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yanderedrabbles · 6 months ago

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The North Wind & His Bride

The North Wind was the coldest and cruelest of winds. So when a man came to your father's door claiming to be him and asking for your hand, your father was quick to turn him away.

"My daughter is too bright and too kind to be wasted on the worst of the winds. Come back once you learn to carry spring on your breath instead of snow."

And all that night the wind whispered down your chimney. You dreamt strange dreams - of the colours found only at the edge of the world, of snow flurries and seas black as night.

The man returned the next day. And your father once again refused him. "Come back when you can grant succor to the poor and the pitiful and not freeze them where they sleep."

That night, the wind keened even higher and rattled the window shutters. You dreamt of a wedding dress with frost for lace and a ring the gold of sunrise on snow. When you woke, your ring finger was cold as ice.

The man did not come again that day and you huddled close to the fire, rubbing warmth back into your bones. Your father paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the wind.

That night, the air laid still as in a coffin and you slept the black sleep of the drowned. You woke in time to see the first snow of the year, two months too early.

Your father's crops froze in the ground or rotted with the thaw. He paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the creditors.

When next your suitor came, your father's good manners had been worn down by debt collectors and bank notes. He snapped at the wind like a thing cornered. "Come back when you can guide ships safe to port and not wreck them on icy shores."

That night, a blizzard blew in from the north and any creature not crouched by the fire or huddled indoors was found frozen solid. You dreamt again, of a man with cold hands and even colder eyes who danced with you under foreign stars.

Your suitor did not come again but terrible news did. Your brother's ship was wrecked by a storm high on the winter coast. All souls were lost.

Through your grief, a terrible anger began to grow.

When next your suitor came, you greeted him at the door. He had a face as finely chiseled as an ice sculpture and eyes the deep black of the hinterland sea.

"If you would have me as your bride, then I will have a dowry from you."

He took your hand in his and his touch chilled you worse than a corpse's would. He looked at you with a hunger born out of winter and scarcity and cold.

"Anything. Ask anything of me and you can have it."

All through your brother's funeral you thought of ways to avenge him. And now you asked the North Wind for the one thing you thought he could never obtain.

"In a kingdom far south of here, where the snow never falls and the winter never comes, there is a jewel carved from the sun God's bones. Bring me that as a wedding band and I will be your bride."

You thought he would flinch or ask you to reconsider. Instead he bowed and kissed your hand and said he would soon return.

You felt your hope slipping, but he did not return the next day. Or the day after that. The end of autumn came without snow or gales or the return of your suitor. Slowly, you began to breathe again. Began to heal from your brother's death. Began to dream of summer and love and fresh fruit bursting between your teeth.

The winter equinox dawned with clear skies. There was to be feasting that night, and dancing. You dressed your hair with silver chains and sweetened your lips with winter berries. When the music started, one young man after another swept you into his arms and spun you around the bonfire. You tilted your head back and laughed and flirted and forgot all about your suitor.

Near midnight, the wind started to blow. The fire hissed as snowflakes drifted down from suddenly cloudy skies. Your dance partner caught one on his glove and offered it to you. Daring and high on the thrill of dancing, you licked it off his finger. "Tastes of winter in storm," you teased and when he took you for another dance, you wondered if you'd caught yourself a husband.

He spun you around but the arms that caught you were icy cold even through the fine velvet of the wearer's suit.

Midnight tolled and you looked up into the eyes of the North Wind.

He pulled your hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against your skin. At his touch, even the bonfire at your back seemed to lose its warmth.

"The journey south was wrecked with danger and the sun almost melted me clean away, but I have brought your dowry."

Before you could pull away, he slipped a ring onto your finger. It was the gold of fire and sunset and desert sand, and it's warmth spread through you.

The snow turned into a blizzard but you didn't notice it. The wind outside the safety of his arms was sharp as stinging nettles and the townsfolk called to each other in panic, barely able to keep their torches from blowing out.

The North Wind kissed your cheek, eyes glimmering with triumph.

"You're mine now. My spring bride, my dearest love."

All your dreams of a sweet summer love melted. When the snow finally settled, you were no longer in the town square but in a throne room at the edge of the world. Green and blue lights danced in the sky and shone through the palace ceiling, bathed your new husband in all the colours of his kingdom.

He leaned forward and claimed his first kiss.

When you pulled away and tried to step out of his embrace, he tightened his grip and his smile both.

"You are my wife now," he explained in a voice as comforting as frostbite, "And a wife cannot refuse her husband's love."

Your sun ring was the only spot of warmth on your body and you clung desperately to the anchor it offered.

"I would not refuse you, husband of mine. But I am the daughter and the sister of common men and there are traditions to uphold before I can climb into your wedding bed."

"What more must I do to have you?"

What would he be unable to do, here at the end of the world?

"Build me a fire that burns all day and all night on one stick of wood and you can have me as promised."

"These are strange traditions you have, wife of mine. But I have come this far to have you, and I will go further yet."

He left you with a flurry of snow and the hissing shriek of a gale. When he was gone, you paced the throne room from one end to the other and could not find a door. Everything about the room was as stark and cold as he.

Exhausted and chilled, you sat at the foot of his throne. What terrible thing did you do to earn the love of the North Wind? You wiped away your tears and then jumped at the hissing sound they made when they touched your ring. Like water spilled on coals.

"You've melted his heart," your ring hissed. "And he cannot afford to let you go."

You stared at your hand. Eventually you found your voice and the strength to ask, "How do I escape him?"

"Trick him. His heart holds all his power. If you have it, you can ride the wind far from here. He was once a man and still might be tempted into a deal."

The ring was silent after that and you waited for your husband's return with bated breath. It was dawn when he came to you, a branch slung over his shoulder. It was of a dry, white wood that you didn't recognise.

There were no fireplaces in the North Wind's palace and so he laid the branch at your feet before he lit it. It caught with a harsh crackle and fire spread across it in a greenish haze. You stretched your fingers out to feel the heat and even the meagre warmth of it was a comfort.

But that comfort turned to a slow dawning horror when you realised the branch wasn't turning to ash. The fire ate at it but the wood refused to darken.

"It's a branch from Death's own orchard," your husband said proudly. "It can burn for eternity and never go out."

"Well done," you said, even though your lips were numb from panic. "But we must watch it burn for the full day and night or else our marriage cannot be consummated."

He sat down beside you and curled his arm around your waist. "It is an easy task to watch this fire, wife of mine. When I grow tired, I need only think of the reward that awaits me."

For a whole day and night, the North Wind held you his arms and watched the fire burn. When Dawn's light touched his palace again, he kissed your shoulder and then your neck and then your lips. He sighed with a deep contentment.

"At last I will have you."

With each kiss, you felt yourself grow colder. With each caress, the binding ties of marriage grew tighter. All night you thought of a trade to offer him and now you said it aloud.

"Husband of mine, I will come willingly to your bed and serve willingly as your wife. But I would ask you first for a boon."

"Ask, wife of mine. If it is mine to grant, then I shall grant it."

You slipped off his lap and turned to look at him.

"I would have your heart."

The North Wind sighed and miles away, a gale began to form. "You already have it."

"So have said countless suitors over countless years to countless girls. And still they were unfaithful, unkind. If your love ever turns away from me, I will be stuck here at the end of world with naught but sea bears and ice hounds to comfort me."

The North Wind sat on his throne and regarded you with eyes old as the mountains. In his own hall, in his own country, he did not seem like a man who could easily be tricked. Still, you tried. You let your hands drift across his cheeks and up his thighs, let his skin bask in the warmth of your touch.

"Grant me this, husband. And I will be yours for eternity."

Was it lust or love that made him hand you a knife and bid you cut out his heart? He guided your hand to the tender spot between his ribs and the bare skin of his chest almost made your reconsider.

The blade was carved out of whalebone and moonlight and he was bleeding before you even pressed down. You thought of your brother, drowned in the ice so far from home and found the strength to slice into him.

The blood that welled up from his chest was thick and black as oil. Where it touched your skin, hoatfrost bloomed.

He didn't seem to feel any pain - he only pulled you higher up his lap and watched the guilt and horror flicker across your face.

When the cut was deep enough, you pushed your hand into his chest and felt for his heart. His organs were colder even than his skin and it felt like you'd sunk your hands into snow.

The beating of his heart mirrored yours and when you finally grabbed it, the thrumming of his blood sounded just like your own.

You held the North Wind's heart in your hand and pulled it from his chest.

All at once, in all the countless winter kingdoms, the wind stopped howling and the snow grew still.

His heart was the size of your palm and oozed icy blood over your fingers. It was so cold that at first you didn't realise the numbness in your hand was spreading. It crawled up your arm like a burning frost and locked your bones in place.

You couldn't drop his heart even if you tried.

The North Wind looked at you with an indulgent, amused smile. And when the ice reached your heart he leaned up and kissed you.

He kissed you and for once his lips felt warm, felt human. Dimly, you realised it wasn't him who was getting warmer, it was you who was freezing over. Becoming a thing of ice and hunger as he was.

"Now you need never fear I will abandon you." The North Wind ran his hands up your sides and warmth bloomed in his wake.

"Now you can control the wind as I do and ride it to the furthest reaches of the world. You can swim with the sea bears and dance with the witches."

You looked down and realised his heart was almost gone, melted into your bones and blood.

He kissed you again. "My love, you are as free as the wind."

It wasn't until then that you realised the cost of freedom. The cost of having the North Wind's heart. And when he drew you up in his arms and lead you to your wedding bed, you were too cold to turn him away.

#Yandere Fairytales #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere oc x you #yandere scenarios #yandere x darling #yandere male #fem reader #Reader insert #X Reader #Fables #Folk tales #Tales from the hinterland #fairy tales

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blood-smiles · 2 months ago

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𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ᛝ

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗟𝗔𝗪𝗬𝗘𝗥 𝘅 F! 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . MDNI . NSFW MENTIONS . VERY UNEDITED

A freckled woman scrolled on her phone, her nails clacking against her phone screen gently. Her eyes scanned over a profile,

(Y/N) freaking (L/N).

A loser with little to no followers but somehow in a relationship with the hottest man she had ever seen.

She huffed out her nose, her hand playing with a delicately curled strand of her light brown hair. She clicked on your newest photo.

There you were, with that beautiful man again, he smiled at the camera delicately, the sunlight kissing his sharp features, the crystal of his thin rimmed glasses catching the light in a way that would suit a model.

She scrolled lower, this time the both of you were in some type of snowy place, white all around the both of you, a pretty snowflake on the tip of your nose. That wasn’t what caught her eye, heavens no, someone as boring and.. average as you could never even hold a candle to her.

But, your boyfriend. His pretty pink lips pressed up against your cheek, a soft flush spreading over his pale cheeks, his skin almost as white as the snow around him. She stared at his lips for what felt like hours, she saw how the corners of his mouth quirked up into a little smile, obviously enjoying the moment of tenderness with you.

Roma shut off her phone, throwing it on her bed as she got up, peeling her past boy toy’s hoodie off her body.

She had seen that you were going out today, you had posted a photo of yourself at a mall. That must be your activity for today.

She went through her closet, her hands moving across different articles of clothing with distinct colors, textures and patterns.

She picked out an off shoulder top and some skin tight bootcut jeans, golden jewelry decorating her soft skin.

Roma looked at herself in the mirror, her makeup was perfect. Alluring, sexy and refined. She smiled a little, running her tongue over her carmine red lips.

The shopping center was filled with people, full but not the point it would feel uncomfortable or stuffy. You latched onto Alejandro’s arm, cheek pressed against his shoulder as the both of you navigated the mall.

He gazed down at you for a moment, he could stare at you until his eyes dried up and he went blind, it wasn’t even a challenge for him, he would do it without a protest as if it was just another day.

He sighed contentedly, this was perfect, the perfect moment with you. He nuzzled against your head, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

You pointed and awed at different things, whether it was an item of clothing, a book or a cute plushie. The male added each item to his mental list of items he would get you this weekend.

It was all fine, all was well until someone approached you, slightly taller than you, not quite reaching his height though.

“Oh my god! Is that my little (Y/N)?” A sultry voice called out, moving closer to the both of you.

You furrowed your brows for a moment, arms letting go from your boyfriend to wrap around yourself subconsciously.

You didn’t even notice but someone else did, the man accompanying you did. His eyes narrowed in thought, something was wrong.

..Was it that woman?

“O-Oh.. Hey, Roma!..” You strained a smile, your own hands rubbing your elbow gently.

Roma smiled cunningly, noticing how your body language was closed. How she loved that look on you, that insecurity made her strive.

“And who is this?~” she purred, leaning closer to your partner, licking her lips suggestively, her long eyelashes fluttering.

Holy shit, this was your significant other? How were you even able to pull him?

Behind thin silver frames, eyes like ruby gems peered down at her, silky hair draping over one shoulder, the slightest intimidating tilt of his head telling her to stay at a distance.

Alejandro was not impressed, his arm curled into the inside your bicep, hugging your arm close to his chest.

He subtly raised a brow. He hadn’t ever heard of her, but he did see that you scrolled on her page once in a while, although all she ever posted was her body in clothing you can barely consider as decent one.

“Uh. This is Alejandro, my boyfr—“

“Husband. I’m her Husband.” Alejandro cut you off sharply, nails gently pressing into your skin.

“..Is that so?” Rome asked, well this was even better! He had done his vows, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were to break them with your own ‘best friend’?

“You wouldn’t mind if I joined you both would you?” The pretty girl smiled innocently, wedging herself between the two of you, nails indiscreetly raking down his forearm to the back of his hand, her long fingers ghosting over his veins.

“Yes, we would mind.” Alejandro immediately responded, not taking even a moment to think it over, snatching his arm away as if he had been burned by fire.

You frowned, knowing that this moment would come, Roma always had this habit of being a home wrecker. But it seemed that your partner didn’t even bat an eyelash her way, completely uninterested and repulsed.

He moved to your side, grabbing your hand forcefully and pressing it on his waist, his arm rested on your shoulder.

He glared at Roma with disgust, did she not get the fucking hint?

The woman was not affected though, so he was a mean one? God, that just made her panties wet.

The three of you walked about, a cycle going on and on, Roma trying to openly flirt with Alejandro, him saying something absolutely awful to her, then clinging on to you. The cycle went on and on.

You were on the verge of tears, this was supposed to be a fun day out with the man you loved but it had been spoiled by your worst enemy.

You had begun to feel that burning sensation in the back of your throat, the corners of your lips beginning to twitch.

“I-I’m going to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You squeaked out, finally sniffing as you brought your hand up to press against your mouth and nose.

The obsessed man began to chase after you like a lost puppy following its master, however he was stopped as a certain flirtatious woman appeared, hugging his mid section, full breasts pressed against his back.

If he had a knife with him right now, he would have impelled it right between her eyes.

He almost bashed her head into the wall next to him as he realized that she had no bra on, feeling the prick of her nipples against his lower back.

“Let go of me you insolent bitch.” He snarled, elbowing her in the side roughly, trying not to make a scene in public.

She giggled, as if not having heard him. Holding her hands up in mock surrender. Was he like this in bed too? Oh how she couldn’t wait until she had him under the sheets.

You wiped your tears, knees hugged against your chest as you hiccuped tears out.

This was not fair, just when you had something going for you, that woman had to swoop in and ruin it for you.

She had everything always, ever since the two of you were girls she had always been the better one, she had developed early and like a beautiful blooming flower, you still didn’t even know if you had developed at your big age.

You flinched as you heard a soft knock on your stall door, the soft but deep voice of your boyfriend softly speaking to you.

“Sweetheart.. I’m sorry this happened, I understand why you’re upset. I..I am trying my best to keep your friend in check, but I know it’s hard for you to see her hitting on me. It’s frankly irritating me too. Can you please open the door?”

You gently pushed the stall door open, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, not waiting a minute more, you ran into his arms, hugging him tightly.

Alejandro sighed softly, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Awh.. poor baby..” He cooed, gently smoothing down your hair and placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

His hands found your face, gently cupping his hands around your cheeks as he raised your head with them. His thumbs gently brushing against the drying tear streaks along your apple of your cheeks.

“Look at me.” He whispered lovingly, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“I love you so much. You know that. I love you so damn much I wouldn’t think twice about burning this place down to the ground.” He offered a sweet smile, something only reserved for you.

Your hands came up to cup over his own that were gently holding your face, wrapping around his bigger ones.

“I have never seen you jealous. I don’t want you to be, that’s my job. Believe me that I would never, never ever in a lifetime betray you with anyone, not even if I was dying.”

His hands dragged yours down, to wrap around his waist.

“I am yours.” He quietly uttered, only for your ears to hear.

“My body is yours.”

“All yours.” He whispered, dragging your hands lower to his hips “This is yours.”

Then shifting them higher to his chest, closing your hands over his pectorals. “This is yours.”

Finally, he put your hands over his heart, his heartbeat pounding under your hand firmly, steady, controlled, at ease.

“And most importantly, my heart is yours.” He said louder, closing his eyes for a moment, a soft blush reddening his cheekbones.

His arms embraced you again, pressing you so hard against his own body you might think he was trying to mold your bodies into one.

“Let’s go home, okay?” He interlaced his fingers with yours, gently pulling you out of the bathroom and into the corridor.

He glanced down at you, gently bumping his hip closer to yours, you were a sensitive little thing, now he knew that.

He thought all his rivals had been eliminated, however a slimy worm had slipped between his fingers.

Alejandro needed a new method of extermination.

He had found a shiny red axe under a bed, brand new and gleaming under the light ominously.

Now Alejandro has a new Roma shaped target to try out too.

@madam8 Hey!!! I saw your ask and wanted to answer it so here you go!!! It’s brief but I hope I wrote your ask in an okay way!!

#dividers by enchanthings #yandere x reader #smilesyanderes #yandere #male yandere #male yandere x reader #fem reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #smilesanswers #yandere male #yandere tendencies #yandere x darling #alejandroposting #yandere blog #yancore #yandere community #╰┈➤ 𝒮𝑀𝐼𝐿𝐸𝒮. 𝒜𝒩𝒮𝒲𝐸𝑅𝒮 ᛝ

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snowballseal · 10 months ago

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Sleepy Affection

Sylus X Reader

Summary: You're tired. Sylus is the best cuddle partner. Lots of soft love here. That's it.

Word Count: 1061

Note: Self indulgent really, I have a hard time with burnout and sleeping in general, but I know cuddling with this man would solve all of that. Sorry if I overused adjectives.

---

Days as a hunter are long. It’s a part of the job, always being alert, always willing to help when the need arises. And you love it. You love being awake before the sun rises, and the exhaustion in your limbs as you walk home. It satisfies the restlessness in your bones.

But still, it’s hard to not hit burnout eventually.

You can feel it weighing down your body as you step out of headquarters. The sun is just rising over Linkon, and you narrow your eyes up at the sky. Of course you worked through the night. It was that or let your paperwork drag into your weekend. Maybe not the best decision. You sigh, rolling your shoulders. Every muscle in your body aches for sleep.

You don’t want to go home, though. It would be too quiet, too empty. If anything, you would probably end up staring at your ceiling, impossibly restless despite how tired you are. And that sounds absolutely awful.

Before you can think too hard about it, your feet are carrying you towards the transit center. To the one place where you feel safe, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t.

---

The N109 Zone is strangely quiet in the early morning gloom. The streets are nearly empty, the only sound coming from the electric buzz of the overhead wires and the snuffling of a stray dog on the corner. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if being a criminal makes you allergic to the day. Or maybe they’re all vampires. An amused hum dances past your lips at the thought. Perhaps they’re not after the aether core in your heart, but your blood.

One man seems to be at least.

By the time you reach Sylus’ place, it feels like you're walking through a light fog. Or stepping into a dream. The home greets you with a pleasant warmth that eases the tension in your muscles. Music drifts through the halls, distant and fuzzy with that old quality that vinyl has. Like a siren song, it draws you deeper into the dark comfort of the manor.

Right to your sleeping dragon.

Even while he’s sleeping, Sylus looks…dignified. Ethereal even. The soft light peaking through his curtains casts a glow on his features, dancing across his white lashes, making them almost look like snowflakes. Your eyes trail over the relaxed line of his jaw, the contours of his chest and shoulders. He lies so still, you could almost believe he’s a statue, if not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He just looks so…perfect.

It’s hard to believe that this is Onychinus’ feared leader.

Toeing off your boots, you tread carefully to the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets soft and silky under your fingers. Sylus lets out a low sigh at the movement, red eyes flickering open ever so slightly before falling back shut. Without a word, he shifts and lifts the sheets for you to crawl in next to him.

His warmth draws you in, just like his wispy, old music. You can’t resist it, not that you want to. It’s all the invitation you need to tuck yourself as close as possible, like an exhausted little kitten looking for a safe place to sleep. Sylus immediately draws your leg over his hip, long fingers kneading lazily at your thigh. Every part of you presses against his addicting warmth, drawing a content hum from your lips, completely pliant under his touch. He could do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t complain. But there’s an almost reverent feeling to the way he holds you, the way he traces shapes along your skin and presses gingerly into your wound up muscles.

It’s a rare moment of pure gentleness. No teasing quips. No haughty smirk. Just you and Sylus, the air between you thick with something so incredibly tender. You stay like that for what feels like forever, time lost to soft touches and quiet sighs. Neither of you are willing to break whatever spell has fallen over the room.

Soon enough, though, the weight of your eyelids becomes too difficult to fight. You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, the scent of his cologne washing over your senses. It’s spicy and warm, like worn leather and rum, just so perfectly Sylus.

You wish you could stay like this forever, floating pleasantly on the edge of sleep with him. Just with him. An indescribable fondness curls somewhere deep in your chest.

“I missed you,” you admit into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with sleep and something vulnerable.

“Mmmm, I was wondering why you crawled into my bed in the middle of the morning.”

He wasn’t, really. You both feel it whenever you can’t see each other for too long. It’s like the worst feeling of homesickness. He won’t admit to it, but you can feel it in the way his arms curl possessively around your waist, like he never wants to let you go. You slide a hand up to his chest, savoring the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heart under your palm. You’ve missed this. Sylus shivers at your teasing touch, those red eyes finally flickering open again to look down at you, half-lidded and unfocused. You hold his gaze, trying to memorize every detail, every fleck of color, the dark gleam of fondness in their depths, matching your own. This is the real Sylus. Gentle and kind, passion burning just below the surface. The one only you get to see. And you love him more than you’ll ever be able to explain.

You curl your arms around his narrow waist, forehead pressing against his chest, “Is it okay that I came?”

You already know the answer. Still, Sylus humors you.

“I would have it no other way,” he rumbles lowly, lips brushing against your hair. “Now rest, sweetheart, I can tell how tired you are. We can talk in the evening.”

You hum, eyes finally falling shut, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

And just like that, you find it impossible to stay awake any longer, lulled by his words and the sound of his breathing. Every nerve, every worry, washes away, leaving you to fall into the darkness you’ve been craving, dreaming of the weekend you can spend together.

---

Honestly took so long to write. I wanted to moment to feel soft and more drawn out, don't know if it worked. But I hope y'all liked it :)

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace reader insert #reader insert #x reader #lads sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #burnout #fluff

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rainrot4me · 6 months ago

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Sick Days

Summary: The Creepypasta guys are feeling a little under the weather. You, their lovely partner, spend the day taking care of them (whether they like it or not).

Characters: {Separate} Jeff the Killer x Reader, Ticci Toby x Reader, Masky x Reader

TW: Very domestic and fluffy, slight bickering

Words: 6.7k

A/N: Sorry for the delay! More Christmas-themed works coming out shortly!

Seven days of pure snowfall and ice.

It had snowed a lot—a thick blanket of white across the forest deep enough to get your boots stuck in. Winter always seemed to roll around the Slenderwoods a little later in the year, but when it did, it was brutal. And, with so much pristine white covering the ground, the mansion was on full display in contrast to the grayed-out trees.

Slenderman gave his orders. This meant longer missions, longer days in the frigid temperatures, and even longer nights recovering. You would think natural-born killers would have some inkling of instinct to keep themselves alive, but when they all returned practically half-dead…

Thick jackets and worn shoes piled by the door, somehow still defrosting and leaving obnoxious puddles of water wherever you stepped. Dusty counters were littered with piles of nasty food and dishes, laundry untouched (that wasn’t unusual anyway), and a serious lack of arguing or hysterical fighting between the walls (that was unusual). It seems the weather hadn’t only brought down health, but moods too.

So, when things turn bad in the mansion, where do they end up?

Your front door.

Jeff the Killer ▸

Jeff knocked nonstop until you opened your door, a confused look as to what in the world the killer could need. It wasn’t unusual for Jeff to stop by unannounced; he had made himself at home in your house a long time ago, but it was unusual for him to show up in the middle of the afternoon (broad daylight and all).

“Jeffrey? Are you alright?” Glancing behind him, you could see where his boots made imprints on the fresh snow covering your sidewalk, dusty snowflakes melting in his dark hair.

But, finally glancing up to meet his gaze, you could see it.

He looked terrible. More so than usual. Skin raw-red from the cold winds whipping at him, hair tangled, and head pounding in time with his too-loud heartbeat. You knew about the missions, and you knew what being in the cold for too long could do, you just didn’t know someone like Jeff could even get sick.

Stepping aside, Jeff trailed into your home, shoulders hunched so low you thought he was trying to fall over. All he gave you were hoarse grunts and shaky nods as you helped him strip his heavy clothes, shaking the snow from the sleeves onto the doormat outside. By the time you turned around, Jeff was already halfway down the hallway towards your bedroom.

The killer was so exhausted he didn’t even get his muddy boots off before he was face down into the pillows and oblivious to the world.

Given the grueling retreat he had just returned from, this would have been a reasonable response. But, as his partner, you knew better than most: Jeff never sleeps, especially when he has a fresh mission to brag about. It only took his ragged coughing and blatant pitiful state to figure out you were going to have to help him.

The can of chicken noodle soup you poured into a bowl, then to the microwave, came out steaming hot. You blew on the contents; the smell was nice as you reached for a spoon, and you made a mental note that you would also need to clean his dirty clothes still caked in mud and (hopefully not his) blood. A small towel under the bowl, and you were making your way down the hall.

Jeff hadn’t even bothered to shut the door; his limp body spread across your mattress like a corpse. He covered his head with a pillow, gripping the fabric and muffling the sputtering snores laced with evident sickness. You had only left him alone to make the soup for a couple of minutes, but that seemed to be enough to knock him out.

Jeff never slept, only when his body really needed it. But right now, his body also really, really needed something in its stomach besides mucus. You set the bowl on your nightstand before slowly kneeling on the bed. What do they say about waking a beast? You couldn’t remember.

You cringed, teeth gritted as you gently placed your flat hand onto his back. His skin was burning, heat practically radiating from him as you easily rubbed up and down his spine. He didn’t even budge, the only sign of life being the gentle rising and falling of his back as he snored into the fabric of his pillows. You ran your hand higher, fingers rubbing across his shoulders and dipping to the arch of his shoulder blades until you felt his arms slowly shift.

His breathing faltered, consciousness rolling back into him as you shifted, letting one leg dangle off the bed as you sat beside him.

“Mhhmn…” He groaned, stiffly turning his face towards you and glaring through bloodshot eyes. You nearly choked out a laugh, scanning his flushed face and horrible eye bags, appearing even more dead than he normally did. It took the killer a minute to register what was happening, his messy bangs sticking to his forehead and matting wildly; it was evident he could’ve slept for the rest of the day and then some.

But it was only 3 pm, and the sun shining through his curtains was made even worse by the reflection of the snow. He needed to eat; there was no telling how much he had worn himself down this past week. Jeff was never very good at self-preservation, especially when you had become a net to fall back on.

“Hey man… You wanna try and eat somethin’?” You tried to keep your voice low, the killer rolling onto his back and rubbing his hands over his face. He grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and slowly blinking at the ceiling.

He nodded.

Reaching for the still-steaming bowl, you cupped the contents in your hands, shifting further onto the bed. Jeff shifted upwards, slowly but surely. It was odd. You had witnessed this man jump fencelines and tackle men double his size, but give him a fever and a headache that can’t be numbed out with alcohol, and suddenly he’s defenseless. You could’ve laughed, taunted him like he often did when you weren’t feeling hot, say something to get his gears going…

But he just looked so… pitiful.

One hand cupped under the bowl, you reached the other out, delivering soft touches with the back of your hand on his forehead. Jeff watched through tired eyes, blinking slowly when your fingers brushed his sweat-damp bangs out of his face, leaning closer to your every touch.

Always loud-mouthed and quick to anger, but right now, he was just calm. His body refused to move as quickly as he wanted it to, and his head was far too foggy with nausea to even consider pushing your helpful hand away. So, he just accepted it. Reluctantly, in his mind, but accepted it nonetheless.

“You don’t look so hot. What happened out there?” You paced the words slowly, taking the spoon in your hand and collecting a bit of the soup before bringing it to his pale lips. Jeff closed his eyes when he took the spoonful in his mouth, drinking the warm broth before letting you bring it back to the bowl for another.

“Forgot to bring extra clothes… Hada’ reuse the same wet shit every day…” His voice was so hoarse, too. He cleared his throat, letting you spoon him another drink of the soup before leaning his head back on the headboard. He sounded like he had been sucking down nothing but cold air, throat raw and scratchy with the sinus infection he was harboring.

A warm shower? Or maybe bringing him to sit in front of the fireplace you had crackling in the living room? You weren’t sure what he needed, but you knew he needed to sweat out this fever before it became a real problem. He reached for the bowl, cupping the towel underneath to set it in his lap before continuing to fish spoonfuls. The warmth of the soup probably did wonders for his sore throat.

You went to stand, pressing off of the bed before a rough hand wrapped around your wrist. Glancing down, Jeff was tugging you back towards him, knotted brows giving a silent question as to why you were leaving him. You smiled, kneeling back on the mattress to place a quick kiss on his way-too-warm forehead. “I’m starting you a bath, alright? Finish your soup.”

Another quick kiss and he was letting your wrist go, satisfied with your answer. The silence was awkward, but vulnerable and quiet. Jeff had no choice but to let you care for him; something about that made your heart so full.

Roaming to the bathroom, you pushed the curtain to the tub back and flipped the faucet all the way hot. Water filled slowly as you rummaged through the cabinet behind your sink mirror, reading various drugstore medicines and cough syrups before shaking a handful of sinus and head cold pills into your hand.

You heard the gentle patter of bare feet stepping onto the tile of the bathroom just in time to turn off the running water, the tub steaming with scalding water. Arms wrapped around your middle gently as you shut the cabinet, Jeff’s nose burying into the crook of your neck as he fell limp against your back.

“Sorry…” He mumbled, his face against your skin as he breathed deep, taking in your smell. You smiled, reaching back to brush his hair back before playing yet another kiss on his warm forehead. “Hush. You need to get better, and that mansion is no place to relax. Don’t worry about it.” Despite reassuring him, Jeff still held a defeated look.

Dropping the medicine onto your sink counter, you turned to help him take off his shirt, his hands doing their best to hold onto your arms the entire time. Clingy.

“I got it.” He huffed, tossing his shirt to the ground.

“I know you do.” You smiled up at him. You undid his belt anyway, undressing him the rest of the way with little protest. There was no flirtatious comment, no sly touches, just a weak, sick boy who wasn’t used to being this vulnerable. It was sweet.

Jeff stepped into the bath, and you left him to get a cup of water. He drank the pills down, skin blotching red with the heat of the water, but at least he looked more relaxed. He was so lengthy, he had to bend his knees to fit comfortably, which you laughed at.

You knelt beside the tub, using that same cup to collect water and rinse his hair. You ran your fingers through the messy strands, his quiet groans making you smile as you poured a small dab of shampoo onto the palm of your hand. Tired eyes watched you carefully when you began to scrub his head, lathering the shampoo between the strands and massaging his scalp. He was falling apart underneath you, soapy bubbles drifting into the water while you washed him off.

His hands cupped your own, kissing your wrists. He was being so gentle, it almost gave you whiplash. There was no off comment about you catering to him, or being a jerk just for the hell of it; he was being oddly sweet. Maybe his being sick wasn’t so bad.

Until you zoned back into his coughing fit, strained coughs that looked like they physically hurt. You rinsed his hair, careful not to get the soapy water into the gashes on his face as he settled down.

You wiped the water from his face, his clammy skin wet under your hands as you went to stand. Jeff leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall of the tub while you collected his clothes, letting him know you’d be right back.

You needed to do laundry anyway, so grabbing the rest of the killer’s dirty clothing and tossing them into your load was easy enough. They reeked of dirt and outside, splotches of dried blood staining the sleeves of his hoodie. You didn’t want to know about the mission; you didn’t want to know what in the hell caused these stains, but you were sure he’d tell you sometime anyway.

Starting the machine, you shuffled back to your room, rummaging through your drawers for something that the killer could wear. You ended up on a t-shirt that was baggy on you but would fit him perfectly, a pair of boxers he left the last time he was here and sweatpants that would be good enough until his clothes were dry.

You stepped back into the bathroom, clothes in hand, and Jeff turned to look up at you. He had already cleaned himself off, water slowly draining from the tub as you helped him climb out. “Feel better?”

He nodded, reaching for the towels you had hanging off the edge of the tub and drying himself off. You set the clothes down, hands reaching to dry off his hair as he dressed himself.

You knew it had to feel so much better to be in clean clothes, let alone something that wasn’t jeans and a hoodie riddled with filth. Jeff seemed content enough, but more than anything, he looked tired. Exhausted.

“Alright, time for bed.” The sun was just starting to set outside your window, thick orange light flooding through the curtains as Jeff followed you back into the bedroom. You wouldn’t be going to sleep for some time, but you were sure the killer would be out in minutes.

Pulling back the sheets of your bed, Jeff climbed in, body nearly giving out as soon as his weak body got under the warm covers. “I’ll let you rest, tell me if you need anythin-”

Jeff didn’t give you the chance, barely getting a foot away from the bed before he was dragging you in too. You smiled, his arms wrapping around your waist and throwing the covers over the two of you. “Aw man, you’re gonna get me sick-”

You couldn’t help but smile as Jeff delivered sickly sweet kisses across your cheeks, lying you both down as his arms caged you in, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Then I guess we’ll just have to be sick together then, baby.” You knew a sly smile would break out of him sooner or later.

You both relaxed into each other, wrapping the covers tight as the sun set slowly against the pretty snow. The fireplace still crackled in your living room, the whole house warm compared to the brutal cold Jeff had been forced into days before.

Running your hands through his now-clean hair, Jeff groaned, practically purring when his eyes began to close, tight grip around your back faltering slightly as you realized the sinus meds were finally kicking in, that dazed look behind his expression. As if he wasn’t tired enough, this would have him knocked for the whole next day.

It didn’t matter to you, you’d be there tomorrow to cater to him too, taking care of the killer who rarely ever let himself go like this.

Planting one last kiss on his jaw, you felt his chest slowly rise and fall, gentle snores dragging out underneath you. Leaning back, you grabbed the remote to your TV off the nightstand, turning some show you needed to catch up on with low volume. You realized you needed to relax too, the winter season having you run a mile a minute, so this would be a good excuse to worry about something other than your crazy life.

With one final tug on the back of your shirt, you let your own eyes close, the sun finally set as a pretty blanket of dark sky finally shown through the window.

“G’night [Y/N]…”

Jeff was there by your side when you became sick the week after, a terrible fever that wouldn't break no matter how many baths or rags he placed on your forehead.

He felt bad, sure, but he felt even better that he got to make fun of your terribly red face and nasty cough that he didn’t have to deal with anymore.

Even sick, you somehow managed to win every argument or put the killer back in his place. You made him repay his stupidness with healthy fast-food runs and kisses. He quickly learned to keep his mouth shut.

In sickness and in health, you guess.

Ticci Toby ▸

Technically, Toby couldn’t feel the pain of being sick.

He never got the sting of a sore throat, or the ache behind your ears when you sneezed too much, or even the pounding head and body aches that kept people from getting up. No, he bragged about never being defeated by strep throat or the flu.

But what he did feel was the pressure, and the fatigue, and the awful way your stomach just refused to hold down any solids.

So, when it got so bad he couldn’t shove it aside anymore to complete another mission, he found himself knocking on your door.

And he was not happy about it.

“Toby, you have got to lie down.” You huffed, his limp arms in your hands as you tried and failed to drag him towards your bedroom. He was acting as if he couldn’t walk, feet glued to their respective spots in your kitchen. The brunette always played a little childish, but right now he was just being plain juvenile.

“Nah. I just swung by to gra- grab some food, there’s nothing good at th- the mansion.” Even as you held him, the boy still browsed your cabinets and pantry for snacks. You would have been more than happy to offer, but Toby had already eaten a bowl of your chili leftovers, two bags of chips, and was going for pastries next. It was like being sick turned him into a human vacuum.

“I know, but you’re freezing, hun. Your face is so red it looks like you’re going to explode. You need to get under some covers.” Toby could blame that on lying face-down in the snow for an hour, completely oblivious to the pin-pricking sharpness of the cold on his cheeks, or the frostbite that was forming at the edge of his nose. He never felt a thing, completely lost in the weightless blanket of powder underneath him. He would’ve stayed there another hour or two if Tim hadn’t jerked him up and yelled at him for being an idiot.

But now he was here, sick as a dog and getting harassed by his partner who was just trying to help. Tim was sick at the mansion, too. What luck.

“I’m fine. It’s just a co-cold or something. Quit baby- babying me.” Toby couldn’t tell if it was his tics or the uncontrollable shakiness in his hands, but he dropped a pack of crackers he’d fished out of your pantry. He groaned in frustration, crouching down to grab them, but you snatched the package up first.

“You’re not fine, Toby. You’re pale as a ghost, your voice is raspier than usual, and you can’t even hold onto a pack of crackers. Just let me help you.” You set the crackers on the counter and put your hands on your hips, glaring down at him. He glared right back, his dark eyes narrowed and defiant.

“Don’t ne- need help,” he muttered, though the stubborn edge in his voice faltered as another violent shiver racked his body. He clutched his arms around himself, but you could see how badly his fingers trembled. The eye-roll you delivered him could kill.

“Yes, you do. Come on, Toby. Just this once, let me take care of you.” Your tone softened, and you crouched down so you were at eye level with him. “You’re not going to get better if you keep ignoring yourself like this.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering away from yours. For all his bravado, Toby wasn’t immune to the weight of your concern. You perceived the world differently than he did, concerned with the trivial things of sickness or relaxation, while the brunette hardly cared if his skin was rotting off (it was). Finally, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, “Fine. But only for a little while.”

“Thank you.” You stood and held out your hand to him. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Toby reluctantly took your hand, and you helped him to his feet. He leaned on you more than he probably realized, his steps unsteady as you guided him to your bedroom. Once there, you pulled back the blankets and helped him sit down on the edge of the bed. In the light of snow through your window, you really got a good look at just how pale he was, lips a subtle shade of purple that would’ve had any normal boy in a hospital.

You helped him shed his ragged jacket, kicking off his boots until he was in the barest clothes he had stumbled into your house with.

“Alright, lie down,” you instructed, gently pushing on his shoulder. He grumbled something under his breath but complied, sinking into the mattress with a groan. You pulled the blankets up over him, tucking them around his shoulders.

“This is stu- stupid,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. He was facedown, something so childish, like a kid upset his mom was making him go to school.

“It’s not stupid. It’s called taking care of yourself,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Now, stay put. I’m going to get you some water and medicine.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes were already closed. You smiled softly, relief washing over you as you left the room. Finally, he was letting you help. Now all you had to do was nurse him back to health—and maybe convince him that it was okay to lean on someone else every once in a while.

The next few days were a blur of soup, medicine, and relentless efforts to keep Toby in bed. He protested at every turn, grumbling about how he didn’t need to be babied, but his body betrayed him. The fever left him weak and sluggish, his usual energy reduced to mere fragments of what it once was. After having to literally calm him down with a healthy dose of cough medicine, he finally stopped berating you.

“This is the worst,” Toby groaned, his voice hoarse as he sank deeper into the pile of blankets you’d tucked around him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his cheeks were flushed from the lingering fever. What started as cold chills and sickly paleness had sprung into a hot mess of trying to break the fever the brunette wasn’t aware he had. Once his body actually laid down, got some medicine, and got under some warmth, it finally started trying to heal itself. The only good thing about this was his body was so busy trying not to combust that his tics were on the back burner. His muscles were so weak, they really didn’t hold the energy.

“You’re getting better,” you reassured him, sitting on the edge of the bed with a bowl of soup in your hands. “Here, eat this. You need to keep your strength up.”

He eyed the bowl with disdain but reluctantly took it from you. “You’re en- enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Enjoying what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Bossing me around.” He smirked weakly, but it lacked his usual snarky bite.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted with a grin. “But only because it’s for your own good.”

Toby rolled his eyes but started eating the soup anyway. You watched him carefully, noting the way his hands shook less than they had the day before. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

By the third day, the fever broke. Toby woke up looking more like himself, his energy slowly returning. He still tried to downplay how sick he’d been, but you caught the gratitude in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Thanks,” he mumbled one evening, leaning against the doorway as you cleaned up the kitchen. He was wearing one of your hoodies, the sleeves too short for his arms, but all of his dirt-covered clothes were in the middle of a wash.

“For what?” you asked, turning to face him.

“For... y’know. Put- Putting up with me. Helping m- me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the floor. Even with sickness deteriorating, that pink still lingered in his pale cheeks. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff.”

“You don’t have to be,” you said softly, walking over to him. “That’s what I’m here for. Next time, don’t wait until you’re half-dead to ask for help, okay? One day you’re going to kill yourself just because you’re stubborn.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Impossible.”

“Toby.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll t- try.”

“Good.” You smiled, reaching out to cup his cheek, running your fingers across the scars that littered the skin. He cupped your hand, tired eyes roaming your features as he leaned in, pressing a firm kiss on your forehead. It was only when you reached up to ruffle his hair that he swatted your hand away, but your smile didn’t falter.

As the days went on, Toby fully recovered, though he still feined needing to stick around your house just to be sure. Your pantry was nearly run through, and every snack you had planned to eat mysteriously disappeared despite your boyfriend’s testimonials. But you didn’t mind. Seeing him back to his usual self was all the thanks you needed. He would be buying you more, though.

But knowing Toby, you weren’t holding your breath.

Tim Wright▸

The snow was relentless, blanketing the world outside in a thick, quiet stillness.

Tim was a shadow against the swirling white, his broad shoulders hunched as he trudged up the path to your door. His steps were uneven, his breath visible in harsh puffs against the icy air, and it was clear he wasn’t in good shape. You barely managed to open the door before he stumbled inside, shaking the snow off his coat and muttering a half-hearted apology.

“Tim?” you gasped, reaching out to steady him. He was freezing to the touch, his skin pale and his lips tinged with blue. “You’re ice-cold. What are you doing out in this weather? You should’ve called me.”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he grumbled, his voice rough and strained. He tried to wave you off, but his hands trembled as he shuffled his heavy jacket off. “I’m fine. Just need to get out of all that.” The Operator had shoved him and Brian too far, Masky and Hoodie nearly ready to saw off some heads if they had to spend one more night in the frigid snow. He knew he shouldn’t bother you, shouldn’t cross that line of his affairs and your relationship, but he knew he wouldn’t make it back to the mansion tonight.

“You are not fine,” you said firmly, taking his arm and guiding him toward the couch. “At least come inside and warm up.” You were still in your pajamas, on your way to bed when you heard the haphazard knocks on your door.

Tim hesitated, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, but the weight of his exhaustion won out. He let you lead him, collapsing onto the cushions with a groan. The sight of him like this—so worn down and vulnerable—made your heart ache. Tim was always the strong one, the steady rock everyone leaned on, but now he looked utterly defeated.

You grabbed a blanket from the nearby chair and draped it over him, fussing despite his weak protests. “Stay put. I’ll get you something hot to drink.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but his voice was softer this time, less convincing. He leaned back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion as he closed his eyes. You hurried to the kitchen, boiling water for tea and pulling together a simple plate of muffins that took less than a minute to heat up in the microwave. You would make him a proper meal later, right now he just needed to get warm. When you returned, he hadn’t moved, his breathing shallow but steady. You set the tea down on the table in front of him and nudged his shoulder gently.

“Drink this,” you said. “It’ll help.”

Tim opened his eyes, glancing at the cup before taking it with a quiet disgust. He sipped the tea slowly, his large hands dwarfing the mug, and you sat beside him, watching him closely. He much preferred the bitter taste of coffee, but something warm in his stomach was better than nothing. After a few moments of silence, he sighed, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of the blanket.

“I’m sorry, love,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the tea. “I won’t stay long. You need to get back to bed.”

“I’m alright,” you said softly, “I’ll kill you before that storm does if you make it out that door again.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he set the mug down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m alright. I’ll rest for a while, then get out of your hair. I need to get back before they send someone after me.”

“That’s okay,” you said, placing a hand on his back. “You’ve got at least the rest of the night before someone comes looking. Nobody is trudging through this storm just to get you, hun. You need to relax. You deserve to be cared for, too.”

Tim let out a shaky breath, his hand scrubbing over his face. He knew there was no fighting it anyway, you held some power over him even he couldn’t figure out. Your sweet words and touches were enough to stop him from war, he thought. “I- Okay, just until morning.”

“Good,” you said, your voice gentle. “Now rest, you need it.”

Tim closed his eyes, the tension in his body slowly easing as he let himself relax. It hurt your heart to see him so defeated, but if it took sickness to finally get him to relax, then so be it. You sat beside him, keeping watch as the snow continued to fall outside, a quiet reminder that even as big and strong as Tim was, he was still just as vulnerable to the cold as anyone else.

As the hours passed, Tim drifted off into a hazy state of staring at the fireplace, his breathing rough and uneven. The man didn’t sleep—he never did—but right now you really wish he would. You stayed by his side though, curled up next to him and monitoring his every cold chill.

You couldn’t help but feel a deep ache for him, seeing him like this—so worn down and fragile, yet still trying to be the strong, unbreakable as he always was. He let out a quiet groan as he shifted on the couch, his breath shallow, and for a moment, he barely seemed aware of his own discomfort. You were glad you had lit your fireplace hours before he arrived, the bright glow and gentle cracking of the logs under the flames, the heat radiating well enough to warm the whole house.

You gently touched his arm, trying to stir him from his restless half-awake daze. “Tim, you need medicine,” you said softly, your voice gentle yet firm. "You're burning up, and I need to make sure you don’t have a fever.”

Tim’s dark eyes blinked with confusion, and for a moment, he looked disoriented (meaning he was so far in the pits of his mind that there was no telling how disassociated he had become just from sitting here). The firelight danced on his tired face, casting soft shadows over the sharp lines of his features. “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, but the words were weak, lacking the usual conviction. He barely had the strength to lift his head as he tried to wave you off. “I don’t need any medicine. Just a little rest.”

You frowned, your hand resting lightly on his forehead, the heat radiating from his skin like a warning. He was dangerously close to a fever, and no matter how much he fought it, he needed help. He just couldn’t see it. “I’m not asking,” you said softly, brushing back the damp strands of his hair. “A little rest won’t hold out.”

You wondered how Masky was taking the whole ordeal. You decided if his host was sick and weak, the alter probably wouldn’t want to front in such an unprefferable state.

Tim didn’t argue this time, his eyes flickering with mental strain. He let out a small sigh as you stood and walked into your bathroom, the quiet sound of your movements a comfort to him in the midst of his foggy, feverish haze. You pulled out the small bottle of medicine from the cabinet, one you always kept stocked for moments like these—when he pushed himself too far, too hard, until his body couldn’t keep up with the strain. This wasn’t the first time he had stumbled into your home due to his ailments, and you were very sure it wouldn’t be the last.

You returned to the couch with the bottle and a glass of water, gently helping Tim sit up, his body unsteady as you supported him. His gaze met yours, conflicted, but he didn’t argue. You could see how much he wanted to be strong, to be the one taking care of everything, but right now, he needed someone to take care of him. And you were more than willing to be that person.

“Drink this,” you urged softly, holding the glass to his lips. “It’ll help bring your fever down. You’re not going anywhere until it does.”

He hesitated, eyes narrowing in that familiar stubborn way, but the trembling in his hands gave him away. With a heavy sigh, he took the glass from you and swallowed the medicine in a few quick gulps. He winced, but when he set the glass down, his gaze softened, a brief flicker of gratitude in his tired eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. You smiled, brushing a gentle hand over his shoulder, offering the smallest of comforts as he settled back against the couch.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied quietly. “Just rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Tim’s lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but his exhaustion overtook him, his body sinking back into the softness of the cushions, his glazing over once more against the firelight. You didn’t need him to say anything. You could feel the weight of his gratitude, the trust he placed in you without saying a word.

You moved to the kitchen again. His body was still weak, but it needed fuel to help fight off the cold and the fever. You knew he wouldn’t ask for a meal, never would. But you also knew he needed it. You’d learned long ago that showing care was sometimes the quietest, most effective way to love him—through the meals you made, the medicine you administered, the silent acts of kindness that spoke louder than words ever could.

But, a bowl of soup would have to do for right now.

The smell of broth began to fill the house, a gentle, soothing scent that would help settle Tim’s stomach once he slowly phased back to reality. You checked on him every few minutes, ensuring he stayed warm, covering him with an extra blanket when you noticed him shiver. His breath was a little steadier now, the worst of the fever easing off, and the signs of his discomfort had lessened just enough for him to be able to relax.

You made sure to brew a pot of fresh coffee, too. That breakfast brew he seemed to enjoy so much, the smell wafting through the house and silently altering the man.

Finally, when the soup was ready, you returned to him, holding the bowl and mug in your hands and a small spoon at the ready. He looked up at you, his eyes soft, tired but grateful. You helped him sit up once more, this time offering him the warm, comforting food he needed to heal.

“You’ve got to eat something,” you said gently, pressing the spoon into his hand. “You need your strength.”

Tim took the spoon and scooped a small portion of the soup, eating slowly, savoring the warmth it brought to his cold body. Each spoonful was another step toward recovery, and with each one, he seemed to relax just a little bit more, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let you care for him. He took gentle sips of the coffee, the taste seeming to steady him better than the tea had earlier, the tension lines in his face finally evening out.

When the bowl was empty, you set it aside and brushed your fingers through his hair again, a tender gesture. “Better?”

He gave a small nod, his eyes now fully closed, his body finally beginning to give in to the warmth and the comfort you’d provided. He didn’t speak, but his hand found yours, gripping it loosely, a silent thanks for everything you had done.

“Need anything else?” You brushed his cheek, the stinging warmth still hot on his skin, but evidently cooler than it had been. He scanned your face for a moment, dark eyes roaming over features he had studied a thousand times, but finally had an answer.

“I’ve got a cig pack in my jacket…” The way his eyebrows twinged upwards gave you all the hint you needed, a small chuckle rising from his chest. You slid over to the door where he had discarded his jacket, rummaging through compartment pockets that held tool knives or bullet casings, but finally landing on the half-empty carton of cigarettes, his lighter tucked neatly inside. You picked out one, lighter in hand as you sat back on the couch.

Tim went to reach for the thing before you shook your head, holding the orange end to his lips with a small smile. He took the cig, your hand following and cupping over the end as you flicked his lighter to a spark, lighting the end. It smoldered, smoke slowly rising from the stick and into the air of your house. You would worry about the smell later.

A deep breath in and you could phsyically see the tension in his shoulders loosen.

This went on for the rest of the night, the slow rotation between cigarettes and refilled cups of coffee as you stayed by his side, arms latched around his own as your head rested on his shoulder.

He slowly shed the blankets, too, the sunlight break finally hitting over the horizon and filtering into your living room. By the time his fever was gone (broken in one night out of pure stubbornness), you were quietly snoring beside him, body curled up under his arm.

He took the time to carry you to your bedroom, slotting you under the covers with numerous gentle kisses across your cheeks. He cleaned the living room and kitchen, washing the bowl and mugs he had dirtied and sorting them away, making sure to tidy everything as the early hours of the morning rolled around.

He was there to make you food when you finally woke up, returning every favor you had offered the night before. You found yourself at his side on the couch again, watching the snow in the daylight.

You stayed by his side, your presence a quiet promise that you would always be there to take care of him, just as he had always done for you.

In the warmth of your home, surrounded by the gentle sounds of his steady breathing and the comforting scent of the meal he had made, everything felt like it was exactly where it needed to be. You didn’t need words to say it—your love for each other was already in everything you did.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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starleska · 7 months ago

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did i just go to the grocery store with the goal of buying hot chocolate and ended up returning home with the ingredients and decorations for frosty, wintery, vanilla-flavoured cupcakes? perhaps. what's it to you 🙈❄️

#normally my partner is around to dissuade me from making poor fixation-based purchases but today they are WORKING #so i am victorious 😂😂#i do love a bit of Christmas baking...what's wrong with getting started a little early 👉👈#i may have also found some light-up snowflakes to hang up in the windows which is VERY exciting 👀❄️#starleskatalks

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lefteagleblizzard · 25 days ago

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𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Accidentally inhaling aphrodisiac spores when on patrol with Joel Miller

Tags: Set between The Last of Us Part I and II. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Friends to lovers. Lots of science rambling that can be skipped. Overstimulation. Sex pollen. Aphrodisiac spores. Age gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Bottom male reader. Handjob. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 7000 words

Your horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically through the icy crust, breaking apart the layer that had hardened atop the road since dawn. You sat astride it with a loose posture, the reins slack in your gloves, not out of laziness but from quiet trust in the beast beneath you. Its coarse winter coat was dusted in pale flakes, which you brushed gently from its mane as it snorted softly, exhaling warm breath that curled through the air like smoke.

You murmured nonsense to it under your breath, fingertips carding through its thick mane, thumb trailing along the ridge of its strong neck.

Ahead of you, Joel’s figure broke the horizon in long, steady strides of his horse. The worn brown coat he wore was dark against the snow, spotted with white. His rifle hung across his back and the familiar hunch of his shoulders gave away the fact he was already scanning for any promising structures that might yield a can of soup or an untouched medicine cabinet.

His horse moved at a sure pace, faster than yours and he never looked back once.

You bit your lower lip, teeth digging in enough that you felt the faint sting. The silence was a weight between you, thick and unwelcoming for most of the patrol.

You leaned forward slightly in your saddle, clearing your throat.

“Hey, uh…” You hesitated. Shit. Too many ways to ask this, and none of them sounded good in your head. You went with the one that had been festering in your brain since Maria handed you the new schedule this morning. “Do you have any idea why Ellie asked to switch patrol partners this week?”

The second you said it, you winced. It sounded accusatory, like you were prying into something you weren’t supposed to know.

Joel didn’t stop but his head turned, and he looked back at you over his shoulder.

Snowflakes clung to the scruff lining his jaw, tangled in the silvered strands of his beard. Hazel leaning to amber eyes met yours, brow drawn like usual.

Fuck, he was so handsome.

That gaze held you frozen for a second and then he turned back forward without saying anything.

You scrambled to patch it. “I just meant, y’know—hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fine.” A faint mutter back as the only answer you got. Didn’t address what you really asked.

You sat back in your saddle, exhaling slowly, watching your breath curl away like smoke from a dying fire.

The horses continued forward in tandem, hooves crunching the snow in that steady rhythm again until Joel’s horse let out a low nicker and Joel gave a grunt as he pulled on the reins.

“Hold up,” he called and you tugged your horse to a stop beside him, coming close enough to see ta descent hidden under a treacherous quilt of white.

The snow dipped fast here, sliding down into a basin where the large roof of a house poked up barely above the surface. You could only see the tip of its peak, the chimney like a crooked finger reaching up from the grave.

“Jesus,” you breathed, shifting in your saddle.

Joel dismounted with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thump. He walked toward you, glancing over your horse’s bridle.

You started moving to do the same, grabbing the rope from your saddle to find somewhere to hitch the animal but Joel reached out and took the rope from your hands, his gloves brushing against yours just briefly. “I got it.”

You blinked. “Oh—I mean, I can—”

“I said I got it,” he muttered, turning before you could answer, tone gruff and clipped with no real edge to it.

You watched him walk away with both ropes, tying the horses down near the base of a bare tree, checking the knots twice. Then he turned back and started walking toward you again, shooting you a quick glance before his eyes dropped back to the snow and he trudged forward, jaw tight, gloved hands flexing.

You didn’t say anything as he passed you, just turned to follow him as he stepped carefully into the snow toward the house that lay buried beneath the frost.

The descent looked steep and slick, but there was a stupid itch that crawled right up your spine.

You’d ridden the tension of Joel’s quiet for long enough and now that you were finally off the horse, boots sinking ankle-deep into snow that practically swallowed your ankles, the temptation was too good to pass up.

You crouched before throwing yourself backward and let your weight carry you down. Soon the snow greeted your ass with a soft, satisfying crunch before you slipped down fast. Cold stung your cheeks and the wind clawed at your face in the most fun way possible.

Behind you now that you surpassed him, you heard Joel’s voice carry through the crisp air.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

It made you laugh harder, the sound catching in your throat and blooming outward until you collided with the incline of the buried roof. A flurry of snow rained down from the eaves above, thumping into your hood, spilling down your back. You choked out a gasp from the coldness but even as you shoved the snow off your head and shoulders, you couldn’t stop grinning.

Dusting yourself completely, the flush of exhilaration was still warm under your skin, fighting back the bite of frost.

Then Joel appeared from the top of the hill, trudging down with that big, square frame. You barked out another laugh at the look on his face.

He looked beyond pissed, jaw locked tight, mouth set in that signature scowl, eyes that held fury, surprise, and a glint of reluctant amusement hiding behind his scowl that he’d be damned if he ever let you see it.

You pull that kinda stupid shit again,” he growled once he was close enough to loom over you, “I’ll leave your goddamn body out here for the infected to find, see how long you last.”

The low rumble of his voice dragged down your spine, no sarcasm or laughter in his tone.

“Worth it.” Your grin only widened and he groaned in annoyance and turned sharply, trudging toward the side of the partially buried chalet without giving you another glance.

You went to the other side with a spring in your step, gun free while eyes scanned the snow-sunken facade. On the far end, hidden beneath a white curtain of ice-glossed ivy, was a tall window pane, mostly unbroken, though the glass was filmed with frost and streaked by old melt marks.

You approached it carefully and leaned in, using your gloved fingers to rub a circle of visibility through the foggy layer.

The room inside was a full-blown lab. Makeshift but organized, a mess inside only science could make. Metal tables lined with test tubes, vials filled with preserved samples of unknown and apparently rotten liquids.

You half-whispered, half-called over your shoulder, “Joel.”

You heard his footsteps crunch toward you just a few seconds later, fast and heavy. He stepped up behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat from him through all that damn flannel and denim and leather. His left hand braced against the side of the window as he leaned forward to peer in.

Your eyes flicked to his arm bent at the elbow, flexed from the slight lean, thick under the tight sleeve of his shirt where his jacket had pulled back. Veins like cords twisted along his forearm, disappearing into the glove at his wrist.

You forced your attention back to the lab. “Looks pretty clean in there. Not too dusty. Might be medicine and supplies.”

He gave a soft grunt in response while his eyes stayed on the room for another second, narrowed slightly.

Without a word, he stepped back, shifted the rifle off his shoulder, gripped it at the barrel and with one quick motion, raised the butt of it.

The glass exploded in a clean fracture under the weight of his swing. Shards burst outward and you flinched on instinct.

The remaining edges of the window splintered inward. Joel gave them a quick once-over before stepping in, boots crunching as they touched down on the dark wood floor inside.

“You comin’ in or what?” He turned back, giving you a look. His brow lifted before he added, “Figured if nobody came runnin’ when your dumb ass rolled down that slope, place’s probably empty.”

You climbed in after him, boots thudding against the floorboards and exhaled a quiet breath. The air inside was cold but untouched. Your gun stayed low, loose in your grip but ready.

You went left, he went right. The place wasn’t huge, just one main room, everything scattered but oddly preserved. Your eyes caught on a stash in the corner and you knelt, rifling through what looked like a first aid kit still sealed. Antibiotics, gauze, alcohol, a cache of painkillers, labeled and bagged, bottles still full and expiry date a few years out. Your heart jumped at the treasure found.

There were coins there as well. Metal, worn but intact. Circular, silver with a black enamel inlay. The firefly logo etched across the surface, an insect with outstretched wings, speared through by a vertical line.

There was a whole open floor empty beyond your position and, at the far end, wooden stairs led down. You walked toward them, cautious, gun still at the ready.

As you reached the stairs, particles floated in the shaft of faint light that fell from above.

Spores.

You crouched quickly, unshouldering your pack, flipping it open and digging through the supplies. Fingers fumbling until they closed around the mask. You yanked it free, pulled the straps around your head and started to seal it tight.

Joel was still across the room, his broad back to you, opening drawers and scavenging the place while his hand remained loose over the handle of his revolver, head slightly tilted downward in focus.

Your eyes roamed shamelessly, every inch of him was weathered in the most painfully attractive way and you lingered too long.

Your foot shifted slightly, the floor groaned.

You opened your mouth, his name halfway up your throat when the wood beneath your boots gave out with a snap, splintering down the center.

Your back and shoulders scraped down jagged beams, the slap of gravity pulling you through the tight shaft until you slammed into the floor below, shoulder-first, the impact blooming pain across your collarbone and upper back.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat that was half curse, half gasp. You bounced, rolled to your side, landing hard on your ribs and hip, the floor beneath you unforgiving and damp.

Your breath punched out of your lungs, and for a second, all you could do was lay there, curled slightly, jaw clenched as a long, dry groan dragged from your throat.

The air was wrong. Thick, wet and almost syrupy, like you’ve dropped into the lungs of something alive. Humidity clinging to your skin through the cracks in your jacket.

The smell is a layered, sickening mélange of rot that’s gone sweet with time, earthy decay soaked in moisture.

Your eyes start watering, it feels like your lungs have been lined with spider silk soaked in vinegar. A burn blooms in your throat, sharp and sudden at the first breath, like the air is slicing on the way down.

Your body bucked on instinct. A wheeze tore up your throat, nostrils flared and instantly recoiled.

You shoved yourself upright, coughing dryly, mouth open but refusing to inhale again.

You pulled the mask down with a rough tug, fingers scrambling at the small button of the purifier unit and pressed hard.

The machine vibrated against your cheek, a dull, mechanical hum that began to work.

Your lungs begged for oxygen, ribs now clenching in panic, diaphragm spasming as you waited.

The air filtered through the mask started to feel cooler.

You pulled in a small breath. It didn’t burn this time, the air now feeling artificial.

The pressure in your chest loosened. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a fist behind your sternum and sagged forward against the wall behind you.

You breathed deep and the filtered air fed your lungs, staving off the panic.

Joel’s voice tore down through the ruined floor as he called your name, tone gravel-thick and thunderous, sharp with panic. You could hear his boots scuffling above, wood groaning dangerously under his weight. You looked up through the splintered opening, all the ceiling was covered in those pinkish walls made of fungus, hence why it was so weak to your weight and gave away.

His face appeared, the muscles in his neck were taut, jaw tight and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” you shouted, voice muffled behind the plastic and filters of your respirator. You lifted your arm slightly, wincing. “Don’t come close, the floor’s fuckin’ rotten!”

His jaw flexed, eyes tracking the layout quickly before he cursed again before he disappeared rom view as he backed away from the rim of the hole. Even then, you could still hear him pacing, booths thudding in short, frustrated steps.

Finally, you had the breath to look around. The chamber below was far larger than you expected, a full-blown Firefly lab. The quality of what was left here, even if buried under spores and decay, screamed intent.

Fluorescent lights still clung to the ceiling in long, unbroken bars, cracked but intact. A metal gurney with padded restraints sat center-stage and trays of unused surgical instruments glinted on a shelf.

It was organized, intact and completely drowned in spores.

You turned slowly, lifting your flashlight. The beam cut across thick plumes of particulate matter—pinkish, soft as down, thick as fog. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead without seeing spores shift in your beam. They clung to the ceilings, ballooning in dense patches—fungal colonies like pulsing lungs latched to the beams above.

There was nothing here. No clickers, corpses or even bones.

How the hell had all these spores flooded the place without anything ever dying here?

Something touched your arm and you recoiled violently, breath choking in your throat, a muffled, startled “FUCK!” bursting past your respirator. Your gun raised on instinct, heart skidding into panic.

It was Joel.

He had dropped down through the stares you were also supposed to take and his boots were now planted solid beside yours. Snow crusted his shoulders, mask was on tight. The lenses fogged slightly from his breath and his gloved hand gripped your bicep hard enough to anchor you in place.

He said your name low, voice slightly distorted behind the mask’s filter unit.

“You hurt?” he asked, tone rough and steady, eyes scanning you, flicking over your chest and arms for any injury. “Talk to me.”

His grip on your arm didn’t loosen, fingers clamped just above your elbow, firm and grounding and the way his sharp gaze was fixed on you sent a tight shiver up your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to answer, but something in your tongue tangled. Your voice stuck. Maybe it was the mask or the pain still radiating in your shoulder.

You could feel the thick line of muscle under his coat, his forearm flexed just slightly with the hold. His glove had slipped back a little and you could see the veins in his wrist, raised over sinew and tanned skin.

You blinked fast, heat slid into your cheeks, a slowness curled through your stomach, a strange pressure behind your eyes, like your blood was moving differently all of a sudden.

Joel’s fingers squeezed your arm harder.

“You gonna answer me or not?” His voice was gruffer this time and sharper, but the edge was concerned, cloaked in impatience.

You cleared your throat. “I’m—fuck, I’m fine. Landed hard on my arm, that’s all. Just a bit numb. Didn’t break.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, those rich hazel irises locked to yours, searching for any lie, the tension around his brow eased enough and let go of your arm. Slowly and reluctantly.

Then he pulled out his pistol, the metal glinting slightly in the artificial light as he stepped past you, solid and silent. He didn’t glance back as he muttered, “Don’t fuck around in here.”

He moved half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you, checking corners, vents, behind ruined tables.

“I made a lot of noise when I fell,” you said after a moment, eyes still flicking toward darkened corners. “If anyone was down here, infected or not, they would’ve jumped me already.”

You moved slowly, your boots gliding across the damp concrete floor. Your heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t the same tight spike in your ribs or shortness of breath. It was different slower now and heavier. Like your body was trying to tell you something it hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

You reached the edge of a workstation mottled now with patches of thick, fleshy mold that bloomed in pinkish tendrils across its surface like bruised coral. A few black strands of mycelium threaded through it like veins, pulsing faintly under the dim overhead light, their edges glistening wet.

The sight turned your stomach slightly, but you kept your gloved fingers steady as you reached toward a paper half-submerged in that wall of gross, spongy matter. It stuck a little when you tugged, tore faintly at one corner, but you coaxed it free, holding it up to the beam of your flashlight.

The ink had bled in places, the middle of the page warped by whatever moisture or rot had saturated the mold. But the text was still legible. You squinted at the heading:

[PAGE 7 – Entry 3.2a] (Corner torn, middle stuck together with green mold latticework)

…first success with fungal/plant hybridization observed at 09:34. Spore culture 7G-Alpha2 successfully integrated plasmid DNA from Panax quinquefolius via Agrobacterium-mediated transformation. Fusion strain exhibited marked increase in alkaloid production, unusual for a fungal host.

No fruiting body yet, but the lab humidity chamber has sustained active mycelial growth for 72 hours. Odor profile altered, slight pheromone volatility.

It was hard to wrap your head around at first, bioengineering, spore cultures, DNA fusion with plant-based alkaloids.

You blinked. The print started to blur slightly from your own eyes. A warmth started to crawl under your skin, like standing too close to a fire.

The paper shook slightly in your grip.

Blood serum from rat trials (Group C) shows a significant spike in dopamine and oxytocin levels post-aerosol exposure.

(Handwriting changes. More urgent and slightly uneven.)

Repeat: Respiratory intake is the only variable. Sample B221 designated as viable for further study.

IMPORTANT: pathogen is non-contagious, inert outside of air-saturated chamber. Transmissibility halts without direct spore inhalation. Gene-editing safeguards remain intact. Replication cascade requires >95% humidity and nutrient gel base to activate.

NOTE: Confirm sterilization thresholds before storage.

You let the page drop onto the table, breath pushing out in a soft huff through your mask. Your chest rose and fell slowly, like your lungs were pressing out against something thick. Not hard to breathe, just heavy. Your eyes stung again, not with tears this time, but a strange sort of pressure behind them, as if a headache was blooming there.

You rubbed a gloved hand against your forehead, then turned and that’s when you saw a tank in the corner of the lab, half-shrouded in the drifting cloud of spores. Glass, large and thick but with one entire side cracked. The inner wall was fogged over with old condensation, now streaked with pinkish residue.

Inside, two small skeletons, rodent-sized. One lay curled in the corner, partially buried under a pile of decomposed straw bedding. The other closer to the cracked glass, lay on its side, bones bleached by exposure and time, ribs cracked inward. No visible growth or spores clinging to the bones and yet, this had to be where it started.

One of them, maybe spooked or altered by the hybrid strain, must have panicked. Slammed against the glass, broke the seal and the spores released, flooding the lab.

Your fingers reached for the small stack of papers next to the base of the tank, corners browned, text visible under fungal smudges. You flipped through them, heart thudding harder now.

The first few lines jumped out at you:

“Strain B221 is no longer Cordyceps. Its host behavior is driven not by neural hijack, but chemical amplification. Sexual arousal is observed as byproduct of pheromone analogs stimulating limbic regions directly…”

Subject 15 (male, 32. Accidentally inhaled spores when mask malfunctioned) self-reported lucid state. Vitals spiked: pulse at 158 bpm, skin temp +3.6°F, erection maintained for 37 minutes post-exposure with no physical contact.

Subject did not lose speech or identity.

(Sticky zone begins. It’s smudged, brownish-gold mold—scraped text legible in places)

Increased tactile sensitivity begins 10-15 minutes post-exposure. Subdermal flush around neck, thighs, lower abdomen. Shivering, full-body muscle tension. Erection onset within 10 mins of phase start, resistant to manual suppression.

Increase in tear production, ocular surface wetness. Scleral micro-discoloration: red flush forming at medial corners of eyes, growing outward, associated with burst capillary dilation + fungal metabolite buildup.

STRONG HYPOTHESIS: Fungus aims for propagation via sexual fluid exchange but lacks vector. Safety threshold remains: not contagious via skin, saliva, or semen. Only active in the direct inhalation zone.

You lowered the papers, heartbeat thudding faster in your ears now. Your neck felt damp, pulse fluttered under the skin, and your fingers, shaky now, flexed against the notes.

This is just panic. That’s what you told yourself. Residual adrenaline, shock and pain. Chemicals fucking with your head.

You turned your head, mouth slightly open behind the mask, lips now wet.

The page you held trembled in your grip again. Your arms felt a little like jelly, spine pulled into a slow arch as you inhaled deeper than you meant to. It felt too good.

You dropped the stack to the filthy floor without thought, boots crunching lightly over a smear of dried spores and dust and held the last page tight between trembling fingers.

[PAGE 4 – Entry 6.3: Flare-Up Termination Response]

You could barely focus. The words were fuzzy at the edges, letters bleeding in and out like water-smeared ink, but you forced yourself to trace them, each line landing like a hammer against your spine:

Activation of neurochemical effects now appears governed by host endocrine cycles.

Initial hypothesis of random arousal episodes disproven. Host hormone panels show pattern: recurring surge in fungal expression linked to pulsatile testosterone and cortisol rhythms approx. every 29–32 days.

Strain lies dormant within lymphatic and pulmonary tissue during inactive periods. Reactivation corresponds with small but measurable hormonal fluctuations, suggesting fungal intelligence keyed to endocrine shifts.

Symptoms remain until sexual climax occurs. Neurochemical scan reveals drop-off in fungal signaling immediately following orgasm.

Spike in dopamine, prolactin and oxytocin likely flood receptor sites, disrupting fungal influence and causing symptoms to alleviate over time.

A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple, slipping under the edge of your mask. The inside of your collar was soaked. Your breath hissed in and out of your filter system, loud and uneven, each inhale tighter than the last.

You felt it a presence behind you

Joel was standing behind you. You didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Had he read over your shoulder the whole time? Had he seen the way your knees had started to tremble?

He huffed. A single breath, deep and thick through his mask.

“What the fuck were these people on.” He muttered, voice flat and gruff through the static distortion of the respirator.

“Buncha freaks,” he added, head tilting slightly as he scanned the tank again. “All this damn science talk to explain the fungus makin’ folks horny once a month.” His tone is bitter and blunt.

A hum started in your ears, a pulsing buzz that crackled at the base of your skull, like someone had pressed your head against an old generator. Your heart was racing too fast. The corners of your vision flickered faintly and your cock gave a twitch in your pants.

You sucked in a breath, fast. Your chest burned under the pressure of your shirt. Fuck, the mask was too tight, too hot. You stumbled a step sideways and the page in your hand fluttered from your grip like ash.

Joel shifted behind you in sudden awareness.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low, rougher now. Still trying to sound like he didn’t care too much. But you knew that tone. You’d heard it before when Ellie was missing too long from patrols.

You turned, your mouth opening, but nothing came out. You were panting, full lips parted behind the glass of the mask, leaving the inside fogged over. It smeared with each breath, your own condensation clouding your vision. You saw Joel’s outline, dark and solid, but the details were gone. Only the shape of him remained.

Your hands dropped to the table’s edge, knuckles white, the cool steel hissing against your palms through your gloves. You were burning.

The heat pooled low in your belly, pulsing and tightening. Your cock twitched again, harder this time, thickening in your pants. No friction, arousal bloomed in your nerves like static.

Joel called your name again, louder and sharper this time, but you didn’t answer.

His hand gripped your arm hard, pulling you halfway up off the table with one sharp motion.

It felt so good. The pressure of his hand on you, fingers wrapping around your bicep through your jacket and glove, anchoring you in place, his whole body solid beside yours. You turned your head toward him, lips parting on reflex, throat working with something you couldn’t swallow down.

It was instinct more than anything that made you jerk away. His touch felt like it was melting you and the mask became unbearable. Your muscles tensed as you tore out of his grip, stumbling toward the stairs.

Your boots pounded the steps, feet nearly slipping once as your equilibrium gave a pulse. You slammed your palm against the wall and caught yourself, everything felt like it was breathing.

Upstairs was colder, but it didn’t help, you staggered toward the broken window, the one Joel had smashed earlier and leaned against the wall beside it, fingers fumbling at the straps.

You ripped the mask off your face with one wild pull and it dropped, still connected by the dangling strap and hung from your wrist as your other hand clawed at your jacket. The zipper stuck and you swore loudly, yanked it down hard. Peeled it off like a second skin, undershirt now drenched with sweat.

You collapsed back against the cold wood of the wall, head hitting it with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands cupped your face.

Joel’s boots hit the wooden floor with short, hard thuds as he marched across the room, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in his cheek. He reached you in three long strides and without hesitation, he reached up and tore the mask off his face. The hiss of the release valves and the scrape of straps broke the silence.

The look on your face near broke something deep inside him. Your skin was flushed high with heat, brow slick with sweat and your lips hung parted, breathing ragged and short, the muscles in your chest heaving like you’d been running uphill for miles.

“Joel—” you started, voice catching in your dry throat.

You could barely get the words out, barely keep your legs beneath you, but still, somehow, you tried. You reached for anything that didn’t lead to this. “It’s just the heat down there,” you muttered hoarsely, trying to keep your voice level.

Joel’s jaw ticked, the twitch in his cheek gave it away first. His shoulders pulled tight, lips parted, the words ground out between teeth so clenched it was a miracle they even made it into the air.

“Don’t lie to me.” He took one slow step closer threatening, he wasn’t gonna let you squirm out from under it with soft words or shaky logic.

“Don’t stand there tellin’ me lies to my goddamn face when your eyes’re goin’ red.” he snapped.

That caught you off guard. You stared back at him, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your throat. With trembling fingers, you raised the mask still dangling from your wrist and pulled it up toward your face.

Your reflection stared back, twisted and blurred by the warping curve of the mask but the color still shone clear.

Your sclerae were no longer white. Laced with thin filaments of vascular pink that curled out from your irises.

The mask slipped as your grip failed and it clattered to the floor, your knees began to give and Joel’s hand shot out instinctively, callused fingers curled firm around your muscle, grounding you instantly grabbing your arm, hard and fast, gripping you just beneath the bicep.

The heat from his touch flared sharp beneath your skin, like a wire running directly to your core. Your chest jerked and you let out a sound that resembled half a pant and half a gasp.

You leaned into his touch before you even knew you were doing it and he felt the full weight of you press against his side. Joel guided you quickly, rougher than he meant to, toward a pair of dusty chairs behind a table.

You sagged into the seat with a rough, graceless thud, pulled down more by the arm than lowered carefully. He was bad, he knew, but you didn’t complain. You folded over yourself instead, elbows planted on your knees, head dropping into your hands. The chill of the room clashing with the inferno unspooling in your belly. It was impossible to ignore the tent in your pants, painful and throbbing.

Joel exhaled through his nose before taking a seat beside you, silent at first.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “You…you probably shouldn’t be this close to me.”

Joel turned toward you, that line between anger and worry had worn thin over the last hour, and now it just looked like exhaustion and guilt.

“I might not know shit about that science crap,” he mumbled. “But even I caught the part where it ain’t contagious.” His voice was flat, throat working visibly when he swallowed.

He didn’t have anything else to say because his throat was a thick knot of worry, his brain couldn’t prioritize what to yell at first about how stupid it was to come down here, how he should’ve been watching you like a hawk or about how goddamn helpless he felt now, with nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, no way to stop what was burning you up from the inside out.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

Christ, you looked wrecked.

Expression ached with something hot and helpless, lips twitching as if trying to form a word you didn’t know how to say. You were burning up in front of him with need and not once had you begged or pleaded or lashed out.

You were just taking it, shaking through it strong, even while falling apart.

And hell if you didn’t still look—

He cut the thought off before it finished. Wasn’t right. Not now.

The heat from you bled into his clothes and skin. He felt it in his ribs, in his neck and in his gut. Every inch of him screamed to get you somewhere safe, but nowhere was safe now. Not from this.

So he gave you what he could.

Joel shifted beside you for the chair to creak and the scent of him to wash over you, sweat and cedar. You hadn’t even realized you’d learned so far into him.

His hand came to rest on your waist, firm and grounding. You twitched at the contact, and yet didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed once against your side, thick and calloused and warm, and then you were being pulled closer into him.

The ugly squeal of your chair legs scraped across the floor.

Your hands gripped his shoulder, hard, desperate. You buried your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the groan that clawed its way up your throat. His flannel scratched your cheek but you didn’t care.

“Shoulda kept my fuckin’ eyes on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and tight. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…This’s on me.”

You shook your head against his collarbone and tried to talk to express how it wasn’t his fault, that it was all yours, but the words collapsed into a guttural hiss as his hand moved, gliding downward with terrible slowness.

Your whole body jolted when warm, thick and firm fingers cupped the bulge in your pants.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted blood, your breath hitching into ragged whimpers. You couldn’t look at him.

“Joel—” you gasped, unsure what you were about to beg for.

But he didn’t stop, his thumb moved in a slow circle over the wet spot you’d soaked through your pants, so gentle it felt like cruelty.

He turned his face into your hair, breathed in slow.

“I’m gonna help you,” he said, voice gone hoarse, just a whisper now, like he hated himself for every syllable. “Ain’t right lettin’ you sit here like this when I can stop it.”

Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else, fingers tightening in his shirt, hips lifting to meet the slow pressure of his hand. Shame made your face flush to the roots.

His hand moved again, undoing your belt and working your zipper down. Every movement broadcast how much he didn’t want to scare you. There was a subtle catch in his breath when your cock sprang free, hard and leaking against your abdomen.

“You’re burnin’ up bad.” He breathed, low and reverent.

You nodded against his neck, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”

That one word broke something in him. His fingers wrapped around your shaft and you let out a ragged moan as your hips bucked into the heat of his grip. Your forehead pressed tighter to his neck.

“I got you,” he whispered, hands starting to work, twisting near the tip, pulling tight at the base and sending sparks up your spine each time.

He nuzzled the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek. “Ain’t right how pretty you look like this.”

You whimpered pathetically and his thumb circled your slit with the lightest pressure, smearing your precum.

Your hips rolled helplessly up into his fist, every stroke pulling the orgasm closer but never letting you fall over the edge and he kept going, whispering into your hair, murmuring gruff, sweet nonsense that shouldn’t have worked but made you shudder every time.

His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his hand pumping faster now, breath now shakier. His other free hand brushed your stomach, fingers splayed flat across your abdomen, grounding you and keeping you in place.

You cursed and sobbed his name over and over. Each time more broken and desperate as your cock throbbed wildly, precum soaking his fingers and your abdomen.

You shouted his name, hips jerking wildly into his hand as thick ribbons of cum splattered your shirt and his hand. You gasped and broke apart in his arms, the high so sharp it bordered on pain.

Joel held you the whole way through as your frame sagged into him, breath in ragged gasps. His hand finally let go of your twitching cock, cupping the back of your head instead and pulling you tighter into his neck.

The second the last spasm of your orgasm passed, a new wave of pain slithered its way up, that burning ache hadn’t left as your dick throbbed angrily.

Your breath caught again, this time not from pain, but the sting of need ripping through your belly.

Every inch of his exhale soaked into your skin, warm condensation painting the side of your throat, followed by the gentle, maddening scrape of his beard. A dry rasp that danced across the oversensitized line of your jaw and shoulder, each bristle dragged across the flesh.

Your brain was a fogged glass window, heat smeared across it in trembling streaks and you groaned as you pulled back only to climb him.

Your knees hit the outside of his thighs and you straddled him, planting yourself in his lap with a desperate moan, the shape of his big bulge now grinding flush against your ass through both of your pants.

A huff of shocked air left his lungs, half a grunt, half a curse.

No words escaped him as your mouth crushed his, your hands dove into the heavy bristle of his beard, fingers cupping the rough cut of his jaw as you forced your mouth against his while grinding hard against the thick bulge in his pants.

A grunt was ripped from his chest, rumbling up his throat from the sudden kiss, lips parting beneath yours before he even thought to resist. That first second he froze but the time to recover and he kissed you back like he was starved.

His hands came up hard, wide palms slamming against your back to pull you into him as chapped and rough lips moved with your own. There was a hunger in the way he tilted his head, letting your mouth press deeper into his, groaning again when your tongue slid along his.

He hadn’t expected this, didn’t think he’d get to touch you ever. Now you were straddling and kissing him like it might undo the agony inside you.

You moaned into him and he gasped again, pulling back to breathe but your lips chased him, eyes hazy and lost. You made a quiet, broken noise when he didn’t meet you right away, a whimper that cracked in the back of your throat.

He hated every piece of how this happened. This wasn’t how he wanted to earn you.

He wanted you to choose him because you saw him for who he was and wanted him anyway.

You kissed him again, this time down his throat. Your lips fastened to the rough column of his neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue licking a trembling path to the notch of his collarbone, lavishing the path ahead.

The outline of his cock throbbed thick against your ass, and your body ground down even harder, seeking the friction with a rhythm that made you gasp while looping your arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

With a low growl, Joel’s hand slid down and hooked beneath your thigh, gripping tight to help you grind deeper against him. His voice rasped out near your ear, breath shaking.

“Y’keep movin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to hold back.” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

Your hands flew down, fumbling with his belt and he watched you with wide, dark eyes, chest heaving as your fingers yanked open the buckle and fought the button free.

He groaned the second your hand pulled him free, thick, hot and heavy. He was bigger than you’d even imagined in the loneliest of nights.

Joel’ broad palms dropped to your ass sliding inward with a warm smear of spit as he circled your rim with maddening slowness, then pushed one thick finger in without warning.

The stretch burned, but not enough to make you stop or even slow down. You rocked back onto him instinctively, greedy, grinding down to take him deeper.

His other hand came up to stroke your lower back, grounding you as he added a second finger. This time he slowed, watched your face, lips parted and trembling as the stretch widened and your nails dug into the flannel on his chest. The ache rode a razor’s edge with pleasure.

Joel twisted his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you, wrist flexing just so to press against that hot, shivering bundle of nerves inside.

You pulled back, his fingers sliding free with a wet sound that made your cheeks flush and when he reached for you again, you were already rising onto your knees, lining yourself up. One hand gripped the base of his thick and hot cock before slamming yourself down on it.

“Ah—fuck—” Joel choked out, his head snapping forward to bury in your neck, voice breaking against your skin as your tight heat swallowed him whole in a single motion.

Your hole stretched around him with brutal urgency. The burn was immediate, the ache sharp, your body seized again as you came with no warning, just an explosion that tore through your nerves. Your cock twitched where it was trapped between your abdomens, painting streaks of cum across Joel’s stomach and your shirt, your chest heaving as your walls clamped down hard, milking him with pulsing aftershocks of your sudden orgasm and he cursed into your neck.

“Goddamn—you came?” His voice was hoarse, near disbelief while his hands grabbed your hips so hard you thought he’d bruise you, holding you flush against him, buried to the hilt.

Your hole spasmed again, fluttering around him and drawing another groan from his throat as you cockwarmed him. He was panting now, breath hot and erratic against your skin.

Joel felt your still hard cock poking against his stomach, leaking slick again even though you’d just come.

One thick arm snaked down beneath your ass, the other sliding up to your waist, and with one solid motion, he stood.

“J–Joel?” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shhh,” he growled while holding you so tight and close that the angle didn’t change, you whimpered when he adjusted you higher against his chest.

Glass shattered, metal clanged, paper flew as Joel’s hand swept across the table near the center of the room, knocking everything to the floor in one vicious sweep of his arm.

It was impossible to care for any of those things when he dropped you down onto the now-cleared tabletop and pushed your thighs open wider, stepped between them, and rammed himself back in with the full force of his body behind it.

“F–fuck!” Your arms snapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist. You clung to him, body shaking as he bottomed out again with no warning or pause.

He pulled back and slammed back in again.

Your head fell back with a cracked moan, neck exposed, chest arched. His name poured out of you like a prayer. Joel grunted with every thrust, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, neck corded tight with strain.

You were gone for the feel of him fucking you, claiming and filling you up so completely you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The table shook beneath you with each savage thrust, the wood groaning in protest under Joel’s strength.

Your cock rubbed between you again, hard and wet and pressed to his abs. Each slam of his hips rocked it up your abdomen, drawing gasps and broken noises from your throat, dragging your insides with every inch it claimed and then retreated from.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, beard rasping against your pulse, breath hot and heavy as it stuttered into your skin.

His voice cracked against your throat. “Still wonderin’ why Ellie swapped patrols with you?”

It was surreal hearing his voice cut through the fog now. You hadn’t even realized the fungus haze had thinned. Not gone, but faltering.

“I—yea—mmmf—” You tried to respond but it broke halfway into a moan when his cock sank back in to the base and stayed there.

“She Saw the way I was watchin’ you. Knew I was askin’ too many goddamn questions ‘bout how you were.” He said with a raw voice as he grounded into you.

“Kid gave me this week. Told me to stop bein’ a stubborn, miserable bastard and just make a move.”

You shivered, breath punching out of you with every thrust.

“Joel—” you moaned.

“Didn’t want this to happen this way but I ain’t lettin’ you suffer alone.” He groaned again, biting into your shoulder briefly.

Your mouth opened but only more gasps came out. Finally, between broken breaths: “I’d’ve said somethin’, Joel…if I’d known… I—I—fuck—I wanted you…”

That did something to him. His thrusts grew rougher and faster. The rhythm shattered and replaced by raw instinct.

Your lips crashed together, his tongue plunged into your mouth, devouring you as his hips slammed forward one final time as he came.

The heat erupted inside you, his cock pulsing thick spurts coming deep in your abdomen, his entire body shuddering against yours. He groaned into your mouth, voice wrecked, lost, the sound of a man giving up every defense he ever had.

Your cock jerked between you, untouched, and splattered hot release all across his abdomen and yours.

The air between your bodies steamed, heavy and thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your face was buried against Joel’s shoulder, every breath a sharp drag of oxygen through your teeth, his beard scratching against your temple with each slight twitch of his jaw.

Joel let out a breath that landed heavy against the skin of your throat.

This fucked-up fungus was now fused to you now. Living in your system. You didn’t know when it would happen again but all you had clue of was what it meant it will do.

You felt your throat tighten from dread.

“I’ve got it in me,” you whispered. “I—fuck, Joel. I’ll have to live with this.”

“You ain’t alone in it,” he murmured. “I’m here. You hear me?” Voice softer and lower now.

He gave you a moment before handing you your wrinkled shirt. You slipped it over your head slowly, wincing with each movement before doing the same with your pants.

You both moved slowly through the same broken window.

The air outside was colder but clean and you paused near the horses.

“We ain’t tellin’ no one,” He said, tone flat and quiet, “when we get back to Jackson,” he continued, low and firm, “this stays between us. That lab, the spores, what it did to you.” A beat. “Ain’t nobody else’s business.”

He looked at you like you were already his to protect.

He stepped back, mounting his horse in one practiced motion, tone now taking a lower, husky edge to it as he spoke again. “Next time it starts again, you come find me. I don’t care what time it is, where we are. You don’t go through that by yourself, y’hear me?”

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odoraful · 10 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄.ᐟ (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭)

zayne is known for enjoying desserts, but there’s a sweet he hasn’t tried yet that he’s been craving.

⟡ content: zayne x gn!reader; early stage of the established relationship; first kiss; very sweet (both literally and figuratively); reader being flustered and zayne being bold; you basically live in zayne's mind 24/7; sfw; 1.6k

⟡ a/n: i was listening to day 6's song chocolate and inspiration struck me (>\\<) like "i often imagine when i kiss you, i'm curious about how it would feel... i can't control my heart, i think there's another me inside me" WAAH i thought it was fitting for zayne!

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It wasn’t typical of Zayne to be indulgent. Everything was done with careful moderation and consideration, from purchasing clothing to committing to exercise. However, when it came to desserts, all the rules he set up were scrubbed from his memory. No one suspected that the cardiac surgeon had such a strong sweet tooth. That was until his co-workers saw him at the bakery near the hospital one day, contemplating seriously about which new flavour of cake to get. To everyone’s surprise, he had ended up buying a slice of each one.

Anything sweet had a way of bypassing his self-control, which, naturally, meant you as well.

Taking a moment to himself in his office between appointments, Zayne reached for the cellophane bag of cookies sitting by his computer. The red string around the bag also held a tag with careful handwriting. It read:

Roses are red, jasmines are white, I made these with love, I hope you’ll take a bite.

Beneath the message was a cutely drawn face of you winking. Even though he had read this about 20 times since you dropped it off to him before you went to work, he still breathed a small laugh and shook his head. He unravelled the string, putting the tag safely in his pocket. The cookies inside were shaped like snowflakes and frosted blue and and white. He admired the design for a moment before taking a bite.

Imagining you preparing this made him smile. You had probably woken up earlier than usual to bake them fresh, putting on your apron with a determined look on your face. Each ingredient would be carefully measured, and as much as you would want eat the raw dough, his voice of caution would pop into your head about the dangers of uncooked eggs and flour. Once they were baking, you would finish by making the icing, dying it blue. He could imagine how you’d dip your finger into the bowl, bringing the mixture to your mouth. The blue would be a contrast against your rosy lips as you licked them to savour the taste.

That image of you stayed in Zayne’s head for longer than he intended.

He finished off a second cookie. It had a satisfying texture, the icing sugary and smooth.

Would your lips taste as sweet as this?

The thought came so naturally that he didn’t think anything unusual of its presence. There would probably still be some icing left on your lips, and he would simply lean in to—

Zayne cleared his throat.

The sound broke the silence of his office and banished the trespassing thought.

Only two weeks into this relationship, and he was fantasising like a high school boy at his work. You always had been a permanent fixture in his thoughts, but now it all felt so real. He no longer thought of you as his partner in hypotheticals. Being able to kiss you, and taste the sweetness on your lips wasn’t a dream anymore. Now, the real concern was the appropriate when and where.

He tied the bag closed, saving the rest to bring home. His break was over, and he had to continue on with work. Though he had finished his dessert long ago, the taste of vanilla icing lingered on his tongue for the rest of the day.

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”Earth to Zayne~ can you hear me?”

Zayne turned to you. Your head was titled to the side, an expectant look on your face.

Though it was a weekend morning, both of you were on the sofa completing the remaining piece of your respective work—him finishing his recommendations for a patient, and you filling out a case report for your recent hunter excursion.

“Yes, I can hear you,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

You narrowed your eyes in playful suspicion. “Hm, and what about the past two times I called you?”

Zayne adjusted his glasses. “I must have been focused on my report.”

His reason would have been convincing enough, if not for your keen senses. Despite his unchanging expression, you weren’t mistaken seeing the tips of his ears turn red.

You sorted your documents back into the folder, and placed it to the side.

“You stopped typing on your laptop and sort of stared into your screen for a minute. It was very un-Zayne like I must say,” you remarked as a half-joke.

Seeing just how observant you were towards him filled him with inexplicable pride.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, tone softening.

He paused for a moment, considering his next words. Closing the window to his document and shutting his laptop, he gave his full attention to you.

“Actually, something has been on my mind.”

With a concerned frown, you crossed your legs together, sitting in a more comfortable position to listen to him. Though, you could have never predicted what your boyfriend would say next.

”I was thinking about moving our relationship to the next stage.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Stuttered sounds came out of your mouth. When you realised you could form no words, you covered your face with your hands. What could he possibly mean by that!? Suddenly, you felt quite conscious about where you were seated. If Zayne reached out to his left, he could easily wrap his arm around your waist. And, you knew the purple loungewear you had on wasn’t the most alluring clothing you had.

“The next stage?” you repeated in a much higher pitch than you intended.

He nodded, giving no apparent indication that he noticed the fluster you were in. He seemed too calm. Perhaps you were drawing the wrong conclusion too quickly.

“If it’s alright with you, I”—Zayne stopped his sentence short. “Could you… close your eyes for me?”

You blinked at him.

“Ohh,” you sounded with understanding, “is this some kind of surprise? Are you giving me a present?”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “One might call it that.”

Even though his reply to your question was quite ambiguous, you happily closed your eyes. You heard a small sound to the side, guessing that he had placed something on the table. Of course, it was natural for couples to give gifts that signified the seriousness of the relationship. Maybe he bought some jewellery or a precious keepsake, you innocently pondered.

Zayne took a last look at your awaiting face. Eyes closed, lips glossy from the balm you just applied.

The sofa shifted. The weight of his body dipped the cushion beneath you. His close presence made your senses prickle. The jasmine and mint scent of his cologne now enveloped you.

When is he going to let me open my eyes?

“Zayne.”

You breathed out his name before you felt warmth against your lips.

Your eyes shot open.

Zayne had taken off his glasses (which you now realised was what that previous sound had been) and he was kissing you. Kissing you for the very first time.

Your brain and body were at odds with each other.

Your muscles froze, but you also didn’t want to pull away. Not when he initiated something you had spent so long daydreaming about, but never had the courage to do. Noticing this, Zayne raised his hand to your face. His thumb gently caressed your cheek. A silent signal that communicated a message of reassurance. It’s alright, you can relax, you seemed to hear his smooth voice in your head. Tension melted away. In exchange, your heartrate picked up. Closing your eyes once again, you let the sensation wash over you.

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Time seemed to stand still and move too fast all at once.

Zayne slid his hand down to rest at the base of your neck. Your skin felt hot against his cool fingertips.

Admittedly, he was out of practice, and the worry of doing this wrong flashed in his mind. But, when you eased into his touch, lips parting to invite more of him in, everything fell into place.

Vanilla frosting… I was right, he thought.

You were sweeter than any dessert he had tried in his life. One taste would not be enough after this. You had become a dangerous craving to him now.

Zayne withdrew, staying close to your face. Your eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly as if waking from a stupor. You were greeted with his green and amber gaze, his clear satisfaction illuminated by the morning sun pouring through the curtains behind you. Before you was a version of him you had never seen.

“Y-you’re too bold, Zayne,” you murmured.

The breath you had held during the kiss caught up to you. Your exhales lightly brushed against his skin as he stared at your lips—flushed like the colour of raspberry sorbet. He scanned every part of your expression, desperately needing to memorise your face in this moment. Everything about you was utterly perfect.

“I’m sorry for catching you off guard.”

You shook your head, the bangs of his hair brushing against your forehead. Only Zayne could blindside you with such a storybook kiss, and then apologise for it.

“You occupy my thoughts all the time,” he continued, a rasp in his voice as he whispered. “It’s unfathomable and quite distracting.”

You chuckled, the sound melodious to his ears. “I didn’t know a chief surgeon could be so easily distracted.”

Zayne smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“When the surgeon has someone he likes a lot,” he closed the distance, leaning his forehead against yours, “he often wonders how sweet they would taste.”

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