow. the guest list doesn't hit the triple digits, a huge departure from society norms, but representatives from the major houses sit in floral-clad wooden chairs to watch you repeat the words that the officiant speaks in your direction.

nanami takes your hands in his. they're warm, which is nice. this dress isn't designed for November weather, but it's an heirloom -- and truthfully, you're glad to be wearing it. you'd never given much thought to a wedding, but it makes your mother and grandmother very happy.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved to discover how handsome nanami is. you were previously shown a few polaroids of him -- staff pictures, mostly, but some with the rest of his family -- and had known he wasn't bad-looking, but the pictures weren't clear enough to give you a proper understanding of his looks.

his blond hair is styled neatly, not a hair out of place. he has nice features, strong jawline and cheekbones, and soft eyes, a good combination. you know his gaze can be piercing when he wants it to be, but now, he looks at you gently.

you know you made the right decision.

more vows, a kiss, and you're married.

___

the reception goes mercifully smoothly. the mix of guests -- powerful sorcerer family heads, rich businesspeople, and just a few of your personal friends -- didn't appear to gel too well on paper, but they mostly stick to their own factions. you greet them all until your vocal cords grow tired.

a meal is served on plates so ornate it makes you feel awkward eating off them. you nurse a glass of wine for most of the evening and nanami does the same, politely waving off the servers who approach to refill his glass.

a promising sign that he doesn't feel the need to drown his sorrows. this is a marriage of convenience, yes, but you'd like to be able to get along reasonably well with your spouse.

and, to his credit, he's been making light conversation with you all evening. he doesn't dip into deep or uncomfortable topics like your marriage or future plans, figuring that's best saved for later, but he asks you questions about yourself. by the end of the evening, you feel safe enough to allude to your desire for a future somewhat outside society's norms -- "I've always wanted to travel, honestly. maybe ... spend a few years abroad" -- and, to your pleasant surprise, he doesn't rebuff them. if anything, he seems somewhat pleased.

you have another glass of wine and before you know it, it's the early hours of the morning. you're nowhere near tipsy but feel ready for bed, ready to wipe off this makeup and slip into something more comfortable; thankfully, guests have started to slip out one by one, with only immediate family remaining.

your unpleasant and friendless older cousin makes a joke about you needing to say your goodbyes to 'go please your husband', and nanami's face sours for the first time all evening. your cousin notices and sheepishly takes a drink, mumbling something about it being his time to leave too.

with some final hugs to your respective families, it's time to leave with ...

... with your husband.

in his last letter before the wedding, nanami agreed that your city-centre apartment would be the best place to live in the first few weeks of your marriage, until you find somewhere more permanent that suits you both, and so that's where you go.

you show him around each room, including some storage space where his luggage had been delivered this morning. interspersed with some more small talk, you explain that although it's small, it's well placed for both of you to get to work. he smiles and nods, thanking you with a warmth that doesn't feel forced.

you offer him some tea or whiskey; he says he's fine.

you yawn. he loosens his tie, clearly exhausted himself.

the last room you show him is your bedroom, and it becomes harder and harder not to address the elephant in the room. there's very clearly no second bed, no room for him to stay that wouldn't necessitate a lot of closeness between the two of you.

the silence hangs heavy and loaded, both of you waiting for the other to speak.

well. this is one issue you hadn't covered before the ceremony.

you have no issue with a sexual relationship -- in fact, you're somewhat looking forward to it, having spent the evening admiring the way nanami's shirt hugs his strong arms and chest. but you're not sure if tonight, the first night you've ever met, is the best night to start.

sure, the concept of the wedding night speaks for itself, but it's not as black-and-white in your situation. he might want to spend some time settling in, first. he might not even be that interested in you.

"want me to take the couch?" he asks quietly, with no hint of resentment or offence in his voice. he makes the offer with a sincerity you haven't heard from a man in a long time.

you don't break your silence, but not because you're uncomfortable or anything of the sort -- you're just assessing your options.

"there's nothing i expect from you, just so you know," he continues, and you turn your head to face him, seeing his eyes scan your face for any sign of unease. "the last thing i want is for you to do ... this ... out of obligation or pressure. we have a lifetime to get to know each other, to reach that point -- i want you to be comfortable around me."

your upbringing has made you a sceptic, a pessimist at times, but for some reason, you believe him. maybe it's the look in his eyes, or the fact that he's taken your hand in his own, interlocking your fingers, but there's something about him that sets him aside from normal sorcerers.

he seems real. he seems as though, powers and fortunes and family names aside, he has some substance about him.

"do you want to?" you ask then, voice almost inaudible quiet from a day spent conversing with guests at your wedding.

he doesn't hear you, so he dips his head in your direction; you repeat yourself and wait, hoping you hadn't pressed the issue.

his composure doesn't crack, but something flashes in his eyes as he processes your question. he has such control over the movements of his features, over every expression in his body, except for his eyes, you think.

maybe you just happen to be good at reading him.

he mulls it over for a second, his grip on your hand never slacking.

"i want to," he finally admits. "i've wanted to for a while, truthfully. I've spent a lot of late nights picturing how it would feel to be inside you, to hear what my name sounds like when you say it. but i only want that if you want it too."

you smile without meaning to. "you imagined that from just reading a few letters?"

"yes, and it's a testament to my trust in my new wife that I'm telling you that," he replies, still polite but tinged with amusement.

it feels strange standing at your bedroom doorway, hand in hand with this almost-stranger, imagining what it would be like to indulge in these thoughts you've both been having, spending your first night together tangled up in the sheets and allowing some of the indulgence you've long denied yourself.

duty gets tiring. for a long time, you've been unsure what it feels like to genuinely want something.

now, you're pretty sure it feels something like this. it's organic and unforced, a natural desire that sends heat curling in the pit of your stomach.

wordlessly, you guide nanami into your room, closing the door behind you. there's a hint of a smile on his lips as you ask him for help to untie your wedding dress, the intricate pattern of buttons trailing up your spine proving too technical for your own hands. he's methodical in his work, careful to not damage the delicate clasps.

soon your dress is loose around your hips, your chest covered by the thin slip you wore underneath. you set the garment carefully aside before returning the favour and starting to undo nanami's shirt, avoiding eye contact as your hands expose more and more of his bare chest.

you want to do this, you know that for sure, but that doesn't mean you won't feel a bit of awkwardness at the start. you're not well practiced, having had too busy a life for romantic relationships until now. you hope that instinct will kick in sooner than later, but you've no doubt nanami will help you along the way.

when you finally build up the nerve to glance up at him as he shrugs off the shirt, he's looking at you as though you're the only person he ever wants touching him.

you hear the soft clink of metal and realise he's undoing his belt.

"are you sure?" he asks one more time.

that one question, and the earnestness with which he speaks, erases the last shred of doubt you had. you place your trust in him for the second time today.

you nod and reach across to his belt in the same breath, helping him pull it free from the loops to be tossed by the armchair near your desk.

you move as though controlled by something other than yourself, the decisions coming so naturally it feels as though you've been imagining it for weeks as well.

and maybe you have, you think to yourself, as you confidently guide him back slowly until he's sitting down on the plush armchair, his suit pants still on as you crawl onto his lap, pressing your chest against his. the thin fabric of your slip means you can feel the heat of his body against your skin, nipples hardening as they graze against his muscles.

you've just about balanced yourself, carefully perched on his lap when you feel his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that has you grinding against his thighs before you can even catch your breath.

you've never been kissed like this. the few kisses you've had before have been with partners who see you as a means to an end, be it for your family name, your reputation, or just for sex. you've never been kissed by someone who seems to get more from your pleasure than from his own.

you now know he meant it when he said he's been picturing this.

you kiss him for as long as you can, and you're not sure if it's for seconds, minutes, hours. you kiss him until there's a heat burning between your thighs you can no longer stand, that you need to have satiated by the visible, prominent bulge in the front of his suit pants.

when you finally break away, lips numb and kiss-slick, nanami's hair is touselled - you don't remember running your hands through them, but you must have at some point - and he reaches up to run his fingers under the straps of your slip, asking with his eyes if he can guide them off your shoulders.

you nod, and your chest is exposed to the cool night air for a split second before nanami's mouth is on one of your nipples, tongue circling the sensitive skin and making you cry out.

one of the words you moan must be his name, because you feel him smile as he turns his attention towards the other nipple, hands now at the small of your back to keep you close to him.

you can't take it much longer. you need to be touched so badly, you didn't even think you were capable of wanting it this much -- and you only want him to do it, now and maybe forever.

maybe he can read your mind or maybe you babbled out the request, but nanami finally takes pity on you, giving your nipple one final lick before resting his shoulders back against the cushion of the armrest and sliding his hands up your thighs, hooking your underwear with his fingers -- you lift your hips up to let him slip them off.

his composure slips further when he finally touches you between your legs, feeling how wet you've gotten for him, seeing how you react when he slips his index finger inside.

your head falls back and you hold a breath, focusing all of your attention on the sensation of him inside you, on the way he curls the digit ever-so-slightly before pulling it out and fucking you with two this time, almost -- almost -- tipping you over the edge.

"such a pretty wife," he mumbles almost under his breath, voice and gaze reverent as he watches you rock yourself against his hand. "my beautiful, perfect wife, aren't you?"

you want to answer him but can't, lungs feeling near-empty as you fumble with the buttons of his pants.

"i will never be able to think of anything else but you, i think," he muses, half-smiling. "you in my lap ... you making those pretty little noises ... i might be a ruined man, you know. and I'm glad of it."

he only stops speaking when you finally get your hand on his clothed cock, his breath catching in his throat as you trace it with your fingers.

you want tonight, the first of many times together, to start with you cumming on your husband's cock.

nanami just watches as you finally pull him out of his underwear, his length thick and hard in your hand as you give it a few messy strokes. it's all the both of you can manage before you need to have it inside you -- you shift your hips to sit on it, nanami's eyes fixed on the site of the head slipping inside.

it's a stretch, as you expected, but one you've been craving since you closed the bedroom door. you take him inch by inch, lowering yourself down as his breath quickens, clearly battling the urge to thrust up inside you.

but he's careful with you, and doesn't want to hurt you. his wife.

you lift yourself up too much and his cock slips out, slapping aginst his stomach and you nearly cry at the sudden emptiness, eager and clumsy as you guide him back inside you.

he kisses you when you sink down next, tongue massaging your own until the feeling of almost-too-full turns to a perfect, satisfying heat in your core.

eventually you're ready to quicken the pace, bouncing on his cock before long, your mind working too fast for you to keep up as you see nanami's cheekbones flush pink, his pupils dark as you ride him until your thighs ache.

you power through the sensation, nanami helping you along by meeting your hips with his, his thumb tracing uneven circles on your puffy clit. he calls you perfect and other beautiful words; you don't say anything besides more, more and, soon after, nearly there, nearly there, please, please, I'm so close --

your entire body lights up with the most wonderful sensation, hitting you like a wave and sweeping you away in its warm glow, with nanami's hands now on your hips, guiding your movements in exactly the way you need it -- not too hard, not too slow, not too fast.

you're still pulsing around him when you feel his body stiffen, his strong thighs tensing as he groans through gritted teeth. he pulls you in for a crushing kiss as he finishes, filling you up and thrusting as deep as he can until oversensitivity takes over.

the afterglow has you a contented and exhausted mess, muscles aching but satisfied in a way you'll spend forever seeking.

reluctantly, you slip off his cock to retake your place on his lap, marvelling at how undone you both have become, a far cry from your perfect wedding appearance.

you look perfect to him, though, you know as much from the kiss he presses to your sweaty forehead and the way his arm wraps around your shoulders.

"we didn't even make it to the bed," you observe, eyebrows raising as you finally return to your own body. "i ... wasn't expecting that."

"we have a lifetime to spend in bed," he replies, a smile in his voice.

and once again, for reasons you still don't understand, you believe him.

[mssalo]

access

You and your husband, Joel, share a deep understanding - your body is his, to fuck and taste whenever he desires, without question or hesitation.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, free use dynamics, oral (f receiving), somnophilia (woken with head), getting fucked awake, rough possessive sex, Intense dirty talk, breeding kink, light choking and nipple play, cum play

5k, smut, one shot

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

The room was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the first rays of early morning sunlight slipping through the cracks in the curtains. Everything was still, the kind of quiet that comes just before the world begins to stir.

The air was warm, thick with a sense of calm, and the only sound breaking that silence was the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing as you lay beside him, deeply asleep. You looked peaceful, the blankets tangled loosely around your legs, your hair spilling across the pillow.

You were completely unaware of the storm building beside you.

Joel lay next to you, half-propped on one elbow, his gaze fixed on your body. The soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the curve of your hips barely hidden beneath the sheets, the way your lips parted ever so slightly as you exhaled—all of it stirred a deep, familiar hunger in him. His eyes moved over you slowly, tracing every line, every curve, like he was memorizing the sight of you, though he had done it countless times before.

His cock was already hard, pressing insistently against the fabric of his boxers, the ache intensifying with every second he spent watching you. The urge to reach out and touch you, to feel your warmth beneath his fingers, was overwhelming. He wanted you, needed you, in that primal, all-consuming way that had woken him up in the first place.

You were beautiful—peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of the effect you had on him. But the heat building in his belly, the tightness in his groin, was becoming too much to ignore. His desire for you had grown with every second, and the free use pact you shared meant that he didn’t need to hold back. You were his to take whenever the need struck, and right now, that need was impossible to resist.

His hand hovered just above the sheets for a moment, hesitating only long enough to savor the anticipation. Then, slowly, he let his fingers brush lightly over the curve of your hip, the warmth of your skin seeping through the thin fabric of your sleepwear. His touch was featherlight at first, testing, waiting to see if you stirred. But you remained blissfully asleep, your body soft and pliant under his hand.

He grinned to himself, the heat inside him intensifying. His fingers traced a slow path down the length of your thigh, parting your legs ever so slightly, making space for him to take what was already his.

You shifted slightly, a soft murmur escaping your lips as his hand crept higher, brushing against your soft pussy. He groaned quietly, his breath hitching at the contact, his fingers exploring further. He could already feel the wetness gathering there, your body responding to him even in your sleep, and it sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

The room was still quiet, bathed in that soft morning glow, but the tension was palpable. Joel’s body was tense with desire, every nerve alive with the need to take you, to feel you, to bury himself deep inside you. And with the way you lay there, so peaceful, so completely his, there was no reason to wait any longer. You were his, and this morning, he was going to claim you all over again.

Without making a sound, he moved down the bed, the covers slipping away as he positioned himself between your legs. His eyes lingered on the way your thighs pressed together, how peaceful you looked in your half-awake state, blissfully unaware of what he had planned for you. He could already feel his cock twitch in anticipation.

Slowly, gently, he eased your legs apart, his hands warm against your skin as he spread you open, revealing the soft folds of your pussy glistening faintly in the dim light.

He didn’t rush, savoring the moment, his lips hovering just above your heat, close enough to feel the warmth of you but not touching yet. His breath ghosted over your skin, and you stirred lightly, but you didn’t wake, your body still pliant under his hands.

He grinned to himself, eyes dark with lust as he lowered his mouth to your cunt, his tongue darting out to taste the very tip of you.

The first contact was light, barely more than a teasing flick against your folds, but the taste of you already had him groaning softly against your skin.

His tongue flattened, dragging up the length of your pussy with slow, deliberate strokes, the heat and wetness of you making him dizzy with need.

He didn’t stop, his tongue swirling around your clit, flicking and sucking gently, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through your sleeping body.

You stirred again, a soft moan slipping from your lips as your hips shifted slightly against his mouth, but you still didn’t wake. He could feel you responding, feel the way your body was starting to tremble under his touch, and it only drove him wilder.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your soaked folds as he spoke. His voice was low, thick with lust, and the sound of it sent vibrations through you. “So fuckin’ sweet… always so perfect for me.”

He buried his face deeper between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread you wider.

His tongue slipped between your folds, licking deep into your heat, fucking you slowly with each stroke. You whimpered in your sleep, your body responding to the pleasure even if your mind was still clouded with sleep.

He groaned as he tasted you, his tongue delving into your slick, warm cunt, savoring every drop of arousal he coaxed from you.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he growled, his voice muffled as he sucked your clit into his mouth, teasing it with slow, wet kisses. “Even when you’re sleepin’, baby, your body knows what it wants.”

He licked you harder, his tongue swirling over your clit before dipping back down to flick against your entrance. He alternated between sucking on your sensitive bud and thrusting his tongue deep inside you, his lips and tongue working you over with practiced ease.

He could feel the tension building in your body, your thighs trembling around his head as he devoured you, his mouth relentless in its assault on your pussy.

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. His lips closed around your clit again, sucking harder now, his tongue flicking rapidly against the swollen bundle of nerves. Your hips bucked against him, a breathless moan escaping your lips as you finally started to wake up, the pleasure pulling you from the haze of sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the first thing you felt was his mouth on you, his tongue licking and sucking with a desperation that made your toes curl.

Your body jerked in surprise, but he held you down, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he continued to eat you out like a man starved.

“Mornin‘, baby,” he murmured against your folds, his voice dripping with lust. “You’re gonna cum for me. I’m not stoppin’ until you do.”

You gasped, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he licked you faster, his mouth working you over with a precision that had you seeing stars.

His teeth grazed your clit lightly, just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, before he soothed the sting with his tongue, swirling it around your swollen bud until you were trembling beneath him.

He groaned, the vibrations of his voice sending shivers through you as he buried his tongue inside you again, fucking you with it in slow, deep strokes. His nose brushed against your clit, the friction making you cry out, and he growled against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs as he held you open for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted, his voice thick and rough as he licked you harder, faster. “I can feel how close you are. You’re gonna cum all over my tongue, aren’t you? Gonna soak my fuckin’ face.”

You whimpered in response, your body writhing beneath him as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. His mouth was relentless, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, sharp strokes that had you gasping for breath, your hands clutching at the sheets as your orgasm surged through you.

He moaned against you, his mouth still working your clit as you came, the taste of your release flooding his senses.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up for a second as he licked you through your orgasm, his tongue swirling over your sensitive bud until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips brushing against your folds as he spoke. “Cum for me, baby. So fuckin’ good for me. I could eat this pussy all day.”

You were still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm when he finally pulled away, his lips and chin slick with your arousal as he moved back up your body. You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt the hard press of his cock against your entrance.

“Time to wake up, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with need. “I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock slid inside you slowly, stretching you open as he filled you completely, the sensation overwhelming. His hands gripped your hips with possessive strength, holding you in place as he began to thrust, each deep, deliberate movement sending a shock of pleasure through your body.

His gaze darkened with lust, the intensity in his eyes making you shiver.

“You feel that?” he growled, his voice low and rough, his hips grinding into yours. “That’s my cock inside my perfect wife. You’re not just sweet —you’re mine to fuck, my own personal slut. Made for this.”

The way he said it, the ownership in his voice, made your body tighten around him, clenching his cock as if to keep him inside.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.

His mouth found your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sucking it deep into his mouth. He bit down just hard enough to make you gasp, the sharp jolt of pleasure-pain only heightening the sensation of his cock pounding into you.

His other hand cupped your other breast, fingers pinching and rolling your nipple between them, the roughness driving you wild.

“Such perfect tits,” he groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing the swollen bud again before sucking harder. “These belong to me too—just like this pussy. I love the way your body reacts to me, how you beg for more without even saying a word.”

He shifted his hips, slamming into you harder, the rhythm relentless now, his thrusts deep and rough.

The bed creaked beneath the force of it, your body jolting with every powerful movement, and all you could do was moan, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you.

“You love being mine, don’t you?” he rasped, releasing your nipple with a wet pop before moving to the other, biting down just enough to make you shudder. “You love knowing that I own you. My sweet little wife on the outside, but behind closed doors, you’re nothing but my filthy fuck toy.”

His words were so filthy, so degrading, but they only made your arousal spike higher. The dirty talk sent a rush of heat through you, your pussy squeezing around him as if begging for more.

“That’s right,” he growled, his pace quickening as he fucked you harder, his cock slamming into you with a raw, unfiltered intensity.

“I’m gonna fuck you until all you can think about is how good it feels to be filled by me. This is what you were made for—taking me, being mine, every inch of you.”

He shifted his weight slightly, freeing one hand from your breast to grab your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “I love seeing you like this,” he whispered against your ear, his voice rough and ragged.

“Begging for my cock, letting me use you however I want. You love being filled by me, don’t you? You love being my perfect little girl.“

His hand tightened around your throat as his thrusts became erratic, harder, more desperate.

He was close, you could feel it in the way his cock twitched inside you, the way his breathing became heavier, more labored. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” he commanded, his thumb brushing over your nipple in time with his thrusts.

“You’re gonna milk my cock while I fill you up, baby. I’m gonna breed you, fill you with every last drop.”

His cock throbbed inside you as he pounded relentlessly, the wet sounds of his body slamming into yours filling the room. His hand tightened around your throat, while his other hand gripped your breast, his fingers pinching your nipple hard, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you.

He leaned down, biting at the soft skin of your neck before dragging his lips to your ear.

“You feel so good, hm?” he rasped, his voice dark and dripping with lust. “You love being owned like this. My perfect little girl, taking my cock like the slut you are for me.”

His thrusts grew deeper, harder, making you gasp with every movement, each one hitting the perfect spot inside you that made you tremble.

His lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud before he released it with a wet pop. He moved to the other breast, repeating the rough treatment, his eyes flicking up to watch your face as you moaned helplessly beneath him.

“You want me to fill you up, baby?” he growled, biting down gently on your nipple. “You want me to breed you, to fuck you full of my cum until it’s dripping out of you.”

The filthy words sent heat flooding through your body, your pussy clenching tighter around him, making him groan deep in his throat. His thrusts became more frantic, his hips slamming against yours as he fucked you harder, deeper.

“I’m gonna make you a mommy,” he snarled, his voice rough with lust. “You want that, sweet girl? You want me to fuck a baby into you? Want me to be your fuckin‘ daddy?”

His words made your mind spin, and you whimpered beneath him, the idea of him filling you, making you his in the most primal way, sending a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

“Yeah, you do.” he growled, his cock pounding into you with brutal force.

“You want me to fuck you so deep, to breed you, make you a mommy with my cum. You’re gonna take it all, every last drop, and I’m gonna fuck you until I’ve filled you up. You want a daddy to fuck you, huh? You want me to give you my baby?”

You couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, the pleasure overwhelming as his dirty words pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His hand tightened around your throat just a little more, and his pace quickened, his hips slamming into you with wild desperation.

“I’m gonna breed you, baby,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m gonna fill this tight little pussy with my cum, make you mine forever. Gonna be your daddy and fuck you full until you’re dripping with it. You’ll be swollen with my baby, and you’ll love every second of it, won’t you?”

The tension snapped inside you, your orgasm hitting you like a wave, your body convulsing around his cock as you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Your pussy clenched hard around him, milking him for every drop, and he groaned deep in his chest, his cock twitching as he finally let go, his release crashing over him.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice strained with pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he came hard, filling you with his cum. “Gonna make you mine, baby. Gonna fuckin’ make you a mommy. You’ll be carrying my baby, swollen with it.”

He stayed there for a moment, buried deep inside you, both of you panting as the aftershocks of pleasure washed over you. Slowly, he pulled out, his cum already starting to drip from your swollen pussy, and he watched with satisfaction, his hand sliding down to gently rub your lower belly.

“You’re gonna look so fucking perfect with my baby inside you,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before whispering, “You’re mine. And I’m gonna fill you up again and again, until you can’t think of anything but being my good little wife… and the mother of my children.”

Joel stayed buried in the moment for a few more seconds, his hand gently stroking your belly as if imagining what it would be like to see you swollen with his child.

His touch softened, his expression turning from the raw lust that had consumed him moments before into something much more tender, loving. His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, his eyes full of warmth as he looked down at you.

“Think it’ll stick this time, baby?” he asked, his voice quiet, but filled with hope.

You smiled softly up at him, reaching up to stroke his face. “I hope so, baby,” you whispered, your voice teasing but full of affection. “You’re certainly doing your best to make sure of it.”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss your forehead, the sweetness of the gesture making your heart swell. “You enjoyed every second of it, huh?” His tone was playful now, the intensity from earlier fading into something much more comfortable, more intimate.

“Every second,” you replied, biting your lip as you added teasingly, “Daddy.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest, but it was playful, his hand swatting your thigh gently. “You’re gonna make me start all over again, talkin’ like that.” He leaned down, nipping at your neck in a way that made you giggle. “Stop it, I need to get to work.”

You laughed softly, still catching your breath from everything, and wrapped your arms around his neck for a brief moment before letting go. “Can you grab eggs on your way home later, baby?” you asked, the domestic request slipping easily into the conversation, as if nothing about the morning had been out of the ordinary.

Joel grinned down at you, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said softly. “But first, let’s get some coffee in us. Come on.” He gently nudged your legs apart and got up, offering his hand to pull you with him.

You accepted his hand and climbed out of bed, feeling the warm, comforting domesticity settle between you both like a cozy blanket. As the two of you headed to the kitchen, Joel kept one arm around your waist, holding you close as he moved about, getting the coffee started.

“Can’t believe I’ve got to leave this behind and go to work,” he said, shaking his head as he looked you up and down with an affectionate smile. “All this bliss - my woman teasin’ me with her ‘daddy’ talk, and I gotta put on a construction hat.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you nudged him playfully. “You’ll be home before you know it. Maybe we can pick up where we left off.”

Joel gave you a sly grin, pulling you into his chest for a brief, but warm kiss. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.” His voice was teasing but full of affection as he kissed the top of your head. “I might just quit and come back early.”

“Don’t you dare,” you laughed. “We need those eggs.”

Joel chuckled, reaching for the mugs as the coffee finished brewing. “Alright, alright, eggs it is. But tonight—” he leaned down to whisper in your ear, his voice a playful growl, “we’re pickin’ up where we left off. No escapin’ that.”

You smiled up at him, your heart full as he handed you your cup of coffee. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby.”

· · ───

After Joel left for work, the house grew quiet, filled only with the soft hum of daily life. You went through the motions—cleaning up the breakfast dishes, folding some laundry, and putting away the little things that needed tidying. As the day passed, you couldn’t help but think of Joel, out there working hard, pushing through the long hours, his body no doubt aching from the labor.

You knew that when he came home, he would need you. That’s how it was with him—he carried the weight of the day on his shoulders, and by the time he stepped through the door, he was ready to let it all out.

By late afternoon, you decided to unroll your yoga mat in the living room, letting the warm light of the setting sun fill the space as you moved through your poses. The deep stretches pulled tension from your muscles, and for a moment, you were completely lost in the rhythm of your breathing, your body relaxing into the poses.

You didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t notice Joel coming home early. You were in a deep bend, eyes closed, when you felt the familiar presence behind you.

Before you could straighten, his hands were on your hips—firm, possessive, the way they always were when he came home after a long day. He didn’t speak at first, just a low, throaty grunt as he tugged you back into him.

You could feel the heat of his body, the intensity rolling off him like a storm, and before you could even process what was happening, he yanked your leggings down in one swift motion, leaving you completely exposed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and thick with that familiar drawl. “You have no idea what kind of day I’ve had.”

His hands slid roughly over your hips, gripping you tightly as he leaned down, his breath hot against the back of your neck.

You didn’t have time to say a word before he freed himself from his jeans, pushing them down just enough to press his hard cock against your entrance. The anticipation made your body tighten in response, and you could feel your own arousal building as he held you there, hovering just at the edge of control.

“All damn day,” he growled, his voice low and strained, “all I’ve been thinkin’ about is gettin’ home, bendin’ you over, and takin’ you like this.”

With that, he thrust into you, filling you completely in one rough, deep stroke. You gasped, your body arching as he stretched you wide, his cock slamming into you with an intensity that made you dizzy. Joel didn’t ease into it—he took you hard, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you back against him with each brutal thrust.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, his voice tight as he drove into you again and again. “This is what I need. All day, bustin’ my ass, and I come home to this tight little pussy waitin’ for me.”

The words were filthy, but there was a rawness to them, a desperate need that you could feel in every thrust of his hips.

He was letting everything out, the tension of the day pouring into you with every stroke of his cock. You could barely breathe, the pleasure and intensity of it all overwhelming as he used your body, his movements relentless, demanding.

“You’re always so fuckin’ perfect for me,” Joel growled, his hands sliding up your body, rough fingers grazing your skin as he yanked your tank top down, exposing your breasts.

His hands moved to your chest, grabbing your breasts roughly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples before pinching them hard. The mix of pain and pleasure sent shockwaves through your body, and you whimpered beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice low and dark as his hips slammed into yours, his cock filling you over and over.

“Always so good for me. I work my ass off all day, and this—this is what I need when I come home. My sweet girl, just lettin’ me take what’s mine.”

There was a tenderness hidden beneath the raw desire, the way he spoke to you like you were his safe haven, the one place where he could let go of everything. But his actions were anything but soft.

He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you back onto his cock with a force that made you moan, your body trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher.

“You don’t know how much I need this,” Joel groaned, his pace quickening as his cock slammed into you harder, deeper. “You, here, ready for me every damn day. Letting me fuck you just like this. I don’t deserve you.”

You whimpered in response, the intensity of his words and his movements driving you closer to the edge. He was rough, unrelenting, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter as his hands roamed your body, his grip possessive, his touch demanding.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, his voice rough as his pace became even more frantic, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, baby. Gonna empty my fuckin’ balls inside you until you’re dripping with me.”

His words sent a shiver through you, and your body responded, tightening around his cock as the pleasure built to a peak.

You couldn’t hold back anymore—the tension snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you, your body trembling as you came hard around him. Your pussy clenched tight, and Joel groaned, his grip on you tightening as he felt your release.

“Fuck,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby. You’re mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, Joel buried himself inside you, his cock throbbing as he came, spilling his hot cum deep inside you. The warmth of it spread through you, and you shuddered, still trembling from your own release as he held you there, his chest pressed against your back, both of you panting.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Joel stayed inside you, his breathing ragged, the rough edges of his desire finally softening.

But when he pulled out, his eyes darkened again, watching as his cum started to drip from your swollen pussy, a low, filthy groan escaping his throat.

“Don’t you dare let it go to waste,” he muttered, his hand suddenly firm on your lower back, pushing you down slightly so you were exposed to him fully. “Push it out for me, baby. Let me see it.”

You whimpered, your body still trembling from the intensity of everything, but you did as he said, pushing his thick cum out of you, feeling it leak from your entrance. Joel’s eyes were locked on the sight, his gaze filled with raw hunger.

“Good girl,” he growled, his hand sliding down to gather the dripping cum on his fingers. Without warning, he pressed two fingers back into you, forcing his release back inside, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as you gasped at the sudden sensation.

“You’re gonna keep it in there,” he commanded, his voice low and rough as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out, spreading the warmth of his cum inside you again.

“I’m not done with you yet. Not until I make sure you’re filled.”

As you clenched around his fingers, still sensitive from everything, he pulled them out and raised them to your lips. His eyes locked with yours, dark and full of intent. “Open,” he ordered softly, pressing the cum-covered fingers to your mouth.

You obeyed, parting your lips and letting him slide his fingers inside, the taste of him filling your mouth as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Suck ‘em clean, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice both tender and commanding, watching as you did exactly that, his gaze softening just enough to make your heart flutter despite the intensity.

“Good girl. You don’t know how good you are to me,” he said quietly, his voice now a mix of gratitude and desire as he watched you.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, the roughness from earlier replaced with a deep, tender affection.

You smiled softly, his fingers still in your mouth as your eyes met his. “I’m always here for you, daddy.”

He chuckled low in his throat, pulling you closer into his chest, his breath warm against your hair. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, baby.”

After a moment of stillness, Joel slowly helped you up, his hands gentle but firm, lingering on your skin with a touch that made your body tingle. His eyes softened as they met yours, and the intense hunger from earlier melted into something warmer, more intimate. He guided you toward the bathroom, that teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low and affectionate. “Let’s get you all cleaned up, darlin’. Can’t leave my girl like this.”

You smiled, leaning into him as you walked, feeling the heat of his body still close to yours. Once inside the bathroom, you couldn’t resist a playful grin as you remembered the errand you’d sent him on. “So… did you get the eggs I asked for?”

Joel chuckled, his deep voice vibrating against you. “Yeah, fresh from the farm, just like you wanted. Thought of you the whole damn time,” he added, his tone dropping suggestively. “All I could think about was how you were gonna thank me for ‘em.”

You bit your lip, feeling the familiar heat return between you as he stood close, his fingers brushing your hip. “Well, I can’t wait to try that new recipe. You’re gonna love it.”

Joel leaned in, his lips grazing your ear. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll love whatever you’ve got cookin’. But let’s not pretend I’m not thinkin’ about that other way you thank me, baby,” he murmured, his voice dripping with that familiar, playful growl.

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you closer as he added with a grin, “But first… let’s get you cleaned up. I need you fresh and ready for later.”

You laughed softly, your body warming under his touch, even as you let him guide you into the shower. The water was warm, cascading over your skin as Joel’s hands followed, his fingers gentle but still teasing, touching you with an ease that made your heart flutter.

His hands slid over your body, but every once in a while, he would pause—his touch lingering just long enough to make you tremble.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said, his voice softer now, filled with affection as he washed away the day from your skin. “Don’t know what I’d do without you here to come home to.”

You smiled, leaning your head back into his chest.

Joel let out a small hum of satisfaction, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands continued their slow exploration of your body. He wasn’t rushing, savoring every second of the intimacy between you, even as you could feel the undercurrent of playfulness in his touch.

His hands slid down your stomach, stopping just short of teasing you further, and you let out a playful whine.

“Not yet, darlin’,” he whispered with a chuckle. “We’ve got dinner to make first.”

As you stepped out of the shower, Joel wrapped you in a soft towel, pulling you close for another lingering kiss. You could feel the warmth of his love in every gesture, even in the way he gently brushed the wet strands of hair away from your face.

“So, what’s this recipe that’s got you so excited?” he asked, his voice light and teasing as he led you toward the kitchen.

“A new quiche recipe,” you said, feeling your excitement return. “I’ve been wanting to try it for a while.”

Joel grinned, his eyes sparkling with affection and mischief. “Quiche, huh? You sure you ain’t just makin’ it so I’ve got something to eat after I’ve worked you up again?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes at him. “Maybe it’s a little of both. I’ve got to keep you satisfied one way or another.”

He stepped up behind you as you pulled out the ingredients, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him. “You know I’m already more than satisfied,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the side of your neck. “But I won’t complain if you keep spoilin’ me.”

You leaned into him, your head resting back against his shoulder. “Well, you deserve it after a hard day’s work.”

“That I do,” Joel whispered, his hands roaming again, teasing but not pushing. “But I can’t wait for dessert.”

You laughed, swatting him playfully. “Patience, cowboy. Dinner first.”

Joel chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Yeah, yeah,” he teased, stepping back to let you work, though his eyes followed your every movement. “But later… you and me, baby. Quiche ain’t gonna be the only thing I’m devouring.”

You glanced over your shoulder with a smirk, the playful heat between you always simmering, always alive. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As you continued to prepare dinner, the warmth between you two lingered in the air. It wasn’t just in the way he looked at you with that teasing grin, but in the domestic ease you both shared—the simple joy of being together, of teasing and loving one another, no matter what the day had thrown your way.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

[thepencilnerd]

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER. 

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after. 

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts. 

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip. 

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat. 

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face. 

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He  leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to.  I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs. 

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard. 

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself. 

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold. 

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to. 

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away. 

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact. 

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself. 

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still. 

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.  

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale. 

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..." 

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact. 

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light. 

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there. 

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes. 

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight. 

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in. 

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you. 

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself. 

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you. 

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer. 

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack. 

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening. 

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor. 

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up." 

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long." 

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home. 

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs. 

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

[himasgod]

ACE, DEUCE, LEONA, KALIM AND LILIA X READER

Where you have the habit of patting them on the head when they do something right

You made the mistake of patting Ace's head the first time after he barely passed a basketball practice match without cheating.

A small miracle.

You had smiled and ruffled his messy red hair saying,

"Good job, Ace. I’m proud of you."

Ace froze for a second. Blink. Blink.

Then— He grinned.

You could practically see the little sparkle light up behind his eyes.

"Ohhh?~ What's this? Little ol' me getting a reward, huh?"

He leaned down dramatically, tilting his head toward you like a cat demanding attention.

"Wanna pet me more? Maybe scratch behind my ears next time, Yuu?"

From that moment on, Ace treated your habit like his favorite game.

Whenever he did anything remotely successful—winning a card game, finishing a group project, even just carrying your bag for you—he’d shoot you the most obnoxious overly innocent look and announce,

"So, where’s my headpat?"

Sometimes he’d physically nudge your hand toward his head, acting whiny.

Other times, he'd dramatically flop into your lap pouting,

"C'mon, I worked so hard for this."

It was a bit of a monster you created, honestly.

But deep down you knew Ace loved it.

It wasn’t just the attention (though he definitely loved that too). It was you, loving him out loud.

Sometimes, after a rough day (when he didn’t feel like being annoying or bragging), Ace would just plop down beside you, resting his head against your shoulder wordlessly.

And you would smile and card your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, murmuring how proud you were of him.

Ace would close his eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips—and let himself be held by you.

Deuce wasn’t used to being praised. Not like this.

When you first patted his head, he’d passed a potion test he was convinced he’d failed.

The moment Professor Crewel handed him a passing mark, Deuce lit up like a sunrise. And when he turned around to share the joy with you—you just smiled and ruffled his hair.

“There you go! I knew you could do it.”

He blinked. Face froze. And then:

“What are you doing?!”

He turned bright red. Hands flailing. “I’m not a little kid!! You can’t just—!”

But despite the protests, he didn’t stop you. His cheeks glowed. His ears went pink.

And you could feel him slowly leaning into your hand, like he really needed someone to say “you did good” and mean it.

From then on, you made it a habit. Big things. Small things.

If Deuce gave someone without punching them?

Pat.

If he helped someone carry books or aced a quiz?

Pat.

At first, he would puff up every time: “Yuu! Come on, don’t do that in front of the others!!”

He got this tiny proud smile every time, like he couldn’t help but melt a little.

You started noticing he worked harder when you were watching.

“I’ve got to do it right,” he’d mutter under his breath. “Yuu’s gonna see this. I gotta make ‘em proud.”

Eventually, Deuce started earning your headpats on purpose.

He’d glance over with hopeful eyes every time he did something right, and when you stepped close and reached up, he’d bow his head, pretending not to smile—but you could feel it radiating off him.

It wasn’t about being babied. It was about you believing in him. And every headpat said: You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.

For someone trying so hard to walk the right path—that meant everything.

Leona hated it. ...At least, that’s what he said.

The first time you patted his head—after he actually bothered to show up to a Housewarden meeting on time—he let out a growl.

"The hell do you think you’re doing, herbivore?"

But you just smirked and kept scratching behind his ear in that one spot, and watched as the mighty lion prince immediately betrayed himself by leaning into it, just a tiny involuntary fraction.

"You did good today," you murmured.

And you saw it—the second when the tension drained from his shoulders, when he let himself lean just a little closer.

After that, it became a game.

Leona pretended to be indifferent whenever you pet him, acting lazy and annoyed, grumbling things like,

"You're such a pain."

But whenever he actually accomplished something (winning a Spelldrive match, helping a Savannaclaw student study even though he claimed he didn’t care)—he would position himself within reach.

Sprawled on the lounge couch?

Conveniently lying right where your hand would naturally fall on his head.

Sitting with you under the shade of a tree?

Somehow ended up leaning back so close you couldn't not pet him.

He never asked.

But every time you started to run your fingers through his hair and scratch gently behind his ear, that gruff lion would let out the softest rumbly purring sound against his will.

(And if you kissed his temple while you did it, his ears would flatten... but he wouldn’t move away.)

The first time you patted Kalim’s head, it was after he successfully hosted a big Scarabia banquet where no one got food poisoning, nobody got sunstroke, and Jamil didn’t strangle anyone.

High bar.

You reached up, giggling, and fluffed his snowy white hair between your hands.

"You did amazing, Kalim! You’re incredible!"

Kalim immediately lit up like a sunbeam.

"REALLY??" he cried, sparkling. "You think so?! Ahahaha!! You're the best, Yuu!!"

He immediately tackled-hugged you, spinning you around in circles, laughing so loudly and brightly that half of Scarabia heard it.

From that day forward, Kalim decided headpats were mandatory.

Every time he achieved anything—got a good grade, learned a new flying trick, remembered all his appointments for the day—he would come BOUNDING up to you like an excited puppy.

"Yuu! Yuu! Look!! I finished all my homework early!!"

And then he would immediately bow his head down toward you, waiting for his headpat.

If you didn’t do it fast enough, he would grab your hand and put it on his head himself.

Once, in front of the entire Scarabia dorm, he proudly yelled,

"I did all the event planning with Jamil without messing up once!! Yuu, gimme my headpats now!!"

The Scarabia students just sighed fondly. (They were used to it.)

Sometimes Kalim would fall asleep with his head in your lap, your hand stroking through his soft hair.

He would mumble half-dreaming praises:

"Yuu... the best... so nice... love you lots..."

No matter how rich, powerful, or loved he was by the world—there was something in Kalim’s heart that craved that warm reassurance. That he was seen.

That he was cherished just for being him.

And you gave it to him, every time.

Lilia’s reaction to your headpats was...

Well.

The first time you did it, he simply closed his eyes and smiled like a cat basking in the sunlight.

You had congratulated him for flawlessly performing an impossibly complex spell during Alchemy class (he's like 500 years old how is he not gonna do it)

— and without missing a beat, you'd stood on your tiptoes (he was short, but still a bit taller than you!) and fluffed his hair affectionately.

Lilia chuckled.

"My, my. How spoiled I'm becoming, but if it's coming from you, I suppose I could grow used to such indulgences."

Unlike Leona—who denied wanting headpats and melted when he got them—Lilia leaned into it shamelessly.

He treated it like a game.

Sometimes after pranking Silver he'd come sauntering up to you, grin wicked, and lower his head.

"Don't I deserve a little reward, Yuu?~" he’d tease. "If you're feeling generous, that is."

If you hesitated even a second, Lilia would pout, arms folded, pretending to be deeply wounded.

"Ohhh, how cruel! You encourage me to be mischievous and then deny me my rightful prize!"

He’d even throw in a fake sniffle for good measure.

When you did give in—giggling and running your fingers through his soft hair—Lilia would hum, closing his eyes, his whole person softening.

And sometimes he would rest his head against yours

"You’re too kind to an old fae like me, Yuu." A whisper of something bittersweet

[fleurbly]

HER FATHERS KILLER, HER HEARTS KEEPER.

part I, part II, part III.

summary: being the daughter of a vampire hunter is complicated enough especially when you’re sneaking out at night to be with the vampire you’re meant to hate — torn between loyalty and desire, caught in a dangerous game where every choice could cost you everything.

warnings: sexual content, explicit scenes, non-consensual undertones, coercion, manipulation, domestic tension, family conflict, pregnancy and forced pregnancy, power imbalance, emotional abuse, distress, threats of violence, threats of murder.

pairing: dark!remmick x reader

w/c: 12k+

DNI IF THE TAGS AFFECT YOU, YOU HAVE BEEN WANRED.

Your shoes were already ruined.

You tried not to look down, but you could feel it with every step—how the soft leather had soaked through, how the stitching was pulling loose from the soles, how something sticky was tugging faintly at your heels each time you lifted your foot. The hem of your dress had given up a half-mile ago. Now it dragged behind you like a flag in the dirt, pale blue fabric stained dark with mud and bent grass, torn where it had caught on brambles.

You hadn’t even wanted to come.

Not because you were afraid—though, now, deep in your chest, you could admit that maybe you were. But mostly because you had known from the start that you didn’t belong here. Not like this. Not in your good dress, with your hair pinned up neatly and your hands still smelling faintly of lavender soap. Not with a borrowed bow in your arms like it was a clutch purse, like you had to carry it because it would’ve been rude to say no.

“Just a quick look,” your father had said when the sky turned strange, his voice gruff but warm. “Thought you might like to see what my days are like, now that the weather’s cleared.”

You’d wanted to say no. You’d almost said it. But then he’d rested one of his heavy hands on your shoulder—careful, like he always was, like you were made of something fragile—and you’d only nodded instead.

Now you were ankle-deep in a part of the woods that didn’t even feel like woods anymore.

The trees here were too old, too tall. They bent inward like they were sharing secrets just above your head, their branches tangled like ribs, pressing in. The air beneath them was wrong—too still, too thick, with that sour-damp smell like mildew and closed-up cellars. No birdsong. No breeze. The only sound was your own footsteps and the squelch of earth pulling at them.

The light—if you could call it that—had stopped changing hours ago.

It hung in the trees like fog, tinted a strange kind of blue-lavender, like the sky couldn’t decide if it was night or not. There was no sun. Just a heavy, purplish glow that turned everything soft and dim around the edges. Not dark enough to be dangerous, but not light enough to feel safe. It felt like the world had paused, like time had sunk into the earth and left you wandering through the breath between two heartbeats.

And you were sweating. God, were you sweating.

You could feel a line of it slipping down your back beneath the stays of your corset, itching as it went. You’d pulled your gloves off half an hour ago, and your fingers looked out of place without them—narrow and flushed, your nails too clean for all this earth. You kept looking at the bow your father had slung over your shoulder before you guys had stepped off the path. It felt wrong in your hands. Too big. Too quiet. Like it was waiting for you to do something you didn’t understand.

“I don’t know how to shoot this,” you’d said earlier, your voice too light and sweet and soft.

Your father had smiled in that tired way he did sometimes. “Doesn’t matter if you shoot. Just need to hold it. Makes you less of a target.”

A target for what, he hadn’t said.

And you—foolishly, stupidly—hadn’t asked.

You thought you saw the path curve—just ahead, behind the long fingers of a willow that leaned too far into the trail, its tendrils brushing the ground like it was searching for something lost. Your father hadn’t said where the path led. He hadn’t spoken much at all since you passed the creek. His eyes stayed ahead, watchful—not worried, just focused, like he was trying to remember something half-forgotten.

You stepped over a cluster of roots, skirt catching in a low tangle of thorns again. They left little marks on the hem, snagging at the embroidery. You sighed softly and smoothed the fabric with your hand. And that’s when you noticed it.

The air had changed.

Not wind—there was no breeze, not even a ripple in the tall grass—but a kind of hush. Like the trees had paused mid-breath, like the world was listening.

“Papa?” you asked, gently, just behind him.

He lifted his hand without turning. A small motion, like asking for quiet—not out of fear, just... wanting to see something clearly before it slipped away.

And then the woods thinned.

The trees parted all at once, and the light turned strange—soft, pale, the color of a storm that never came. It painted the world in a faint wash of violet-blue, as if the sun had never quite risen and never would. At first, it was hard to tell what you were looking at. Everything was so still. But then you saw them—rooftops. Faint outlines of buildings sunk into the wild growth, their edges softened by time and vine.

A town. Or what was left of one.

There were no signs, no fences. Just the slow fade of wild woods into old pathways—grass overtaking cobblestones, ivy creeping up broken doorframes. The houses leaned gently, as if bowing to the years, not broken, just tired. The windows were open to the air, empty but not lifeless.

And at the far end—a church.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped walking until your father did too.

It stood quiet, worn white paint peeled to the wood, the steeple bent just enough to feel graceful in its fall. The cross at its top was half-broken, yes—but it didn’t look ruined. It looked weathered, like a memory. The front doors hung loose from their hinges, and the windows—tall, arched, bare—let in the violet sky like they’d been meant to.

It didn’t feel frightening.

Only... still. Like something left in peace.

“I don’t know what this place is,” you whispered. “It feels strange. Not bad—just...”

Your father glanced down at you, then toward the church again. He didn’t look alarmed, only quiet. The kind of quiet he wore when something touched a place in him he didn’t speak about often.

He placed his hand gently on your arm. “Stay here,” he said. “I just want a look around. I won’t be long.”

Your hand reached out without thinking, catching the sleeve of his coat. “Don’t go in without me,” you said, the words a little breathless. “Please.”

He hesitated, just for a second. Then he gave you that small, familiar look—the one that said he didn’t quite understand your worry, but he’d carry it for you anyway. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders like a blanket.

“You’ll be alright,” he murmured, tucking the collar closer to your chin. “Just don’t stray too far. Not here.”

You nodded, though your chest felt tight in a way you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t fear. Not really. Just something quiet and strange and wide, like the kind of hush that comes before a snowfall.

You watched him go, his figure moving steady down the worn path, past the quiet buildings and the empty windows, toward the slanted church that waited at the town’s end like a sleeping thing.

You stood alone in the purple-tinted stillness, your hands tucked in the too-long sleeves, the bow loose and forgotten at your side. The air was warm and soft, full of the smell of dust and growing things. It didn’t feel haunted. It felt... paused.

Like something beautiful had been waiting here a long time to be remembered.

And above you, the sky stayed that same strange color—neither dusk nor dawn. A deep, endless twilight that made everything feel like a dream you weren’t sure you were meant to wake from.

You stayed where you were, just like he told you. Standing quiet, your fathers other spare coat wrapped around your shoulders, the hem of your dress catching in the grass when the breeze finally stirred. If it even was a breeze. It felt more like the town had exhaled. Long and low, like it had forgotten someone was listening.

You shifted your weight, glancing back at the path, then toward the church where your father had gone. The doors were still open. No sound came from within.

And then—

Movement.

Not from the church.

From the far end of the street, near a small house tucked behind what had once been a garden. It was the only one that didn’t look half-swallowed by the land. The shutters still clung to their windows, the porch hadn’t caved in, and the front door was crooked, but not broken. There were even wind chimes strung near the eaves—silent now, but still hanging, like someone had tied them there not too long ago.

From the shadow of that porch, a cat stepped out.

You blinked, surprised—not because it was there, but because it looked so... ordinary.

Gray, with white socks and a patch over one eye, its fur soft-looking even at a distance. Not starved. Not wild. It stretched its back in the warm light, tail high, and padded across the road with no urgency at all, like it walked this path every day.

It didn’t look at you, not at first.

It only moved with slow, sure steps, past the weeds growing between the cobblestones, past the hollow houses and the yawning windows. Then, halfway across the street, it paused.

And turned its head.

You found yourself taking a small step forward before you meant to.

The bow at your side shifted in your hand, light and awkward. You glanced at it, then back to the cat.

It blinked once. Slowly.

Then turned again, swishing its tail once behind it, and walked back toward the house. Not hurrying. Not calling for you. Just moving, like it expected you to follow.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

The church still stood in its quiet lean, unmoving. Your father hadn’t come back out. You weren’t worried—not yet. But you were alone. And the house—that one house—felt... different. Not inviting, exactly. But alive. In a way nothing else in the town quite was.

You looked back at the cat.

It had stopped on the porch and was watching you again, one paw resting delicately on the step, tail curled neatly around its legs.

Waiting.

You looked once more toward the church.

Its silhouette stayed the same: quiet, still, folded into the soft horizon like it had been drawn there with a piece of charcoal. No sign of your father. No sound from inside. Just the sky above, holding steady in that odd not-evening hue—somewhere between violet and stormwater blue.

You turned your gaze back to the cat.

It had settled on the top step of the porch, tail curled neatly around its body like a ribbon. It didn’t blink when you met its eyes—just stared, unbothered, like it had all the time in the world and none of it belonged to you.

You walked slowly toward it, your skirt whispering through the tall grass that had overtaken the cobblestone path. Your boots caught once on a loose stone, but you didn’t stumble. One hand held the bow loosely at your side, the other clutching your father’s coat closed around your frame. It still carried the smell of tobacco and pine sap, and you breathed it in like a small kind of bravery.

The cat didn’t move.

Just watched, blinking slowly as you reached the bottom step.

You stopped there a moment. Let your eyes trace the curve of the porch rail, the lean of the ivy as it climbed in quiet spirals along the side of the house. The wood under your boots groaned softly as you stepped up, and the cat gave the barest flick of its tail.

“You’re not lost, are you?” you said quietly, crouching down a little. “You look like you know where you are.”

The cat tilted its head just a little.

You offered the ghost of a smile.

“I don’t. Not really.” You glanced back over your shoulder, down the path you’d come. The church still waited there at the end of the road, shadowed and distant. You swallowed. “My papa says not to wander. But he didn’t say anything about following a cat.”

As if in reply, the cat stood and slipped through the half-open door without a sound.

You hesitated.

Not because you were scared. Not really. It was just the feeling—the stillness of it all. Like this place had been waiting for you. Like the moment you stepped inside, it might close its hand around you and hold you in place for good.

But still, you followed.

The door opened just wide enough for you to slip in after it. The light inside was dim but soft, stretched through old lace curtains that filtered the sky into lavender and pearl. It painted everything in that same dream-haze as the world outside.

You stepped gently, boots pressing into old floorboards that sighed beneath your weight but didn’t protest. The air was warm. Clean. Carried that faded scent of dried herbs and cotton sun-bleached long ago. Your fingers brushed the edge of a side table as you passed—a bowl of smooth river stones sat in the center, their colors dulled by time but polished to a gentle shine.

The cat had already made itself at home.

It was curled on an armchair to the left, nestled deep in the cushion like it had always belonged there. One paw tucked under its chin. Eyes closed now. Content.

You smiled, soft and a little unsure, as you walked past it.

“You’re lucky,” you murmured, letting your voice fall to just above a whisper. “If I could curl up somewhere and sleep like that, I think I would too.”

The cat’s ear twitched, but it didn’t open its eyes.

You stood there for a long breath, your hands fisted gently into the sleeves of your father’s coat, the bow still resting awkwardly in the crook of your arm. Everything in this room was soft and still and careful. Like it was holding itself together so it wouldn’t startle you.

You didn’t sit. You didn’t move far.

You just stood in the middle of that little room where the air felt warmer than outside, where the walls felt thick with memory and quiet. Where a cat had waited on the porch like it knew you’d follow.

The cat’s purring was steady, its body warm under your fingertips as you gently stroked its fur. You hadn’t expected it, but the soothing hum of the cat’s contentment seemed to relax something inside you. The house, though old and worn, felt almost familiar in that moment. The soft, rhythmic purring made the world outside feel distant, almost like you were in a quiet bubble, away from the strange, unsettling nature of the woods and the things you couldn’t explain.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to forget. To breathe without the weight of worry. The cat’s presence, its warm body curled in the armchair, was simple and real. Something that could almost make you believe that not everything in the world was... strange. Something normal.

You ran your hand over its back again, slower this time, enjoying the peaceful moment. But as you did, a voice cut through the quiet—low, smooth, almost like it belonged in the room with you.

“He doesn’t usually take to new people.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze.

The cat’s ears twitched at the sound of the voice, but it didn’t move from its spot. It seemed to know—just like you—that something had shifted in the room.

Your hand instinctively gripped the bow at your side, fingers tightening around the familiar wooden shape. Slowly, you stood, your body tensing as you turned toward the voice.

At the top of the stairs stood a man. His presence was almost too still, like he was a part of the shadows in the house, blending seamlessly into the atmosphere. His gaze locked onto you with a sharpness that sent a chill down your spine.

You took a step back without thinking, your heart racing in your chest. Your hand clenched tighter around the bow, as though it could offer some kind of defense against the unnerving calm that radiated from him.

His eyes never left you. They were dark, deep, and filled with something you couldn’t place. Something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

The silence between you two was thick, heavy. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in your throat. He wasn’t threatening, not exactly. But there was something about him—something about the way he stood there—that made you uneasy.

“Who are you?” you managed to ask, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. It sounded almost like an apology, a soft question rather than an accusation.

The man’s lips twitched at the corner, just slightly, as if he found the situation amusing. But his expression remained composed, unreadable.

“You’re a hunter’s daughter, ain’t you?” he asked, voice low and smooth, as if he were merely stating a fact.

Your stomach twisted at the mention of your father’s occupation. You hadn’t said anything about it, and yet he knew. A cold shiver ran down your spine. The bow felt heavier in your hands now, though it hadn’t changed weight.

“I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat again. How could he possibly know that? How could he know anything about you?

The man didn’t press for an answer. Instead, he stepped down the stairs slowly, the creak of the old wood beneath his feet cutting through the stillness. There was something deliberate about his movement, calculated, like he was measuring every step.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. You were rooted to the spot, every instinct telling you to leave, but your body wouldn’t obey.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you finally said, though it came out more as a statement than a challenge. “Who are you?”

The man stopped at the base of the stairs, not too far from you now. You could see him clearly—his dark, disheveled hair, the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his eyes studied you with an unsettling intensity.

“I’m Remmick,” he replied, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient, as if the name itself held meaning that went beyond just the sound of it.

You swallowed hard, still unsure whether you were in danger. Remmick. It meant nothing to you, but it did something to the air between you two. It made everything feel tighter, heavier.

You opened your mouth to ask something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you found yourself staring at the cat again. It had resumed purring, now almost as though it was unconcerned with the man standing behind you.

“You were asking about him earlier,” Remmick said, his voice drawing your attention back to him. “He’s… particular. Doesn’t usually take to strangers.”

His eyes flicked to the cat, who lazily blinked in response, as if confirming the claim.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, your voice quiet again, unsure of how to proceed. You felt like you were losing your grip on the situation.

Remmick's lips quirked again, this time into something closer to a smile—though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I didn’t say you did. But he’s... not as welcoming as you might think. Not for just anyone." There was a pause, his eyes still locked on yours. “But then, I suppose you’re not ‘just anyone,’ are you?”

You frowned, uncertain about his meaning. It felt as though he was dancing around something—something that wasn’t being said directly. You didn’t know what he was implying, but you didn’t like it.

“I should go,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Your pulse was racing again, faster now, as the anxiety took hold of you.

You stepped back, but as you did, you didn’t notice your father’s coat slipping off your shoulders. The fabric fell silently to the floor with a soft rustle, the heavy weight of it landing unnoticed in the dim room. But Remmick didn’t mention it. He didn’t even look at it. His eyes remained focused on you, a faint amusement still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re in a hurry,” he remarked, his voice quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to you.

There was something in his tone—something that made you hesitate at the door. You didn’t understand it, but it made you feel like you were doing the wrong thing. Like you were leaving something important behind.

Despite the uncertainty pulling at you, you couldn’t stay any longer. You couldn’t be there with him.

With a final, hurried glance, you turned and moved toward the door, the weight of his gaze following you.

And as you stepped outside, the chill of the evening air hit you, but it was nothing compared to the cold you felt from leaving the house behind.

You left hurriedly, footsteps light but quick, your heart racing as you told yourself to put more distance between yourself and the man who still watched from the shadows.

You kept your head low, your steps quick and purposeful as you moved farther from the house. The air outside, even though thick with the weight of the sky, felt cooler, as though it was offering you a bit of relief from the tense knot in your chest. You kept walking, not daring to look back, feeling the heavy silence hanging between you and the stranger that now occupied your thoughts.

But then, as you rounded the corner of the old church, you froze.

Your father stood there, stepping out from the broken doorway of the church. His broad shoulders filled the frame of the entrance, his dark coat swaying slightly in the evening breeze. The sight of him, solid and familiar, made the breath you were holding catch in your throat. For a moment, you simply stared at him—eyes wide, heart beating a little too fast.

He didn’t seem to notice your startled reaction, his brow furrowing as he took a few steps toward you. “What’s wrong?” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge of concern, like he’d been looking for you.

You stood there, trying to steady yourself, but the encounter with Remmick was still fresh in your mind, the tension from the moment still clinging to your skin. You were out of breath—not from running, but from the panic, the unsettled feeling that you hadn’t been able to shake since you’d left that house. The weight of your father’s gaze made it harder to breathe.

“Just… just walked around,” you said, your voice soft but quick. It was a lie, but it was the only thing you could say that would make sense. You couldn't tell him what had really happened. You couldn’t explain the unease, the stranger, or the way that house felt too strange, too unfamiliar. You couldn’t risk him knowing.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you for a moment. “You’re out of breath,” he said, his voice still calm but with a flicker of worry in his eyes. “What’s going on, kid?”

You forced a smile, though it felt too tight, too practiced. You couldn't let him know the truth. You couldn’t tell him about the man you’d met, the way he'd spoken, the feeling that still lingered around you like smoke. You didn’t know what to think, what to believe, and you definitely didn’t want your father involved in any of it.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, adjusting the bow in your hand as if it were the source of your anxiety. You wanted to change the subject, to distract him from the flush in your cheeks, the strange pounding in your chest. “I just got a little... tired. The air here, I guess.”

Your father didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t press further. His eyes softened, a gentle understanding there despite his earlier concern. “I say we head back,” he murmured, stepping closer to you, the warmth of his presence almost soothing after the cold encounter with Remmick. “Let’s head home before it gets more dark.”

You nodded, relief flooding your chest at the thought of leaving the strange town, the eerie church, and the unsettling man behind. You didn’t know what would happen if your father found out the truth. But you weren’t ready to let him see you unsettled, not when you couldn’t even explain it yourself.

“Okay,” you said, forcing a breath that felt too shaky. “Let’s go home.” Your father nodded and placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you a comforting squeeze as you turned to walk away together, toward the path leading back through the woods. But as you moved, your heart was still racing, still unsure of what you’d left behind in that old house, in the shadow of the church.

And the last thing you heard before the world closed back to normal was the soft purring of the cat in your mind, still echoing in the back of your thoughts.

You didn’t mean to come back. Not here, not now, and definitely not in this dress—the one you chose because it made you feel like you might be someone else entirely. Someone who belonged somewhere better. But the coat… the coat was a different story. Your father’s coat, left behind in that crumbling house you swore you’d never step foot in again. Somehow, the weight of forgetting it gnawed at you all afternoon, pulling you farther away from the path you’d promised to follow.

So you walked. Past the cracked sidewalks, the hollowed-out shops swallowed by vines and dust, your footsteps muffled by years of silence. The familiar comfort of the cat was gone, too—no soft meow or flickering tail to guide you this time. Instead, the air felt thick, heavy, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something.

You tried to ignore it, tried to convince yourself you just needed to grab the coat and leave. But every step forward twisted the knot in your stomach tighter, and the house at the end of the street looked less like a home and more like a grave.

You stopped just short of the porch, heart hammering in your chest, breath catching in your throat. The house was still—the broken windows like dark eyes watching you, the front door hanging slightly ajar as if inviting you in. You reached out to touch the chipped paint on the railing, your fingers trembling, the rough texture grounding you.

Then, faint but unmistakable, a sound—something wet and awful—slipped through the silence.

You froze, every nerve on fire. Your eyes flicked toward the side of the house, where the shadows pooled thick and black. You wanted to turn, to run away from whatever your mind was trying to imagine. But curiosity, cold and sharp, rooted you to the spot.

And then you saw him.

Remmick.

He was crouched low, his back bent over something—or someone—you couldn’t quite make out at first. The sickening sound grew louder, more desperate. A wet, tearing noise that didn’t belong in this quiet town.

You blinked, heart skidding to a stop as you realized the horror before you. He was biting, tearing at flesh with a brutal hunger that sent ice racing down your spine. The way his jaw moved was too fast, too mechanical—like a predator who had been waiting for this moment.

Your breath caught, lungs tightening. Panic surged, sharp and sudden, but your body refused to move. You pressed yourself tighter against the cold metal of the fence, trying to shrink into the shadows, praying he wouldn’t see you.

The figure beneath him writhed silently, muffled gasps barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You felt your skin crawl, your dress suddenly too thin, too fragile. The thought of your father’s coat, waiting inside, seemed almost laughable now.

Slowly, so slowly your legs felt like lead, you stepped back, every movement measured, careful. Your eyes never left Remmick, watching the way he tore into his victim with terrifying calm. You knew—knew—if he saw you, it would be the end of whatever sliver of safety you had left.

You swallowed hard, mouth dry, and inched backward, each step a silent prayer that you’d slip away unnoticed. The night pressed in around you, thick and suffocating, the town’s broken streets like a maze you had to navigate without making a sound.

You didn’t look back as you vanished down the cracked pavement, heart racing, breath ragged. The coat wasn’t worth it. Nothing was. Because some nightmares don’t stay hidden, and some truths are too terrible to face.

You left the house, the coat, and whatever dark hunger lived in that shadow behind you. And you ran.

You didn’t stop running until the trees thinned out and the old wooden gate at the edge of town creaked into view. Your breath tore from your lungs in ragged gasps, chest heaving beneath your bodice, sweat pooling beneath the collar of your dress. You could still hear it — that wet, awful noise — the slick sound of something being torn apart. His shoulders hunched low, jaw moving like a machine, blood pooling dark beneath him. You hadn’t meant to see it. You hadn’t even meant to stay long. Just the coat, and then gone.

But you’d seen him.

Remmick.

And now your legs were lead and your heart wouldn’t stop stammering and your stomach had curled so tight it hurt to breathe.

You stumbled past the last fence, up the dry path, across the patch of cracked ground that passed for a yard. The porch creaked as your foot hit the first step—and that was when the door opened.

Your father stepped out into the golden spill of lamplight. His shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows, suspenders hanging slack against his hips, jaw clenched so tight it made the muscle twitch. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

Then, flat and sharp as a whip crack. “Girl, where the hell’ve you been?”

You froze halfway up the steps, skirts clinging to your legs, breath too loud in your ears.

His voice dropped a little, quieter but heavier for it. “You leavin’ this house dressed like a bellflower and comin’ back lookin’ like you been chased through the woods by a pack o’ dogs.” He squinted, stepping closer. “And I been standin’ here goin’ half mad thinkin’ you were face-down in a ditch somewhere. You better start talkin’, and fast.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out at first.

“I went for a jog,” you said, voice thin, too cheerful, far too late to be believable.

Your father blinked. “A jog,” he repeated, real slow, like he was testing the word out for the first time. “You went for a jog.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In a dress.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stared at you. “Since when do you jog?”

“Well,” you said, pausing like you had to think about it, “technically, I’d call it… brisk walking. With passion. Very determined walking.”

His brows drew together. “In shoes that ain’t meant for nothin’ but sittin’ pretty in church.”

“They held up,” you said, glancing down at them. “Mostly. One of ‘em squeaks now. Adds character.”

He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch.

He folded his arms. “You been gone over an hour. You looked me square in the eye not five hours ago and said you were stayin’ in for the evening.”

“I was,” you said. “But then I remembered I needed the air. And then… well. The air just kept goin’.”

“You tryin’ to be clever with me?”

“No, sir,” you said, swallowing. “Just stupid.”

That cracked something in his face — not a smile, not quite, but something eased. Only a little. He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, stepping down to meet you at the bottom of the stairs. His voice dipped lower. “Listen to me now, and I mean it — if you saw anything unusual out there, you tell me. You understand?”

You met his eyes, barely.

“I’m serious, girl. I know this town. You think it’s dead, but it ain’t empty. You see somethin’ that don’t sit right, you come tell me. I ain’t askin’ for poetry. Just truth.”

You hesitated. He caught it.

“Don’t you lie to me now,” he said, quiet. “You ain’t got the stomach for it.”

You forced a breath through your teeth and gave a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Saw a squirrel,” you said, nodding like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Big one. Looked like he had a grudge.”

He squinted. “A squirrel.”

“Mean as sin.”

“A joggin’ squirrel with a bad attitude.”

“Out-of-towner,” you said. “Didn’t have the local manners.”

He closed his eyes for a second like he was praying for patience. You didn’t move.

When he looked at you again, the anger was still there, but something else had taken its place too — weariness, worry, that particular kind of fear only a parent carries.

He let out a breath. “Get inside,” he muttered. “Before I say somethin’ I can’t take back.” You nodded and followed him in, the screen door creaking shut behind you.

You didn’t mention Remmick. Didn’t mention the body. Didn’t mention the way something in your chest had twisted with a sick sort of grief — not just fear for your father, but fear for him, too. Like some small, foolish part of you didn’t want him to die, didn’t want your father to go hunt him down, even after what you’d seen.

That part stayed quiet.

You left your shoes by the door and your secrets on the porch.

The church was a cavern of shadows and silence beneath the thick night. Outside, the world was drowned in darkness, but inside, the flicker of moonlight threw kaleidoscopes of stained glass colors across the ancient wood and cracked stone floor. The air smelled faintly of old paper and cold stone, and a soft draft whispered through the cracks in the windows, carrying the faint rustle of leaves from the outside.

You knelt there, alone, in the vast quiet, the heavy wooden pew pressing against your knees. Your hands were clenched so tightly that your knuckles ached, fingers interwoven as though trying to hold yourself together. Your dress rustled faintly with every breath, the fabric cool and rough beneath your palms.

The weight of everything you’d kept inside—the lies, the shame, the fear—felt heavier in this place. The silence seemed to press in on you, demanding confession and penance, yet you found no relief. You whispered prayers—half-pleas, half-accusations—into the darkness, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the stillness.

Forgive me, you breathed, cheeks burning in the moonlight. Forgive me for lying to him. Forgive me for the things I can’t say out loud. For the thoughts I hide.

For two weeks, the lie had settled like a stone in your gut, twisting tighter each day. You hadn’t meant to deceive your father, but the truth was a thing too wild and terrible to speak. You’d told him you went out for a jog—two weeks ago, almost like a casual thing—and ever since, the lie had clung to you like a shadow.

Your mind flickered with images you wished you could unsee. Nights spent tossed in restless sleep, chased through tangled woods by his dark silhouette. Dreams that shifted and morphed, sometimes terrifying, sometimes aching with a strange, unwelcome longing. The last few were the worst—dreams where you felt his hands on you, rough and sure, and you woke drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding like a trapped bird.

You forced your eyes closed, biting back the flood of shame. The quiet was all you wanted now. To be swallowed in the silence, far from the world and its cruelties.

Then came the knock. Three sharp, deliberate taps echoing off the cold stone walls and the wooden pews, breaking the stillness like a breath held too long. The sound made your skin prickle, but you didn’t move. You kept your eyes tightly shut, not daring to look behind you, as if turning around would summon whatever was waiting.

Your hands were clasped tightly in front of you, knuckles white beneath the flickering candlelight. You murmured your prayers, voice low and steady, but the words tangled in your throat. The cold church air wrapped around you, settling heavy and thick, pressing down like a weight on your chest. Your heart hammered, a wild thing trapped beneath your ribs, pounding louder with every passing second.

“Come in,” you said quietly, barely more than a breath, but firm enough to will the door to open. You didn’t need to turn around to know it had. The air shifted suddenly, colder still, as though the shadows themselves had moved closer. You stayed where you were, knees pressed to the wooden floor, hands folded tight.

You tried to force your thoughts back to the prayer, tried to pour all your fear and shame into those quiet words, but your mind kept wandering—back to the things you’d seen, the lies you’d told your father, the guilt that burned deep inside. Your lips moved silently, but the faith you’d once felt seemed to slip away with every breath.

Then, something settled beside you. It was a presence you could feel more than see—a heavy weight in the pew, a warmth that didn’t belong in this cold, empty place. Your body stiffened, muscles tensing as if to flee, but you stayed rooted to the spot, frozen by something you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t want to. Your eyes stayed closed, the candlelight flickering softly against your lashes. Your breath hitched and caught, mouth suddenly dry and thick with the taste of iron and fear.

The weight beside you shifted slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat of a gaze burning through you—intense, sharp, impossible to ignore. It was as if the very air pressed closer to your skin, the silence stretched taut around your beating heart.

Slowly, reluctantly, you cracked open your eyes, blinking against the darkness, and turned your head just enough to see him.

There he was—Remmick. Sitting beside you in the dim, quiet church, calm and still, watching.

His eyes caught the faint glow of candlelight, dark and unyielding, steady and cold. The hard planes of his face were sharp against the soft shadows, lips pressed into a thin line that held no hint of warmth or welcome.

Your heart stuttered. Every part of you screamed to get up, to run, but your limbs felt like they’d been turned to stone. Fear, shame, confusion, and something deeper twisted in your gut. You hadn’t wanted to see him again, not like this, not alone in the quiet hours when no one else was around.

You thought you were safe here. You thought you were alone.

But that look in his eyes told you otherwise.

You jerked upright so fast it was like the floor beneath you had shifted, and your eyes snapped open wide, shining bright in the dim candlelight. Your breath hitched sharply, and you stumbled backward, the rough wood scraping under your skirts. Your fingers curled tight around the edge of the pew for balance, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. The chill in the church seemed to press down harder, filling your lungs with cold, stale air that tasted faintly of dust and old prayers.

You could feel him moving beside you, rising from the pew with a slow, deliberate grace that made every hair on your skin stand on end. His silhouette stretched tall in the flickering light, the faint glow catching on the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that twisted like dark secrets. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—not yet—because even in the quiet, you could sense the weight of his gaze, like a coal burning straight through the fog of your panic.

When his voice finally broke the silence, it was low and smooth, carrying a drawl thick as molasses but laced with something colder than the night outside. “You done forgot your coat,” he said, slow and steady, his words falling like heavy drops. “The one you come back lookin’ for… 'bout two weeks ago now.”

Your throat tightened, your pulse pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice, but it came out a breathless whisper, “I… I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Your eyes flicked away, desperate to find safety in the flicker of candlelight rather than the unblinking dark of his stare.

But he didn’t shift or blink. His gaze stayed pinned on you like iron hooks. “Don’t waste breath on lies,” he said, voice low, almost amused in a way that made your skin crawl. “I seen what you saw. That night. You thought you could slip away without me knowin’, but I know.” The quiet in the church grew heavier, as if his words themselves pulled the shadows closer around you.

You felt the cold seep deeper into your bones. There was no room for denial here—not anymore. The memory of that terrible sight, the awful, wet sounds, the raw hunger in his movements—it rose up like a sickness in your chest. Your lips trembled, but no sound came. You wanted to scream, to run, but the floorboards beneath you felt rooted, as if they’d grown roots and tangled around your feet.

He took a step closer, slow and purposeful, the faint creak of the pew under his weight breaking the silence. The air seemed to grow colder still, the candle flame flickering in protest. “You thought you was safe,” he murmured, the drawl thickening with a dangerous edge. “Thought I wouldn’t notice you there, watchin’, hidin’ behind that trembling heart of yours.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, dark and sharp, watching every flicker of fear, every faltering breath.

Your whole body trembled now, a mix of terror and something else—a strange, unwelcome pull you couldn’t explain. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to turn and run from this dark truth you’d buried so deep. But the weight of his gaze was a chain, binding you to the spot, freezing the air between you both.

“You ain’t safe,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper that wrapped itself around your skin like a cold wind. “Not in this town. Not anywhere close to me.”

The candle flame sputtered, casting long, crawling shadows that seemed to reach for you. You swallowed again, mouth dry and thick with the taste of fear. His presence filled the space, heavy and dark, and in that moment you knew you weren’t just a frightened girl hiding in an empty church—you were someone caught in the quiet hunger of something far older and colder than you ever dared imagine.

You stared at him, disbelief and fear twisting your stomach into tight knots. “You’ve been watchin’ me?” Your voice cracked, sharp with both defiance and disbelief. “My daddy’d have your head for what you are if I told him a single word.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, bitter and raw. Your eyes narrowed, daring him to laugh it off, or deny it. You weren’t sure which reaction would scare you more.

And then he did laugh—slow, dark, like a low rumble rolling through the cold church. It wasn’t the warm laughter of a friend or lover, but something colder, sharper, edged with something dangerous.

“Your daddy’s got no idea what’s been prowlin’ round these parts,” he said, voice thick with that drawl, the words slow and deliberate. “I been near enough to hear you when your windows are cracked open at night.” He took a step closer, the floorboards groaning beneath him, his presence swallowing the space between you. “When you think you’re safe and alone, moanin’ my name like you’re callin’ for salvation. When you clench your thighs tight, fightin’ somethin’ you don’t wanna admit… You reckon I don’t see all that from the shadows?”

Your breath caught—sharp, quick, trembling. You wanted to pull away, to slam the heavy wooden doors of the church behind him and lock yourself inside forever. But something in the way he spoke, like he knew every secret you hid from the world, made your skin crawl and your heart ache in ways you couldn’t understand.

“No,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “No, I ain’t like that.” But the words felt hollow even as they left your lips.

He smiled again, slow and crooked, eyes dark and unblinking. “You don’t get to lie to yourself, darlin’. Not when you’re lookin’ like that.” His voice dropped lower, almost a purr, thick with meaning you dared not unravel. “I been watchin’, waitin’—knowin’ you ain’t just scared of me, but what I am. What you could be, if you dared to let it in.”

The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across his face—half in darkness, half in light. You could see the hunger in his eyes, the quiet promise of something wild and dangerous lurking just beneath that calm surface. Your body trembled, torn between fear and a strange, aching pull you refused to name.

“Don’t tell me you think you’re safe from me,” he murmured, voice like velvet dipped in ice. “Not here, not now, not ever.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding so loud you thought he might hear it. You wanted to scream, to run, to beg him to leave—but your feet felt rooted to the floor, your voice caught in a web of shame and terror and something you couldn’t quite grasp.

“I haven’t told a soul,” you said finally, voice breaking. “I swear on everything… I won’t.”

He leaned in closer, breath warm against your cheek. “I know.” His words were a quiet promise and a warning all at once. “And I ain’t lettin’ you hide no more.”

You stood frozen, lips parted like you might deny him again, but no sound came. There was something in his voice—low and rough, like gravel dragged slow across velvet—that rooted you there, spine locked, breath shallow.

Behind you, the air thickened. His presence coiled close, just shy of touching, but you could feel it all the same—heat, breath, the heavy pull of him. Every inch of you was trembling, not from cold, but from the unbearable awareness of how close he was. How your body reacted before your mind could protest.

Your eyes stayed locked on the altar ahead, flickering candlelight casting its glow like some holy warning. But you weren’t thinking about prayer anymore.

“You can’t show up like this,” you whispered, though your voice sounded weak even to your own ears. “This place ain’t for you.”

He laughed, soft and mean, like he knew the lie behind your words better than you did. “This place?” he echoed, stepping forward. “This place was built for sinners, darlin’. Not saints. And I ain’t the only one crawlin’ in here needin’ forgiveness.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn't. The scent of him—earth, smoke, iron—slipped into your lungs like sin made breathable.

“You think hidin’ in a church makes you clean?” he murmured, close now, his breath grazing your jaw, making you flinch like you’d been branded. “You think kneelin’ in the dark makes you innocent?”

“I am innocent,” you hissed, though your voice wavered, and your pulse betrayed you—hammering against your throat like a warning bell.

“You were,” he said, and that one word cracked something inside you. “Till you saw what you saw. Till you watched me tear that being apart and didn’t run. Till you started dreamin’ about me.”

Your breath caught. You hated that he was right.

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but his gaze pinned you before you could finish.

“You did.” He tilted his head, eyes dragging down your throat, over your shaking hands. “Some part of you wanted to. Still does.”

You hated the heat blooming beneath your skin, hated the way your legs felt unsteady. But most of all, you hated how your body leaned toward him—despite everything, because of everything.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered, not sure who you were begging—him, or yourself.

“Like what?” he said, voice low, amused. “Like you’re mine?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if darkness could keep him out. But his words pressed deeper, slipping under your skin, planting roots in the soft, secret places you never let anyone touch.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said, voice gentler now, though it still held that dangerous edge. “Not unless you ask me to.”

And somehow that was worse.

Because you didn’t trust yourself not to ask.

Not with the way your heart was thudding. Not with the heat pooling in your stomach. Not with the hunger he spoke of—your hunger—burning just beneath your skin.

You opened your mouth, but no prayer came.

Never in a million years would you have believed this—him—could take root inside you. That in just a few weeks’ time, you’d be sleeping beside the man who haunted your dreams. That you'd be living for him. Breathing for him.

And the worst part?

You wouldn't even regret it.

You’ve been doing this for months now—slipping away just as the last light dies, sneaking behind your daddy’s back through the gnarly woods that reek of rot and damp earth. The trees close in tight, branches clawing at your skin and clothes like they’re warning you to turn back. It’s scary, sure—but there’s a thrill too, knowing on the other side of those twisted paths waits Remmick.

Now, you’re here with him. His hands are firm on your skin, pulling you close, but your mind drifts away—back to the woods, to the creaking floorboards at home, to the lie you’re living. You think about how long you’ve been sneaking out, how your daddy probably has no idea where you vanish each night. How reckless you’ve been.

The quiet between you hums with something sharp and urgent, but it’s easy to get lost in your own head. Then, just as you start to slip away into your thoughts again, Remmick’s hand lands with a soft slap on your hip—a reminder. The moment snaps back, and it’s only you and him, right here, right now.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of your jaw, forcing you to meet his dark, intense gaze. "Eyes on me, darlin'," he commands, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrates through your very core. "Focus on me only."

He waits until your gaze is fully locked on his, until the swirling thoughts of home and deceit seem to momentarily recede from your eyes. Only then does he resume the deliberate thrusts that have your body aching and your breath catching in your throat. The sheets beneath you bunch and twist with your movements, the only sound besides your ragged breaths and his low grunts of satisfaction.

His other hand snakes down, his fingers tracing the slick heat between your legs, teasing and tormenting until a whimper escapes your lips. He watches your reaction, a predatory gleam in his eyes, as he continues his slow, agonizing pace. You try to focus on the sensation, on the way his body fills yours, on the raw, undeniable pleasure that threatens to consume you.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Forget everything else," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "There's only this." And then his teeth graze your neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through you, momentarily eclipsing the guilt that gnaws at the edges of your desire.

The graze of his teeth sharpens, becoming a deliberate nip that pulls a gasp from your lips. He lingers there, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, before his mouth trails lower, leaving a wet path down the curve of your neck towards your collarbone. You arch beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders, the need building with each slow, deliberate movement of his hips.

His fingers, still slick with your arousal, delve deeper, finding the most sensitive nub and stroking it with a practiced rhythm that sends shivers of pure sensation through you. You cry out, your head thrashing against the pillow, the carefully constructed walls of your control beginning to crumble.

"That's it, darlin'," he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with lust. "Feel it. Feel only this."

He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent. You meet his gaze, your eyes glazed with desire, and see the raw hunger mirrored in his. There's a primal intensity in his movements, a possessiveness that borders on brutal, and yet… it ignites a fire within you that you never knew existed.

His mouth returns to yours, his kiss a savage claiming. His tongue plunges deep, mirroring the insistent rhythm of his body inside you. You taste him, wild and untamed, and the guilt that usually gnaws at you is momentarily drowned out by the overwhelming tide of sensation.

He shifts, his hands sliding beneath your hips, lifting you to meet his thrusts with a deeper, more visceral connection. You can feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your core, each stroke sending waves of heat radiating through your body. You cry out again, your voice raw with need, the sound swallowed by his hungry kiss.

The tension coils tighter and tighter within you, a frantic knot of pleasure that threatens to unravel completely. You cling to him, your body slick with sweat, your senses overwhelmed by the feel of his skin against yours, the scent of his arousal, the taste of his kiss.

He senses your release, his movements becoming more urgent, more frantic. He whispers your name, a rough, guttural sound that echoes the primal rhythm of your bodies entwined. And then, the world explodes. A wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washes over you, shattering the last vestiges of your control. You cry out, your body shuddering around his, your senses consumed by the intense release.

He holds you tight, his body shuddering against yours as he follows you over the edge. You cling to him, your breath coming in ragged gasps, the only sound in the dimly lit shack the frantic beating of your hearts.

His arms are still around you, holding you close in the low light of his bedroom. The sheets are tangled beneath you, and the air is thick with heat and something softer, quieter now. You listen to his breathing — heavy, slowing — the sound of it filling the room like a storm that just passed.

Your body’s still humming, but your mind’s already slipping away.

The bed creaks faintly as he shifts, pulling you tighter, like he can feel the distance in you. His skin is warm against yours, his fingers tracing lazy lines along your spine. But your thoughts drift — to the woods, to the way your boots scraped over roots and leaves as you ran here, the light almost gone. To your daddy, sitting in his chair back home, probably still waiting up with that quiet knowing look he wears when he doesn’t say a word but feels everything.

Remmick presses a kiss to your shoulder, then higher, along the curve of your neck. You don’t flinch, but you don’t lean into it either.

He feels it. You know he does.

“You good?” he asks, voice low against your skin.

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

But you aren’t.

He waits a beat. Then, when you don’t say more, he brings his hand up and gives you a soft, playful slap on the cheek — enough to snap your attention back to him, to now. His eyes catch yours, unreadable in the dimness.

“Stay with me,” he says.

You swallow and try to smile, but the woods are still in your head. And your daddy’s voice, the one that never needed to be loud to make you feel small, echoes somewhere just beneath your ribs.

His arms are still wrapped around you when the silence starts to press in. The room is steeped in night — heavy curtains drawn, the only light a sliver of moon cutting across the warped floorboards. The heat between your bodies is starting to fade, leaving behind the stickiness of sweat, of blood, of breathless gasps swallowed in secret.

You shift against him, slow and quiet, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Not at first. When it finally does, it’s reluctant. A release not given, but tolerated.

You slip from the bed like a girl sneaking from a coffin, dragging the sheet up with you, wrapping it tight around your body even though there’s no real modesty left between you. You don’t speak. You never do, after.

Your bare feet hit the cold floor. The old wood moans beneath you, and you flinch — not from the sound, but from knowing he’s still watching. You can feel it. That gaze. Heavy. Burning.

Behind you, Remmick shifts. The bed creaks under his weight, the mattress sighing like it’s tired of holding him. You hear the soft, deliberate slide of him dressing — pants first, then the worn leather belt. He moves slow, like he’s buying time. Or maybe savoring it. Savoring you.

You crouch to find your drawers where they were kicked away earlier, near the leg of the nightstand. You bend to pick them up, and that’s when his voice breaks the silence — soft, feeling like something dead whispering in your ear. “Why d’you always run from me after?”

You don’t answer. You pull on your drawers and reach for your shift, laid over the back of the chair like it’s waiting to judge you.

He stands behind you now. You don’t need to turn — the weight of him is all around, like fog off the graveyard, clinging to skin and bone. You try not to look at the mirror on the wall, cracked at the edges. He never casts back.

“You think I don’t see how you look at me?” he says, closer now, his breath brushing the damp skin of your neck. “Like you hate yourself for wantin’ me. Like you’re scared of what I am but keep comin’ back anyway.”

You button your dress with trembling fingers, your throat dry. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. But you can feel the way he wants to.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice stays soft — too soft. “I ain’t just fuckin’ you. I’m keepin’ you. Bit by bit. Night after night. You can lie to your daddy all you want, pretend you’re still his good girl, but you’re mine now. In ways you don’t even understand yet.”

You finally turn. He’s standing just behind you, shirtless still, his pants slung low on his hips, the belt hanging undone like a threat. His eyes gleam in the low light — not red, not glowing. Just wrong. Too deep, too black, like something ancient lives behind them.

“I let you leave,” he says, almost tender. “Ain’t that sweet of me? You walk back through them woods every night, thinkin’ you got a choice. Thinkin’ you’re strong enough to stay away. But you always come back.”

You swallow. “This isn’t—”

He cuts you off by stepping closer, forcing your back against the wall with nothing more than his presence. His hand lifts, slow, and he cups your cheek like he’s handling a vintage doll, his thumb stroking just under your eye.

“You think I couldn’t keep you here?” he whispers. “You think I ain’t strong enough to drag you down into the root cellar and bolt the door shut and keep you there ‘til you beg me to never let you leave again?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, breath shaking in your chest.

“But I don’t,” he says, voice almost sad. “Because I want you to choose me. I want you to wake up in your daddy’s house with his prayers in your ears and still feel me inside you. I want you sittin’ at his Sunday table with me dripping down between your legs and my name caught in your throat.”

The room is silent again. Still.

Then, slowly, his expression darkens. Shifts.

“You smell like runnin’,” he says, the words curling out of his mouth like smoke. “Like you’re thinkin’ of leavin’ and never comin’ back.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

He leans in, mouth at your ear. “You do that, and I will come for you. I’ll drag you from your daddy’s arms and make you watch me bleed him dry. I’ll leave his body hangin’ from the church steeple and put a ring on your finger before the sun rises.”

You’re shaking now, tears caught at the corners of your eyes — not from fear. Not just from fear.

Because you know something awful and true. Part of you wants him to. Part of you wants to stop pretending.

You gather your things with slow, shaking hands and back toward the door. He doesn’t follow. Just stands there, watching, always watching.

And as you slip out into the cold, moon-bitten dark — the wind carrying the smell of moss and smoke and something rotting deep in the trees — you already know you’ll come back.

Because you’re his. Even if you hate it. Even if it kills you.

You should’ve known.

You should’ve known when your monthly didn’t come — not the first time, and not the second. Nearly two full moons passed now, and still no blood. Nothing but that hollow, twisting ache deep in your belly. Like your body’s been holding its breath, waiting to tell you what your heart already knows.

You’ve been late before. Once. Maybe twice. But never like this. Not with the way your stomach turns every morning before the sun even breaks, your head light, mouth full of spit and nothing sweet. You wake up gagging some days, clutching your chest like that’ll keep the sickness down.

At first you told yourself it was nerves — the stress of sneaking through those woods, lying to your daddy, the weight of Remmick’s hands and his words clinging to your skin long after you left his bed.

But now? Now there’s no more lying. Not to yourself.

You stand hunched over the basin, breath shallow, eyes hollow in the chipped little mirror above the washstand. Your nightgown clings to your back with sweat, and your hair sticks to your neck from tossing all night, dreaming of hands and teeth and things growing where they shouldn’t.

You press a hand low over your stomach. There’s no bump. Not yet. But it don’t matter. You feel it.

Something’s wrong inside you. Or something’s already taken root.

Your chest tightens. It ain’t just a bastard child. It’s his. Remmick’s. A vampire’s. And your daddy… your daddy would kill you for this. No. He’d kill him. Then you. Maybe not in that order.

You turn away from the mirror, eyes burning. You shouldn’t have kept going back. Should’ve stopped the first time, when his mouth was on your neck and your heart was screaming louder than your breath. But he touched you like he’d die without it. Like you were something sacred and spoiled all at once. And every time you swore it was the last, you found yourself running through those trees again — like you were bewitched.

Maybe you were.

Outside your door, the floor creaks. You freeze.

Your daddy’s up. You can smell the smoke from his pipe — cloves and ash, bitter and thick. The sound of the front room chair groaning under his weight follows, slow and familiar. You know he’s just sitting there, listening, like he always does. Waiting for lies he won’t ask for but will see plain on your face.

You swallow hard. Because you ain’t no maiden anymore— that was certain months ago. And now something unnatural is growing in your belly.

Two weeks after, you left the house like usual.

No dinner, no goodnight. Just the click of the back door easing shut behind you and your boots moving fast across the dirt, swallowing the woods whole with each breathless step. You hadn’t seen Remmick in almost two weeks. Not really. You’d drawn the curtains tight, bolted the windows, let candle stubs burn down to nubs just to avoid the faintest flicker of him finding a way in.

You’d avoided even thinking about him.

But the sickness in the mornings wouldn’t stop. The twisting in your stomach. The missing blood. You counted the days again and again like beads on a rosary, praying they’d add up to anything else. But they never did. Every calculation pointed to the same answer.

And it was his.

You clutched your coat tighter around you as the trees pulled in close, your breath fogging the cold, damp air. The woods felt different tonight—watchful, almost. Like the trees themselves knew something was coming.

His house came into view through the dark. Same as always—crooked chimney, shuttered windows, ivy strangling the porch. You ran to it like something was chasing you.

You didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

He was sitting in that old armchair near the fire, the light casting long shadows across his face. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

His eyes flicked up. That same bottomless black.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, voice slow and syrup-thick. “Thought maybe you were tryin’ to pretend I was just a fever dream.” You didn’t speak at first. Your hands shook as you closed the door behind you, heart pounding so loud it hurt.

“I’m pregnant,” you said.

The words dropped like lead. No soft preamble. No hesitation. Remmick didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

Then he stood. It was slow. Precise. Like a predator uncoiling.

He stepped toward you, each step so quiet it didn’t feel real. And when he reached you, he didn’t touch you right away. Just stood close enough that his presence swallowed you whole.

His eyes searched yours, and something behind them shifted. Something deep and furious and holy in its devotion. “You’re carryin’ my child,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. Barely.

His hand rose to cup your face, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “You came all this way to tell me?”

You pulled your face back. “I don’t want it.”

The room went still.

The warmth bled out of the fire. The shadows deepened.

“What?” he said, voice a low rasp.

“I can’t—Remmick, I can’t have this baby. I can’t raise a vampire’s child while livin’ under my daddy’s roof. He’ll know. He’ll—he’ll kill me. He’ll kill you.”

Something inside him snapped.

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to scare. Enough to remind you what he was.

“You think I’d let that old bastard lay a hand on you?” he hissed, the softness gone now. “You think I’d let anyone touch you or what’s mine?”

You shook your head, tears burning hot behind your eyes. “Please, just listen—”

“No,” he said, louder. “You listen.”

He turned away, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to hold himself together.

“You came to me,” he muttered. “All them nights, you came to me. I didn’t force you. I didn’t take nothin’ that wasn’t offered. And now you wanna act like this baby is some kinda mistake?”

He looked back at you, something wild behind his eyes now.

“I should drag you back to that cellar and keep you there ‘til this child’s born. You think I wouldn’t? You think I won’t?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He stepped forward again, slow and furious.

“You love your daddy?” he asked, voice dangerous and low.

Your eyes widened. “Remmick—”

“I said, do you love him?”

You nodded, shaking. “Yes. Please don’t—”

“Then you’ll keep this baby,” he said, final. “You’ll carry it. You’ll bring it into this world. Or I will put him in the ground and make you watch me do it.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks now, silent and fast.

He moved close again, gentling for the first time in minutes. His hand came back to your face, his thumb wiping a tear. “You don’t gotta be scared of me, sugar. I’ll protect you. I’ll protect our child. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt either of you. Not while I’m breathin’.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

You were trapped between the life you’d always known and the dark, magnetic force of him—a thing that was never fully alive, but more real than anything else you’d ever touched.

Remmick pulled you to him and held you there, your face pressed against his chest, his voice like a curse whispered in prayer.

“You’re mine,” he said. “And now they’ll all know it.”

And as the fire popped low behind you and the trees howled just outside the walls, you knew—one way or another, you weren’t leaving this.

Not anymore.

[elysiansparadise]

Part of Fortune in astrology

The Part of Fortune is an Arabic part that represents the luck that we naturally attract, from the areas of our life in which we can attract greater opportunities to the area of ​​our life in which we can find greater satisfaction and success. Some also attribute this point to the natural talents with which we are born. You can calculate it on Astro.com in the small "Additional Objects" tab. As a personal recommendation, I recommend checking which house(s) the POF ruler(s) fall into and check the description of it too.

🔘Part of fortune in the 1st house: These people can attract luck very easily throughout their lives, whether taking the path they want, due to their personality or even their physical appearance. They can be considered charismatic and very attractive by other people. Ease to achieve everything they want or put their mind into. They will attract a lot of luck if they decide to work in areas that allow them to deal with the public or be public figures. They tend to have the ability to light up the room or lift the spirits of others. Things may seem to naturally align in their favor. It is possible that any project they start will flourish quickly and give results just as quick. They can have strong self-confidence and, without seeking it, attract a lot of reassurance from others. They tend to be seen as lucky, privileged by other people. They make very good decisions even if they decide based on intuition. They feel and are protected by divinity and because of this trust they have in it, the intensity increases.

🔲Part of fortune in Aries: These people usually come out triumphant in any competition, easily defeating enemies or doing better than them. Many chances of success when you work on your own and dare to put your ideas into action. Leadership skills or greater success when they guide a group of people. Confiding in your abilities and daring to take risks can result in great experiences and opportunities. These people may stand out for being the first to do something and may be seen as pioneers. Ease of motivating and empowering people, you share and spread your energy and drive to others. There is no challenge or difficulty that they cannot overcome. Great vitality and strength, as well as healthy self-esteem.

🖤Aries degrees [01°, 13°, 25°]: They tend to make the right decisions throughout their lives. Great vitality and strength, both mental and physical. Opportunities to start projects that will bring them success. Ease for reaching powerful positions. They will enjoy victories and triumphs of all kinds. They take wise risks that can bring a lot of satisfaction to their lives. Their independence it’s the key to their success.

🔘Part of fortune in the 2nd house: They may have better luck attracting stability in every sense, especially economic ones. They will more easily attract things and/or opportunities that meet their needs, things arrive just when they need them. They can achieve success by starting their own businesses, making investments or making their hobbies their business or source of work. These people have a high and strong self-esteem, they are endowed with strong self-love. Their innate talents and abilities can be the door to success for these natives. You may more frequently attract people who value your efforts and may be appreciated for your presence and actions. Stability can come in your life, constant periods of satisfaction and things that accompany you in the long term, contributing favorably to you. You can attract many resources and tools throughout your life that open doors for you [money or other material goods, connections, learning, information, among others].

🔲Part of fortune in Taurus: For these natives, life will be filled with opportunities to explore pleasure in its different forms, from the most mundane to the deepest, from the emotional to the material realm. They can enjoy many moments of stability in their lives and attract things that bring happiness and comfort to their lives in the long term. These people can easily attract everything they want, in general they have a great power of attraction. They are people who can be endowed with a lot of beauty and natural charm. They can easily attract stable connections that provide them with constant support. The universe will remove from your paths everything that messes with your peace and will fill you with better things shortly after.

🖤Taurus degrees [02°, 14°, 26°]:People endowed with a lot of physical attractiveness, elegance and very strong confidence. They can more easily attract stability in their lives, more specifically economic ones. Ease to materialize your ideas and make them prosper or grow. They give others a sense of stability. When they act based on their values ​​they can attract a lot of luck.

🔘Part of fortune in the 3rd house: They will attract many opportunities to undertake short trips, likewise, very positive and satisfying things await them through it. They can easily excel during their student life, whether academically, socially, or both.They will have great luck working with others and being part of communities of any kind, and they can be highly appreciated in these. They may have a good relationship with siblings, cousins ​​or neighbors, or at least one who is really supportive. They can attract people who are naturally very brotherly towards them. People may like to be with them, as they exude allure and can easily captivate others. Ease of communication, their writing can become recognized or they can be praised for the way you communicate. Ease of forming and creating satisfactory relationships with the people around them, or at least cordial ones. You tend to have an innate positive impact on the people around you.

🔲Part of fortune in Gemini: Ease of acquiring diverse knowledge and standing out in many different areas from a very young age. They have a natural talent for connecting with others through words, whether verbally or in writing. It should be added that they stand out for communicating very accurately what they want to say. They can be successful in the sales sector and stand out for their social intelligence. They can easily mentally stimulate others, challenge them and entertain them at the same time. They tend to be easily recognized by their intelligence, by one of their hobbies and by their wit. Many times they can start doing things out of mere curiosity which can lead them to success or give them a lot of satisfaction. 

🖤Gemini degrees [03°, 15°, 27°]: Natural talent for writing, great communicators and can be seen as very charismatic and appealing ones. Gifted with a very capable mind that can lead them to be very successful. What they say can have a high impact on others. They can learn facts or things that seem random but that can be significant on other occasions. They attract many resources of all kinds.

🔘Part of fortune in the 4th house: These natives will have ease and success building their own home, making it a place where they feel calm, content and fulfilled. They can attract more stable things, from opportunities to long-term emotional bonds. They find happiness and satisfaction by being at home or doing things that bring them comfort. They may have greater emotional stability and do not depend on others to feel better or worse. They may have a supportive family or a member of their family that they connect with on all levels and provide them with unconditional support.They will easily attract people who become family to them. They are people with great emotional responsibility and awareness, which will attract opportunities and happiness to them. Being around these natives usually gives a feeling of coming home, they have the ability to make others feel good and give them comfort without trying too hard. They enjoy and get a lot of satisfaction when they can spend time alone. 

🔲Part of fortune in Cancer: They gain satisfaction from taking care of their emotional well-being, even if they take small actions to do so. These people will easily attract people's empathy and support. People feel naturally comfortable around them and they have a charm that inspires adoration and tenderness in others. They can attract strong bonds with women or people with feminine energy that bring them satisfaction and success. Being in touch with your inner child brings you many opportunities. They have the ability to nourish others emotionally, spiritually and mentally, as well as quickly make any project they have in mind flourish. Life will give you many heart-warming experiences and the ability to create beautiful and meaningful memories.

🖤Cancer degrees [04°, 16°, 28°]: Ease of moving others emotionally and understanding the needs of others. They give comfort to others with their mere presence. Their family ties can bring them luck. They can be welcomed by other families and treated as part of them. Talent for reading people, high emotional intelligence. Likely to attract luck when keeping their plans to themselves. 

🔘Part of fortune in the 5th house: Chance seems to be on their side, they can be very lucky in games, and they seem to have a strong power of attraction. Their hobbies and talents can be sources of success, it can give them opportunities to improve their lives or even make them gain a lot of recognition. They can attract attention very easily, gain fame more quickly than other people, and gain the esteem of others without trying too hard. They are people who stand out for their attractiveness and can attract suitors or couples with economic or job stability, who bring them a lot of happiness or who benefit them in some way. They can obtain great benefits if they trust their talents and potential and decide to make their ideas come true and if they dare to create. These natives contribute positively to their relationships as well, filling their partners with motivation and joy. Opportunities and good luck as they embrace themselves and speak their minds. They can be very fertile people and if they want to be parents, they can enjoy a great relationship with their children. 

🔲Part of fortune in Leo: These people tend to attract people's attention, appreciation and admiration more easily. They stand out enormously for their talents and will enjoy great success when they make use of them. Ease of entertaining and amusing people. They gain recognition for their talents and for being themselves. They can generate a lot of income through a hobby. They can attract plenty of situations in which they are or can be the center of attention, and can stand out greatly if they take those opportunities. When they put their energy and passion into a specific action, activity or project, it is easier for them to achieve surprising and satisfactory results for the natives. Very likely to attract fame and recognition on a large scale.

🖤Leo degrees [05°, 17°, 29°]: They will more easily attract success, recognition or praise from others. Great creativity, ability to easily shine in any aspect of their lives. They attract positive things when they are authentic and themselves. They have strong self-esteem and awareness of their own abilities. They have a lot of charisma and know that they can achieve many things on their own.

🔘Part of fortune in the 6th house: These people may have a particular ability that makes them stand out quite a bit and even be easily admired by others because of it. Natives of great intelligence and a work ethic that will make them stand out. They can enjoy an excellent work environment, easily earning the appreciation and respect of other co-workers, bosses or people under their supervision. They can recover from illnesses more easily. An ease to attract the support of others, often this being selfless and of great impact for the natives. After helping others, these people can return the favor on a larger scale to the native. A lot of success at work, ease of promotion and enjoying many benefits through this. Ease in dealing with animals of all kinds, they can feel comfortable around the native. They inspire confidence in others easily, and that is precisely what opens up many opportunities for them. Success at work and being seen as efficient and capable gives them enormous satisfaction.

🔲Part of fortune in Virgo: Their small actions have big positive impacts without even intending to. They can have a strong body capable of recovering from illnesses with ease. These natives may be highly respected and well regarded for some skill they have focused on developing. Their hard work brings them great rewards, often exceeding their expectations. Ease in making decisions and can make the best one in crisis situations. Order brings them happiness and they find satisfaction in doing small actions to take care of their well-being and body. They often bring clarity to other people's lives, as well as bringing them down to earth. Their rationality allows them to discern between various situations and take the one they like best.

🖤Virgo degrees [06°, 18°]: They attract luck when they dedicate themselves to jobs that require dedication, precision and perseverance. Greater success when they have a schedule or when they take charge of their lives themselves. They can be great communicators too, especially in writing. Equipped with a mind with great analytical capabilities.

🔘Part of fortune in the 7th house: These natives have the ability to relate to other people and attract supportive ties into their lives. They can be easily liked by others and form positive relationships in which people truly seek the happiness of the native and of course, with people who adore the native. Good luck to partnerships of all kinds, both business and relationship. They can be easily accepted by other people. People may describe them as rays of light, not necessarily out of positivity, but because they genuinely like the company of natives. Much success, fortune and satisfaction in their marriage, they will love the person they choose to marry. Ease of resolving conflicts, both your own and those of other people. They can attract reciprocity frequently. They will be successful in legal situations of all kinds. Victory over their adversaries. They attract generous people into their lives. Natural charm that helps them advance, progress or brings them opportunities. They may marry someone influential or at a good point in their life.

🔲Part of fortune in Libra: They have a mix of charm and a sharp, analytical mind. People naturally feel drawn to their appearance and personality. They are very successful in social situations and enjoy great results working as a team. Graced with a seductive and attractive appearance. Ease of understanding people and what they go through. Success when forming relationships. They can attract people who help them progress, who genuinely love them, and who want to be there for the natives. Ease of connecting more easily with people and making them feel good in your presence. They have the ability to influence other people. Calm environments, with aesthetics that match that of the natives considerably increase your happiness and satisfaction. Success in jobs related to law, art or public relations.

🖤Libra degrees [07°, 19°]: Natural grace and ease of being well-liked by others. They easily attract people's interest. Great social skills that make them stand out. They are people who can be considered very attractive by people, both because of their features and the shape of their body. They can find themselves surrounded by people even without them looking for it. 

🔘Part of fortune in the 8th house: Wisdom and strength of spirit, these natives can be seen as immovable and powerful, people recognize their personal power making them easily earn respect. They emerge and overcome crises, becoming even wiser afterward. These people can easily attract the generosity of others, even being chosen to receive inheritances. They find satisfaction in getting to the bottom of things and knowing the truth. Success pursuing professions linked to analysis, research or the esoteric. Great understanding of the human psyche and behavior. Ability to read others and bare their souls. They attract opportunities when they delve into the unknown and explore aspects of life that are not visible to the naked eye. They have the ability to connect in a unique way with others, in a less superficial and more meaningful way. Ease to overcome fears and insecurities. Connections where they give themselves completely to each other provide them not only with emotional satisfaction, but also with opportunities for growth and success.

🔲Part of fortune in Scorpio: These natives have the ability to make big changes from the circle to which they belong, to a larger scale such as at the level of society; They easily change people's mindsets and bring awareness. Your intuition is one of your greatest tools and by using and following it you can make decisions that lead you to success. They may experience positions of power more frequently. Throughout their lives, they attract changes that change the course of their lives for the better. They will successfully face any adversity and will be reborn stronger. They attract success when they channel their passion into meaningful projects. They attract respect and admiration from others easily, and they enjoy a powerful reputation. Ease healing yourself and supporting others to heal.

🖤Scorpio degrees [08°, 20°]: These natives have great magnetism and an enormous ability to influence the masses or people around them. Strong intuition, they always know what is happening around them and this information comes to them without looking for it. They overcome tense situations more easily. They provide strength to others when they go through tense situations.

🔘Part of fortune in the 9th house: Many opportunities to travel and you can have a lot of luck and satisfaction through it. Success in the major college you decide to enter and many opportunities to progress and improve your life can come during that period of your life. These natives may have very helpful, generous and caring mentors towards them who will contribute positively to their lives. They can make important and beneficial connections with people from abroad. Life will fill you with opportunities to enjoy and live life, giving you many experiences that fill you spiritually. This is a lucky placement that makes them look like they have a lucky charm. On many occasions, if things don't go their way, better things come for them. These natives can have a lot of luck and protection when venturing into new or unknown areas for them. They are people endowed with wisdom and can find satisfaction through their spirituality, being in touch with their higher self or acting based on their beliefs. They may have an easier time being in high vibration.

🔲Part of fortune in Sagittarius: Life will provide you with opportunities to travel, expand your mind and live rewarding experiences that make your soul happy and satisfied. Success will come to them in fields such as education [from devoting yourself to it professionally, attending college or simply mastering the fields that you are most passionate about], when they travel, contact with other cultures, or when you start or begin in spirituality. They can be successful in forming long-term relationships with people who live far away or who are foreigners. They are likely to have many convenient and opportune circumstances throughout their lives.  The leaps of faith they take can make significant changes in their lives.

🖤Sagittarius degrees [09°, 21°]: They can easily connect with people very different from them. They mix well with both people their age and older people. Possibility of great experiences through travel. They may have greater opportunities for scholarships. Talent and ability for languages. Connecting with cultures other than their own gives them satisfaction.

🔘Part of fortune in the 10th house: These people can make better first impressions without needing to pretend. You have the ability to achieve success or have important achievements even from a young age. Influential and with the ability to relate to large amounts of people. Your work life will be full of success and you will feel truly satisfied with the path you decide to pursue. Many opportunities to grow professionally. You attract the admiration and respect of others without trying too hard. They tend to achieve their personal goals more easily. They can quickly gain recognition, popularity and fame, as well as earn the respect of more experienced or older people. They can reach high ranks more quickly than other people. Much success and luck in carrying out long-term plans, the results are more stable, long-lasting and match the ideas of the natives. Much success and luck in carrying out long-term plans, the results are more stable, long-lasting and match the ideas of the natives.

🔲Part of fortune in Capricorn: Their hard work brings results more quickly, and the results may be more satisfactory than the native expected. You will be able to achieve everything you ever imagined you wanted to have. Ease of attracting stable things into their lives, from jobs, relationships to favorable streaks. These natives can achieve important things at a young age, which brings them recognition and can increase their personal satisfaction. Greater ease in overcoming obstacles of all kinds. They reach positions of authority and can lead the people in their charge to progress and improve. They will achieve recognition with respect to the fields in which they work or those in which they put a lot of effort and time.

🖤Capricorn degrees [10°, 22°]: Ease of professional advancement. They are seen as professionals and very capable from a young age and thanks to this they are given opportunities. Talent to lead, start businesses. They are capable of giving direction to any thing or project and bringing it to success. Their discipline and hard work are always appreciated and the source of his greatest successes.

🔘Part of fortune in the 11th house: Following the causes they consider important and fighting for what they believe is right can bring a lot of fortune and popularity. Ease of acquiring money through various sources, luck in personal business where they can be their own boss. Their friendships can bring them important opportunities, just as they can attract great friendships into their lives. Ease of growing on social media and inspiring the masses. Even without intending to, these natives can bring many positive things to the circles to which they belong, managing to contribute favorably to them. They will attract opportunities that will allow them to make their aspirations and goals a reality. These natives can be accepted more easily in groups, people tend to like them most of the time. They can attract people who, by supporting them, can greatly help the native in return. The older they feel, the more satisfied and content they may feel with their life.

🔲Part of fortune in Aquarius: You have the ability to stand out from the crowd more easily. Following your own path or venturing into a path that no one in your family or close circle has taken can lead you to success. These people have a magnetism that makes people drawn to them, a unique charm coming from their enigmatic and nuanced personality. Your originality and creativity can bring you success, and you can be considered an ideas machine. These natives have the ability to bring people together and make them feel part of a group. You can achieve many things by working on your own and doing things your own way. They may have talents or skills for astrology, science, technology or simply innovate in the field of their interest.

🖤Aquarius degrees [11°, 23°]: A very strong, creative and inventive mind. Success in innovating in any field of interest. They may stand out for a hobby and be seen as very capable at them with people. They will easily stand out for their authenticity and originality. Lots of luck in projects with friends or that you do on the internet. They stand out easily with or without people around them.

🔘Part of fortune in the 12th house: These people have a lot of positive karma from other lives, so this placement is a natural indicator of luck. They will always emerge victorious no matter who their enemies are or who want their downfall. They feel and are divinely protected, in fact they can be more spiritual which helps them attract greater protection and opportunities. Greater potential to manifest, your inner dreams or desires can become a reality in no time. They may not be aware of their luck, but things at the end of the day are usually in their favor. They can experience many moments of being in the right place at the right time. These people may find satisfaction in spending time alone after a busy day, finding comfort and joy in it. They usually have a strong intuition and their hunches usually save them from going through tense and unnecessary situations. After helping people, they can attract favorable streaks of luck. Doing things for themselves and not sharing their plans can bring them better results and enjoy their achievements better.

🔲Part of fortune in Pisces: These people can achieve success if they decide to work on something that fills their soul, that is, working on one of their passions. Success if you decide to pursue an artistic or esoteric branch, or if you venture into the path of helping other people. They may experience streaks of good fortune in unexpected or subtle ways, as well as help from those who least expect it or opportunities when they feel most hopeless. They can attract many opportunities or experiences that provide them with emotional well-being. They are endowed with enormous magnetism that not only makes them attract people's attention or affection, but also favorable situations. The more you delve into spirituality, the more opportunities and luck will knock on your door.

🖤Pisces degrees [12°, 24°]: Abilities to manifest everything they dream or write. Great sensitivity and ease of seeing through people's emotions. They can carry positive karma from other lives which helps them. They can find success in artistic fields, especially painting or music. Easy to charm people, because they are very magnetic.

🖤Part of Fortune in 00°: These people naturally attract luck, regardless of the circumstances, life will give them the right people at the right time and take away those who do not contribute anything to them. They can find happiness and satisfaction more easily, especially by being clear about what they want and pursuing that path. 

🌠 Aspects of the Part of Fortune with the planets 🌠

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Sun: These people can naturally attract abundance and luck into their lives. Being themselves, that is, being authentic can open many doors to opportunities. Strong self-esteem and natural charisma that make them not only well-liked but respected. They may have this "lucky charm" quality being considered one by people around them. They tend to earn recognition, praise and compliments quite frequently. Success in fields that allow you to be in the spotlight.

⬜Opposition or square with Sun: A path to self-acceptance and self-love is what will bring luck to the lives of these natives. It is necessary that they develop their own identity and learn to act based on what they believe and are. Developing an understanding of themselves and what they really want will align them with the path they desire and deserve.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Moon: These people will be able to form a home in which they feel comfortable and happy. They can attract emotionally supportive bonds throughout their lives. They will attract many experiences and experiences that will give them satisfaction and emotional well-being. They may have great family relationships and form special bonds with women or attract women who support them greatly. 

⬜Opposition or square with Moon: To achieve success and happiness, these natives must learn to be more in touch with their emotions, better understand their needs and be more sensitive to themselves. By better understanding your inner world, being more patient and balancing reason and mind can lead you to a path of fulfillment and contentment with your lives.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Mercury: Quality of saying things at the right moment. Communication and intellect are sources of success. They solve problems easily and have ideas that can create opportunities for them. They are people who can stand out a lot thanks to their skills. Very capable students. Excellent writers and communicators. Success and satisfaction when expressing what they think. 

⬜Opposition or square with Mercury: Creating a balance between planning and action will be essential for success. Working on your tendencies of self-doubt and overthinking will bring positive changes. It will be necessary for them to trust their abilities, create their own criteria and be cautious with whom they share their goals or aspirations.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Venus: Artistic talents that can bring them success. They will attract relationships that will benefit them and bring happiness. Ease of attracting money. Life will flood you with pleasant experiences that will increase your happiness. These natives are endowed with attractiveness, charm and a lot of physical beauty. Their creativity flows with ease. Abundant love life or at least, a quite satisfactory one.

⬜Opposition or square with Venus: Working on and getting rid of people-pleasing tendencies can help you live more fully and feel better. They may feel they have a tense love life, tension between loving someone and loving themselves. Developing healthy self-esteem and learning to value yourself and your efforts will bring more luck.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Mars: Their initiative brings them success, they seem to act or decide to start things at the right time. They may attract male figures who are very supportive or who give them opportunities to grow and succeed. Success and luck quickly act in your favor. These people win competitions and usually enjoy many victories throughout their lives. Much success when undertaking or working independently, also as leaders.

⬜Opposition or square with Mars: Learning to control impulses and work on ways to find motivation will bring greater satisfaction in the lives of natives. Being assertive, driven and patient can bring many benefits in the long term. Standing up for themselves without being hostile or too impulsive. Take things slowly and understand that things happen in their own time.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Jupiter: These people take leaps of faith and often jump into opportunities that quickly grow. They attract very supportive connections and mentors into their lives. Blind luck. They improve and get successful quickly and are likely to achieve wealth and be presented with great opportunities.  Luck through travel and ease in attracting opportunities to learn new things that give you a lot of spiritual satisfaction.

⬜Opposition or square with Jupiter: The key is to create a balance in which you don’t drown either negativity nor excessive positivity. When things don't go the way they want, they can quickly throw in the towel or become demotivated, without being aware that many times life does this to put a better option in their paths. It is necessary to learn to trust the universe or simply have faith when a situation is out of our control.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Saturn: These natives can achieve long-term satisfaction and happiness. Opportunities to advance professionally and have many successes in the workplace and/or as they get older. They can attract relationships with older people that benefit them in the long term. Success when carrying out plans and materializing them. They will attract great supporters or mentors who will support them. Positive karma will return to you quickly and in greater abundance.

⬜Opposition or square with Saturn: Hard work is the key to success. Your rewards will be given after waiting and a long wait that will be worth it. Patience, effort and a responsible mentality will be what will lead them to feel more satisfied with their lives. The blossoming of your hard work will take time but will bring you many benefits in the long run.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Uranus: They can unexpectedly attract streaks of luck or great opportunities. Daring to make changes will give you satisfaction, growth and can open doors to success. They can attract helpful friendships. The internet can be a source of satisfaction, money and success. Your ideas, inventions, creativity and originality can be sources of fortune or triumph. Embracing your individuality will bring you happiness and opportunities to have everything you have wanted.

⬜Opposition or square with Uranus: Daring to leave their comfort zone and learning to adapt to life's changes can bring the success and joy they so seek to the lives of natives. Being authentic and balancing their independence, that is, doing things on their own without hating to ask for support, will lead them to get what they want.

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Neptune: They attract many opportunities to develop their spirituality and grow a lot through them. Artistic and spiritual talents. Gifted with magnetism and strong intuition. Ability to manifest and make their dreams a reality. Easily attract the compassion of others. A lot of creativity and they can achieve fortune if they materialize those ideas. They can intuitively make decisions that lead them to success or do things that, even without intending to, that give them an enormous degree of happiness.

⬜Opposition or square with Neptune: It is crucial that these natives develop a realistic mindset and have their feet on the ground to begin building their path to success. They need to learn to trust their intuition. Having a practical and realistic approach can bring greater opportunities to your lives. 

⬛Conjunction, trine or sextile with Pluto: They can attract great transformative experiences that can change your life forever in a good way. They will naturally attract positions of power, whether at work or feelings of empowerment. Anyone who harms you will soon meet the same fate. They will be able to achieve large amounts and different forms of fortune. Ease to overcome any type of adversity and have the results turn out in your favor. Ease of seeing what goes unnoticed by others. Strong and accurate intuition. You can attract people with a lot of power and influence who can support you.

⬜Opposition or square with Pluto: In order to find success and satisfaction, natives will have to learn to let go of everything that ties them to the past. Old frustrations that prevent them from trying again. The fear of failure can hold them back. They should be more open to change and not beat themselves down over past mistakes. Trust your power and embrace it.