#Twisted Branch wc

[shallowbreeze]

Twisted Branch

Twisted Branch is a scraggy, brown tom with amber eyes

[saatorus]

remember when?

pairing — satoru gojo x reader

synopsis — while cleaning the attic, you stumble across photos of your husband from his school days.

wc — 5.2k

warnings — mentions of scars (au where satoru survives shinjuku showdown), angst but in the yearning way, so much fluff, husbandjo, domesticity, not proofread! i also made hc's behind some of the photos hehe

author's note — the new illustrations from the jjk movie completely broke me :( so i had to whip up a little something from the jjk fold of my brain.

It was just some random Tuesday, and your husband Satoru wasn’t due home until after six — something about looking over a pile of reports on rising cursed energy in the Kanto region. Even with Sukuna gone, chaos liked to linger.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, like it always does when your mind drifts back to that winter two years ago. The Shinjuku showdown. You’d been convinced you’d lost him — his cursed energy disappeared, his body literally split in two. The moment still plays in your nightmares: the blood, the silence, your own voice screaming. You remember clutching his hand — or what was left of it — while Shoko fought to bring him back. And somehow, impossibly, she did.

He survived. Scarred, different, quieter in ways only you can read — but alive.

Sometimes you still wake up and run your fingers across the long scar that traces the soft skin of his abdomen, as if to confirm he’s really still here.

After that day, everything shifted. You left your role as a teacher at Jujutsu Tech — too much pain, too many memories, and honestly, too much peace. Not many cursed spirits dared show their faces anymore. These days, you exorcise a lingering curse here or there, but mostly? You spend your time being what Gojo Satoru once joked about during a late night walk back when you were still just colleagues: a housewife. A relaxed one at that — sans the apron clichés.

And truthfully? You don’t hate it.

Your house — the one Satoru picked out, of course — is enormous. It sits just outside of Tokyo, nestled high enough to offer sweeping views of the city skyline on one side and forested hills on the other. Wide windows. Sun-drenched walls. Room for both quiet and chaos. "A house that can hold all of our egos," he’d grinned when you moved in, but when he saw you spinning barefoot in the sunlit kitchen, he’d gone quiet. You’d looked over and seen it in his face: this is home.

You decide to clean the attic today. Partly because it’s been ages, partly because the place is a mess of dusty boxes and half-forgotten memories, and partly because you just want to surprise Satoru with something useful. Maybe you’ll find that old vinyl player he swears he didn’t lose.

You spend a solid hour sorting through stacks of cardboard — some labeled with scrawled handwriting (Nanami’s, definitely), others with faded Jujutsu Tech stickers. There’s a whole box of broken sunglasses you recognize immediately. Another of loose-grade mission reports that probably should’ve been shredded, like, a decade ago. You toss what you can into piles — keep, ask Satoru, burn before someone finds it — and you’re wiping sweat off your brow when you find it.

It's in a box labeled “JJT archives”, a thick, heavy book tucked beneath a pile of old uniforms and loose cursed tools wrapped in cloth. The cover is cracked leather, and there’s a faint, almost unreadable embossing on the spine.

It’s not labeled.

Curious, you tug it out, brush the dust from its cover, and flip it open.

Instantly, you realize what it is.

Photos. Dozens of them. Smiling, chaotic, deeply youthful energy practically radiating off the pages. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Shoko Ieiri. Haibara Yu. Kento Nanami. Their classmates, their mentors, the Tokyo branch in all its raw, messy, golden-era glory.

You blink, and your throat tightens. There’s a warmth in your chest — fond and aching all at once.

You close the book gently, your fingertips resting on the worn leather for a moment longer. This isn’t something you want to rush through alone.

You set it aside carefully, ready to go through it together when he gets home.

He always said he wanted to show you what he was like back then.

–

The front door clicks open at exactly 6:14 p.m.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys, the rustle of his coat as it hits the entryway hook, and then—

“Honeyyyyy,” Satoru’s voice calls out in that signature sing-song tone, the one you always say makes him sound like a bored housewife in a drama. “I’m hooooome and emotionally exhausted!”

You can’t help the smile that breaks over your face. “Kitchen,” you call back.

A beat later, you hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor — not quite heavy, but still loud enough to announce his presence. He never really learned how to walk quietly. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He leans into the doorway like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, white hair tousled from the wind, shirt wrinkled from too many hours slouched at a desk. His jacket’s half-off one shoulder, and his blindfold’s gone — replaced by tinted glasses that slide slightly down his nose as he tilts his head at you.

“Whoa,” he says, deadpan. “Who’s that absolute beauty in my kitchen?”

You snort, stirring the sauce on the stove. “She’s married.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs, crossing the room and slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

His body is warm — always — and it fits against yours like muscle memory. You feel the hard line of his chest, the loose way he rests his chin on your shoulder, the way his breath ghosts against your neck when he exhales like he’s finally safe again.

“Hey,” he says more quietly this time. “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“Yeah,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “but that was twelve hours ago and I almost died again from boredom.”

You turn around and press a soft kiss to the spot just below his jaw. “You hungry?”

“Starving. For food and love. In that order, but barely.”

You flick his forehead and he pouts, but he lets go so you can plate the food.

Dinner is nothing fancy — rice, grilled fish, the sauce you were working on, a couple of side dishes you whipped up out of boredom. But Satoru reacts like you’ve served him a five-star meal, moaning dramatically with every bite.

“My beautiful, talented wife,” he groans, flopping sideways in his chair like he’s been slain by deliciousness. “You’re always spoiling me.”

“You spoil yourself,” you mutter, pouring him tea with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “I saw your UberEats bill last week.”

“Hey,” he says, mouth still full of rice, “those were all emotionally necessary. There was a lot of paperwork. Such labor requires tiramisu.”

“Three separate orders in one day?”

“They were from different places. Variety is key to mental wellness.”

You shoot him a flat look as you sit back down. “Pretty sure buying four desserts doesn’t count as a balanced diet.”

“I got one of them for you.”

“No, you got it for you and said, ‘you can have half if you want.’”

“And you didn’t want it,” he points out smugly. “Which means it became mine by universal law.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You always sit across from him — it’s become a quiet habit over time, a way to read his expressions even when he’s being dramatic. Like now, when he’s chewing with exaggerated slowness, eyes half-lidded like he’s in some kind of blissful trance.

Sometimes he nudges your foot under the table, tapping his toes against yours like a child trying to get attention without using words.

Other times, like tonight, you catch him staring mid-bite — not in a silly way, but in that strange, still quietness he gets sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. Like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is his life now: a warm dinner, soft light, your voice in the kitchen, no curses waiting around the corner.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you set down your chopsticks.

“Hmm?” He blinks, then smiles, and it’s all teeth and softness. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He kicks your shin lightly under the table. “Thinking about how I tricked the prettiest person in the world into marrying me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Oh come on,” he groans, laughing, “at least let me pretend I’m a catch.”

“You are a catch,” you say, voice softer now, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Just… a really expensive one with terrible food delivery habits. And you hog the bathroom a lot.”

He grins and laces his fingers with yours. “I’ll take it.”

After dinner, he insists on helping with the cleanup, which mostly means he dries dishes while doing an elaborate stand-up routine with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like a bartender. You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you feel a cold splash hit your back.

You pause. Slowly turn.

He’s holding the sink hose, blinking innocently.

“…Did you just—?”

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “did someone get wet? That must’ve been a malfunction. Tragic, really.”

You squirt him back instantly. He lets out a squawk like a wet cat, and before long, the floor is a mess, one of you is definitely going to slip and die, and he’s trying to use his body as a shield while cackling like a maniac.

“I live with you,” you mutter, wiping water off your face.

“And what a gift that is,” he says grandly, leaning in to kiss your damp cheek, water droplets still clinging to his ivory eyelashes. “Totally worth the near-death experience.”

You shake your head, but let the moment linger, let him hold you there by the sink, his lips brushing against yours like a silent thanks.

Eventually, he drags you to the bathroom.

The shower is big — another Gojo-specific choice when you built the house. He said he needed “space to dance dramatically during hair-washing.” You hadn’t realized he meant it literally until you walked in one day to find him swaying under the water, humming some ballad with shampoo running down his face.

Tonight, though, it’s quiet.

You both strip down without fanfare. He steps in first, holding out a hand like a gentleman even though he’s already dripping wet. The steam fills the air as you join him, the water warm and soft as it runs over your skin.

You wash his hair, carefully, gently, nails scraping his scalp in slow circles. His eyes are closed the whole time, a rare expression of serenity on his face.

Next up is washing his body — an act you love a bit too much.

His hands are by his sides, water cascading down the large expanse of sinewed muscle and scarred skin. There's a glimpse of a jagged scar that runs diagonally across his collarbone — one of the many pale remnants of the battle that nearly ended everything.

Your fingers brush against it absently, and Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He never hides them anymore — the scars. They scatter across his body now: fine lines, brutal gashes, faded burns. A slash across his abdomen from where Sukuna’s curse split him in two. A jagged cut down his spine that he jokes looks like a zipper. An old puncture near his hip that Shoko sewed shut with her own hands, mumbling curses the whole time.

You’ve memorized each one. Some days you trace them like constellations. Some days he lets you.

He doesn’t talk, not much. Just stands there and lets you take care of him.

Later, he returns the favor — fingers combing through your hair, rinsing soap from your back, holding you steady with his large hands reverently roving across your body when you lean into him just a little too much.

When you’re both towelled off and dressed in pajamas (his: old Jujutsu Tech sweats and a faded tee; yours: one of his shirts and soft shorts), you crawl into bed.

He flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling everywhere. You make a sound of protest when his knee knocks into yours, and he just grins at you lazily.

“Can we watch that dumb baking show?” he asks, already pulling the blanket over the two of you.

“The one where they all sabotage each other?”

“Yes. It’s healing. Sorry that I said it was boring before.”

You roll your eyes but grab the remote anyway.

He shifts closer as the episode starts, arm sliding under your neck to pull you in. Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thrum of his heart, strong and sure beneath old wounds.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Good. Stay right there. I had a long day of being the strongest and I need my beautiful wife.”

You laugh into his shirt.

This — the warmth, the closeness, the scent of his skin mixed with soap — this is the part no one sees. Not the world, not his students, not the remnants of the Jujutsu world that still whisper his name like a myth. Just you. Just him.

The baking show is halfway through an episode. Some poor contestant has just dropped their chiffon cake while another is sabotaging the whipped cream station. You’re tucked under the covers, your head resting on Satoru’s shoulder while his arm holds you close, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. The glow of the TV casts soft light over the room, flickering across the ceiling in pale pastel hues.

You’re warm. Safe. Your husband smells like your shampoo, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest is starting to lull you into that lovely, sleepy post-dinner haze.

But then — like a light flicking on in your brain — you remember.

“Oh!” you sit up suddenly, disrupting the blankets and causing Satoru to yelp, “I almost forgot. I cleaned the attic today.”

He groans like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Babe… why would you voluntarily enter the attic. That’s the one part of this house I refuse to enter.”

You ignore him, already swinging your legs off the bed. “No, listen — I found something. I think you’ll really like it.”

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting through his glasses. “Oh? What is it? Old love letters from your angsty high school boyfriend?”

“You mean the one who cried when he found out I liked Gojo Satoru more than him?” you smirk, heading toward the walk-in closet. “Yeah, no.”

You pad barefoot across the room and slide open the double doors. The closet is huge — because of course it is. Satoru insisted on custom shelving, backlighting, and enough hanging space for what he called his “seasonal drip.” But your things have taken over half of it by now, neatly folded sweaters, coats, your woven baskets for accessories. You had tucked the book on the upper shelf earlier after finishing the attic, too tired to sort through it just yet.

It takes a second of rummaging, but you find it: a thick, heavy photo album with a fabric cover that’s fraying slightly at the edges. You had found it in a box labeled with faded marker: JJT Archives.

As you walk back into the bedroom, Satoru’s sprawled on the bed like a lazy cat, hair wild, blanket pushed down to his waist. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the album.

“Oh? What’s this, a cursed object?”

You roll your eyes, climbing back in beside him.

He smacks your butt lightly as you settle under the covers again.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “You turned your back on me. That’s an invitation.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but you're smiling. “Figured we could look at it together. I think it’s a photo album of sorts.”

His expression softens instantly. “Yeah? Alright. Let’s see what kind of damage my past self got up to.”

You flip the cover open.

The first photo is grainy and a little off-center — a picture of him and Suguru pulling exaggerated faces at the camera, their expressions wild, faces contorted in a weird expression. Satoru snorts.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Look at us. I told him I’d look better than him if we both pulled a dumb face.”

You study the image closely. Suguru’s hair is tied up, not unlike most of the photos you’ve seen of him, which were during his time as a wanted criminal. 

Satoru’s laugh fades into something quieter.

“That was my old phone. Shoko looked at this picture and said we looked ‘ugly enough to preserve for future generations.’”

The next is a selfie — Satoru smiling into the camera in his black sunglasses, unlike the round ones he wears to protect his sensitive eyes. Suguru is beside him with sunglasses, and Nanami just barely in frame, scowling at the lens like he’s half being forced at gunpoint to participate and half wanting to do it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amused. “Kento looks so cute. His hairstyle… He definitely had an emo phase.”

“Because he was,” Satoru grins. “And he did have an emo phase. The amount of Visual Kei he listened to… We made him go shopping with us in Harajuku that day. Got the sunnies as a treat for doing well on the mission. And because they were on sale.”

You both laugh, the warmth lingering even as the sound fades. You flip the page.

This one’s softer: Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru sitting at a dinner table at someone’s house, a dinner spread between them — looks very much like homemade food. It’s candid. Suguru’s laughing at something and posing with a peace sign. Shoko’s mid-clap, mouth open in laughter. Nanami looks slightly more relaxed than usual, a peace sign on his fingers too. Satoru’s grinning widely, and your heart melts at how lively his smile used to be when he was a teen.

“That was Shoko’s family house,” Satoru murmurs. “She invited us over after a mission. She lived nearby. We just… stayed. Slept in her living room. Talked until like, three in the morning.”

“She really was part of your trio, wasn’t she?” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah. People always think it was just me and Suguru. But Shoko was there too. She was always there. Holding us together.”

You flip to the next: the entrance ceremony.

A selfie again — this time it looks like Shoko’s doing. They're all grinning like idiots. Principal Yaga is in a corner. Suguru is holding up a peace sign. Shoko’s teeth are out as she grins. Satoru, front and center, is glowing with the kind of cocky, pure-hearted energy only youth can give you, throwing a thumbs up, rounded glasses slipping down his nose.

“Your smile is so big in these, sweetheart. You look beautiful when you smile,” you say softly.

Satoru presses a kiss to your neck in quiet thanks, arm coming around your waist as you both continue flipping through the album.

The next photo is pure chaos: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara standing in the bathroom mirror, toothbrushes in their mouths. Looks like they were having a sleepover of some sort.

You let out a startled laugh.

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute. Was it a sleepover?”

“It was,” Satoru says. “Haibara had to practically force Nanami to come. Too bad Shoko and Utahime couldn’t come. For some reason, dorm restrictions were actually quite strict — not that we’d ever do anything like that. We were like a family.”

You laugh, squeezing his knee under the blankets.

You keep going.

A photo of Suguru with his hair mussed, smiling into the camera like he doesn’t know it’s pointed at him. It's intimate — the angle low, soft light filtering in.

Satoru's voice drops. “I took that. We’d just woken up from a nap in the common room. He hated being caught without brushing his hair, but… he let me keep it. He never had a bad hair day, you know? Was always so particular about it. Only used a specific shampoo that he said his mother would buy for him in the countryside.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, hand flexing slightly on the luminescent film of the album page.

“He really loved his mom.”

You rest your cheek against his arm.

There’s a photo of Shoko tying her Converse, crouched down, her fingers deft and focused. It's an ordinary moment — a cute smile on her face — but something about it feels lived-in. Real.

“Shoko loved this pair,” he chuckles. “She wore them to annoy the elders. They claimed proper shoes were needed if we were to go on missions.”

You grin. “Respect.”

The next is crowded: all of them standing outside a classroom door. Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, Haibara, and Satoru — shoulder to shoulder, smiling like they’re just normal teenagers, not the weapons the Jujutsu world molded them into.

The key highlight of the photo is Satoru’s arms are around Suguru and he has this big, goofy smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe they’re all…” you trail off.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are wet.

“They were… good. All of them,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “They should’ve had more time.”

You nod, curling into his side.

Another photo makes you both pause. It's taken from behind: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko in matching red soccer jerseys, standing on a field. They're holding up peace signs with their backs to the camera. You can almost hear their laughter, imagine the mud on their shoes, the heat of the sun.

You run your hand down the page.

You flip through more: snapshots of their friend group — sleeping, on trips, in classrooms, in ceremonies. Candid, fleeting, young.

And then — the final ones: close-ups of Suguru.

Photos taken with quiet intention. One where he's clearly caught off guard. One where he's looking out from the bridge. Another where his back is to the camera and he has a small bear keychain on his bag. The sight makes your stomach clench.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Satoru.

The weight of the past settles thick in the room, like dust stirred from an old shelf. The baking show continues on in the background — a contestant shouting about a collapsed ganache — but it feels distant. Muted. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

Your hand finds his where it’s resting on the bedspread. His fingers twitch, then curl slowly around yours.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet in that particular way he gets when he’s fighting to stay intact — jaw locked, mouth set, shoulders wound tight with grief. His eyes are glassy, tracking the same photo over and over, like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears.

Nanami with his dumb emo haircut. His peace signs. Haibara’s joy, how young he looked when he laughed. Suguru’s sleepy, messy hair. That crooked smile. The ghost of laughter in his eyes.

It’s rare to see Satoru this still. Not just physically — but inside. No quip. No grin. Just silence, and the slow breathing of someone on the edge of something sharp.

“I used to think,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, “that we’d grow old together.”

You don’t interrupt. You let the words come, raw and aching.

“Me, Suguru, Shoko,” he murmurs. “Nanami and Haibara. I pictured it sometimes. Thought we’d be old and bitter and still calling each other dumbasses over desserts. Thought maybe… maybe we’d all be able to come back from the shit we did. Thought we’d last”.

He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Thought I could save him.”

Your thumb strokes his knuckles.

He blinks fast. Swallows hard.

“I see these pictures and I—I forget he’s gone. Just for a second. And then it hits me all over again. Every fucking time.”

You press your forehead gently to his shoulder. “He was your best friend.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. It sounds like it hurts. “He was everything. The only person who ever really… got me. Not the strongest. Not Gojo Satoru. Just… me.”

You wait.

You let the silence stretch — thick, aching, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I hate that I still miss him,” Satoru finally says, voice raw. “I hate that he left. I hate that I couldn’t stop him. But I miss him. Every day. Like an ache in my ribs I forget about until I breathe too deep.”

You turn toward him, hand still wrapped in his. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower — a man who’s used to keeping the world up with one hand, now struggling just to hold his own heart in place.

“I miss him too,” you whisper. “I never even met him — but with the way you talk about him, I miss him too. I miss him for what he meant to you. For who he must’ve been, to leave this much of a mark.”

His breath falters. A quiet shudder works through him. You lean up and kiss his cheek, slow and steady, then press another to his temple, just where his hair is growing back in, short and soft. He leans into it, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — like he’s been brittle for a while now and you’re the only thing keeping him from cracking open.

“He would’ve loved this house,” he murmurs, voice thick. “He’d pretend it was too flashy. Say I was compensating for something. But then he’d steal all the good tea and claim it was just to humble me.”

You smile gently, warm against the side of his face. “Well. You do have terrible spending habits.”

That gets a sound out of him — a real laugh, shaky and low in his chest. He presses his forehead to yours.

“He’d have hated the mirror in our bathroom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, the faintest curve to his lips. “Would’ve said it makes me look even more insufferable than usual.”

You laugh. “To be fair, you are insufferable.”

“Mm. Don’t forget stunning.”

“Of course,” you breathe. “That’s a given. My beautiful, insufferable husband.”

You kiss away some of the tears that have fallen down his pale, scared face, wiping away the tracks as you pull back.

The silence settles again, softer this time. You tug the blanket higher over both of you. His thumb is rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand now — absent, but insistent. Like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to anything that won’t vanish like the rest.

You watch his face, watch the way his expression drifts somewhere far away and comes back a little more worn every time. A man standing in the ruins of his past, trying to build something worth living in.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He turns, only slightly. But it’s enough. His eyes find yours — wide, blue, shining a little too much even in the low light. You see everything there. The love, the grief, the guilt, the ache. The part of him that never really left that bridge. That battlefield. That moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s seeing the future and the past crash into each other in the shape of your smile.

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand lifts — trembling just faintly — and he cups your cheek. His thumb swipes gently across your skin, reverent. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something sacred inside you. A promise. A memory. A hope.

The baking show buzzes quietly in the background, someone yelling about a collapsed meringue, the absurdity of it all somehow making it feel more real — more here. More now.

Grief still sits in the room, thick like fog, but it no longer feels unbearable. It lingers, yes, but it’s softened at the edges by something gentler. Something like love. Something like healing.

You curl back into him, resting your head against his chest. His hand comes up to cradle your back without thinking. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your ear — a rhythm that tells you he’s still here. Still trying. Still holding on.

You hold each other in that silence. In that ache. And in the quiet miracle of still being able to love, even when it hurts.

You close the album gently, smoothing your hand over the cover like it’s sacred. And maybe it is. The only reliquary you have left of those years — of who he was, of who they all were, when the world was still a little less cruel.

Satoru shifts a little closer, nosing into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to burrow into the safest place he knows. His hand finds your waist beneath the covers and rests there, thumb absently stroking small circles against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old? All wrinkly and stubborn and falling asleep at nine?”

You smile into the dark. “We already fall asleep at nine.”

He laughs — a soft, sleepy sound. “Okay, fair. But I mean like… old-old. Like, arguing about soup and forgetting where we put our keys kind of old.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, hair messy and soft and just barely starting to silver at the edges. You think about him with deeper lines around his eyes, laugh lines etched into his skin from years of grinning too wide.

“I think we’ll be annoying,” you say.

“Hell yeah.”

“Annoying and still obsessed with each other.”

“Obviously.”

“Still holding hands in public and making waiters uncomfortable.”

“I plan on kissing you in every checkout line we ever stand in,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to your shoulder to prove it.

You laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love that about me.”

You turn in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are warm in the dim light, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I do,” you murmur. “I love everything about you.”

He leans in, kisses you — slow and unhurried. Not out of need, but out of affection. Out of something deeper. His hand cradles your jaw as he does it again, then again, softer each time, like he’s trying to say things he doesn’t have words for.

You kiss him back, just as slow.

He pulls back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want it all with you,” he says. “The boring parts. The little arguments. Taxes. Grocery lists and laundry days and late-night walks when we can’t sleep. All of it. I want to grow old with you.”

Your throat tightens, but not from grief this time. From something tender. Something whole.

“You have me,” you whisper. “For as long as we both get.”

He kisses you again, this time on your nose. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your lips again, just because he can.

Eventually, you settle into the silence, warm and safe under the covers, his arm around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin. His breathing evens out first, deep and steady, but his hold on you never loosens.

You stay awake a little longer, just watching him. Memorizing the curve of his mouth, the softness in his face, the way he looks at peace when he’s finally, finally allowed to rest.

And before you let yourself drift too, you whisper it one last time, just to be sure he hears it — even if he’s already asleep.

“I’ll love you when we’re old. And after that, too.”

And in his sleep, Satoru smiles.

u guys i'm genuinely sooo devastated over jjk it isnt funny i cried to sleep the other night thinking abt satoru :)

[arthurmorganswh0re]

The Things We Carry

about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.

tags: angst, pregnancy, illness, tb, death, loss, grief

wc: 15.7k

an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3

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The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.

You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar. 

“Y’alright out here?” 

You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you. 

“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.” 

“Wasn’t hungry.” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?” 

There it was. 

You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that. 

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.” 

You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you. 

You turned to  him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?” 

He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare. 

“What did you say?” 

“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.” 

For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment. 

“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.” 

Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.” 

“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?” 

You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.” 

He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.” 

Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.” 

“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?” 

“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.” 

He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame. 

“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible. 

You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.” 

He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard. 

“How far along?” he asked, gruff. 

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.” 

He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.” 

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word. 

The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you. 

And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.

The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.

He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.

At first, you were angry.

You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.

“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.

Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.

And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.

One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.

Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.

The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world. 

As he left, something inside you went still. 

Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.

By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.

Except you.

Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.

And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.

You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.

That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.

You thought about leaving.

You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?

No.

You knew better.

This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.

The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.

You were going to leave.

Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.

You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.

You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.

You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.

I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.

And that was it.

You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.

But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.

You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.

And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.

The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver. 

Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind. 

He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.” 

There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused. 

Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.

It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm. 

When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow. 

He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.” 

Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more. 

He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp. 

Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him. 

He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you. 

Then softly: “Arthur.” 

He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.” 

You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show. 

He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach. 

“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.” 

He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.” 

“By pretending I didn’t exist?” 

“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice. 

You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.” 

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.” 

The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again. 

“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush. 

You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender. 

“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.” 

He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly. 

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold. 

The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you. 

Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours. 

“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered. 

You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance. 

“I wanted you. That’s different.” 

Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything. 

The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you. 

It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly. 

“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.” 

Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.” 

Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest? 

Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too. 

Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried. 

You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin. 

When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.” 

You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.” 

You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy. 

“I know,” he muttered. 

You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. 

You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake. With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?” 

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer. 

Then: “I don’t know.” 

Your heart sank, slow and heavy. 

But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.” 

“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.” 

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could. 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.

You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.” 

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe. 

And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again. 

The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.

Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.

“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.

That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.

You pretended not to notice.

He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”

The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.

He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.

You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.

That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.

And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.

Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.

He turned.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

He hesitated, eyes on the floor. “About you. About this place. The baby.”

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”

“Different how?”

He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”

He came closer.

“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.

When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”

The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.

Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it. 

Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.

But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running. 

You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.

He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.

“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”

Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.

“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.

“What kind of job?” you asked.

John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.

“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”

Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.

“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”

Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”

Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”

A long silence settled over the yard.

You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”

John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”

He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”

The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.

“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.

“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.

John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”

Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” you replied.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”

Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”

You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.

“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”

The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.

That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks. 

But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it. 

It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself. 

You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.

He didn’t expect you to wake.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.

Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.

“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”

You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.

“Blackwater?” you asked.

He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.

“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”

You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.

“You really think you can leave that life behind?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”

He looked back at you, voice low.

“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”

Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?

The days blurred.

You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.

You wrote letters you never sent.

Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.

Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.

The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.

Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.

The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.

But he didn’t come back.

Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.

Not until the letter came.

It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.

You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.

“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.

You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.

The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.

My girl,

I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.

I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.

I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.

So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.

I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.

I’m sorry.

If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.

You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.

That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.

You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.

He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.

But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.

In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby. 

But part of you had gone quiet again.

Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.

The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.

Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.

The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.

You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.

You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.

You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,

"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."

Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.

“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”

Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.

May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.

She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.

“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name. 

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him. 

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.” 

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time. 

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear. 

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed. 

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

[saintobio]

LUCIFER.

his fall was not from grace, yet in his descent, he found freedom—a kingdom of his own making, where he rules not with light, but with the shadows it casts. and you, unfortunate soul, are the sin that fuels his eternal reign.

♱ genre. gothic, dark romance, smut, angels/demons au, 18+

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ tags. 5.2k wc. this fic will contain dark and twisted themes. please heed the warnings and proceed with proper discretion. demon!sylus, sylus is ooc, not set in lads universe, profanity, heavy sacrilege/blasphemy, catcalling, sadistic undertones, dubcon, toxic relationships, corruption, sex in church, dacryphilia, mentions of obsession, allusions to stockholm syndrome, yandere, fingering, unprotected sex, explicit smut.

♱ notes. this is an old rewritten/reimagined fic of mine bcos i saw a theory abt sylus being a demon. and coincidentally, rewatching a season of lucifer only made my brain rot tenfold D; so if you've seen me post this fic before with another character, pretend you didn't >:D

Thunder grumbled as a flash of lighting struck through the dark blanket of twilight skies. The rumbling sound angrily resonated through the stretch of clouds as if the heavens were to wash away human sins that have long been plaguing this era of the 21st century. A shower of rain soon followed that started in huge droplets and later cascaded from the slate gray clouds like waterfall. 

Checking your old leather watch, it was only 6PM. It had been two hours since the power outage doomed the whole neighborhood because the utility poles were severely damaged after the hurricane ravaged the city yesterday. 

The thick soles of your boots landed heavily on the tessellated sidewalk with every step, holding your umbrella closer to seal you from the heavy rainfall. Your eyes followed the beads of rain that bounced off the cold cement as your mind wandered further than where your body could take you to. 

You had left Sylus sleeping in bed back in your shared apartment so you could walk around the city and drop by the church. It wasn’t like you sneaked out, but was only reluctant to let him know of your whereabouts because you didn’t want him to follow you around, especially to such a scared place like church. Before you left, however, you did ensure that his silver cross was still enclosed around his collar just for your sanity. 

It had been a while since you last visited the church. With the power out and nothing else to do, you decided it was the perfect time to visit the cathedral where you always made your most solemn prayers.

The streets were still in shambles, though. Road signages were sprawled on the sidewalk, branches were barely hanging off the trees—the city had vestiges of wreckage from the hurricane that emptied a usually busy metropolitan area today. Most people were still at the leisure of their homes as work and classes have been suspended until further notice, for everyone’s safety and to allow the government to clean the roads. 

You could already imagine Sylus shaking his head at your resistance to just stay indoors and simply be with him. The only reason you were confident to leave his side today was because it had been awhile since the last incident. You could live with the thought of coming back home to Sylus and his usual self. Sylus, who was always thoughtful and tenderhearted albeit his dominant exterior. Never did you think that you could land a man of such warmth—a year in two days—but how you met was a story made for another day. 

Amidst the already dismal atmosphere outside, stepping by the narthex inside the baroque church greeted you with an even more caliginous surrounding. Darkness enshrouded the interiors of your chosen place of worship with only as much as three paschal torches by the apse to light up the altar. Still, with God’s presence, your feet carried you in slow footsteps along the velvet red aisle as you made your way towards the nave. 

You were alone in the eerie cathedral, but fear did not consume as you were in attendance to the crucifix above the high altar. This was your favorite cathedral among all the others in the city simply because of its gothic Victorian architecture.

Fixed with the cathedral’s grandeur and bedight with ornate decorations, you became more comfortable at situating yourself by the pew—genuflecting on the elevated wood behind the stretch of oak benches as soon as you found your usual spot. 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” you whispered in sotto voce, performing a sign of the cross with your eyes glued to the crucifix that represented Jesus Christ. You had your elbows propped atop the bench as you silently prayed. 

Loving and gracious God, with all love and mercy, we thank you for blessing us with another day and protecting us in times of natural disaster. 

You wanted to ignore the unusual cold air that slithered on your skin in horripilation. Your prayer resumed despite the Stygian gloom that darkened the cathedral’s interior or the sound of the harsh wind slamming through the towering doors by the vestibule. The storm is coming again, you mentally noted. 

With your grace and kindness, Lord, I pray that you will continue to guide us—

The manly fleer echoing through the vacantness of the church made you halt from your recital. “I knew my cute church girl would be here.” 

You knew that devilish voice all too well that it had you shutting your eyes, petrified. No wonder the air felt sinister. But if your gut-feeling about him was right, then there was no need to be frightened. “Sylus, I’m in the middle of a prayer,” you hushed, although before you could turn around to face his silhouette, he had already transported to your side with a wicked smile plastered on his pallid face. 

“I’m not him,” he spoke in an orotund voice, stepping closer and closer. His ash blond hair did not hide his incarnadine eyes. “Stop looking for that runt when you’re with me.” 

You stepped out of the pew with a rapid heartbeat, standing by the aisle as the tall man towered over you. “S-Sylus, where’s your—” you searched for his silver cross and found it still hanging around his neck, “did you break it?” 

He glowered at your accusation. “You know I would if I could, sweetie.” 

You exhaled a deep sigh. This was not Sylus, this was the malevolent demon inside of him. You ought to be cautious of yourself. “Okay, well... Leave me alone. I’m praying.”

“Ordering me around?” Each step that he took reverberated across the cathedral. He stretched his head from side-to-side in a manner that showed his ennui. “Don’t you miss me, kitten?” 

There was no stopping to the loud thumping of your heart as you stood along the aisle with Sylus backing you off further to the center. “Sylus, I said not now,” you begged, but he refused to listen and only wiped his lower lip with his thumb. 

“I hate it when you make me wait,” he muttered, stepping forward until your lower back hit the credence table at the altar. You found yourself trapped in a decreasing distance between yourself and the sadistic devil in front of you. “Don’t look so scared. We do this every time.” 

“I’m not scared, but...” Your voice was getting softer, yet filled with fret. You pressed a hand on his chest as he locked your body with both arms around the table. “Please, not here.”

You had to be firm, you just had to be but you couldn’t muster the courage to fight back in Sylus’s presence. He was the embodiment of power and you were the representation of weakness. 

He was a demon that thrived on sin, and he drew strength from indulging in the seven deadly sins. Vainglory, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth—all of those fueled his existence. Today, however, it was the third sin that consumed him, the one that ignited his darkest sexual desires. 

“I’ll be quick,” he bargained, undoing the upper buttons of your dress despite your failed attempts at pushing him away. Doing it at such a place! You sent him a glare but he only returned a sly smile. “How about we show your God what you’re really like underneath that maidenly exterior, hm? Show him how dirty you really are?”

God, help me. You desperately shook your head, now overthinking if someone could see what he was about to do to you in this holy sanctuary. Long before you could cover your chest, he already pinned your wrist on the side as he lowered the fabric to show your collar. “Sylus—!”

“Don’t be shy, kitten,” the whisper he sent through the shell of your ear caused shivers to your spine. With his heightened senses, he placed his mouth on your ear, “No one’s here to watch us except for your God. Be a good girl now.”

You tried to push him once more to no avail as he sucked on the flesh above your shoulder. There was no warning to prepare you from the sudden harsh suction. “I-It hurts!” 

Your nails dug into your palms to leave crescent marks on your flesh while you were squirming out of his strict hold. 

“It hurts? Good.” He continued to leave marks all over your flesh as he caged your waist around his arm. The feeling of his teeth pricking your skin had you whimpering in pain, and his eyes had grown rutilant when he momentarily pulled away to look at you. “You’ll hurt even more,” and then he erupted into a deep chuckle as if you were a meal that he was seasoning with a sprinkle of fear, “I should really just keep you for myself.” 

Your desire to breathe grew exponentially. “I’m not yours.” 

A low sneer and a dissatisfied ego had you pressed against the oak table in surprise. “Yes, you are,” he reiterated as though he was enforcing the idea in your head. “Your soul, your heart, your body—you are mine.” 

“I’m not! I wasn’t born in this world to be your property,” you protested, pulling away from his grip only to be slammed harsher on the table. You knew you should never anger a demon but his possessive nature irked you. Aside from your already shameful situation, you wanted nothing but to get away from him. “You’re evil.” 

“What makes you so brave? Your beliefs?” he gritted, reaching for an object near your head that turned out to be the Bible. “This?” he quickly opened the sacred handbook and ripped the pages in front of your very eyes with a distasteful smile. How easily he ripped it, how easily he also tossed it. “Whatever, then. There’s no God. You humans are complete idiots for worshiping a nonexistent being. Weren’t you the ones saying that I’d burn as soon as I stepped into a church?” 

“He is your father!” You sat back up, revolted by his blasphemy. He had no right to mock God like this. “Don’t taint my beliefs with yours. My faith in Him is stronger than you think.” 

“You should know what it’s like to be in hell before you say that shit,” he retorted, placing his lips back on your ear, “I’ll take you there with me.” 

This is not the time and place! What a shameful situation he was putting you through, so unbelievably shameful and obscene that you couldn’t look at him in the eyes. “Sylus, I swear. I’m going home if you’re gonna keep on—”

He huffed, showing boredom by dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “Ah, fine. You’re boring. Continue the prayer, then.”

For one of two things; first, Sylus would never let you off easily. Every act of defiance would garner you a punishment. Second, he was a time bomb. You never knew when his most cruel intentions would come to show. He was a malefic being that wouldn’t give two shits about where he was as long as he was having fun at torturing your soul. 

You should have known that when you chose to finish your prayer back at the pew. Sylus would simply not last long enough to just sit by your side in his apathy. 

“Holy Father, please forgive us for our sins—”

He snorted in ill-humor. “Pitiful.” 

And while you sat there looking up at the crucifix, Sylus’s hand was already sneaking its way under your skirt. His icy fingers traced your inner thighs until he reached your center, and that was when you finally grabbed his wrist to stop him with wide, scandalized eyes. Was anyone on the qui vive to see you right now? 

“Sylus, for heaven’s sake,” you hissed, pulling his wrist away but his slender fingers were already coordinating motions against your clothed core. You had to look around in panic lest there be any unknown audience peeking from the shadows. Despite your refusal to submit, the contact was eliciting suppressed moans out of your parted lips. “Y-You’re insane. This isn’t the place.” 

His smile was full of triumph and excitement, his right eye glowing ominously he spoke. “What makes it different?” he asked, raising your skirt and inserting his fingers inside your underwear. You had to press your lips together as soon as he started rubbing his fingers on your clit. “See, you enjoy the fuck out of it. I can see through your deepest desires, kitten. It’s telling me… ‘don’t stop’.” 

Your palm was pressed on his chest while his other hand tried to spread your legs open. The very position you were in—leaned on the wooden bench, legs spread apart, and being fingered in the presence of God—you were certainly going to hell. This was going against your belief, having your chastity corrupted in arrant disgrace by a man who was the devil himself. 

How exactly did you find yourself in this predicament? You came here to offer a quick prayer, not to be pressed on the bench by a man who was now unbuckling his belt in haste. You could only think of how Sylus, who was an angel beyond his demons, was perhaps trying to come out of being trapped in the dungeon where Satan had him caged.

“This is so wrong,” your lips quivered as you spoke, both of the curling of your toes and of the shameless sacrilegious act. You knew you couldn’t stop this no matter how hard you tried because Sylus would remain tenacious until he got what he wanted. 

With that, you fully submitted yourself to him and let the back of your head rest on the wooden surface while you stared at the stained glass that roofed the cathedral in different hues. 

Sylus was fast to display a smirk while positioning his hardened length on your entrance. The bands of your underwear were now resting mid-thigh as he pressed himself down on you with one knee supporting the angle of his hips. He was running his throbbing tip between your plump folds to lubricate himself with your slick. No screams could be released because you restrained your own whimpers, but your tears brimmed on the corner of your eyes from the initial penetration. 

“Ngh!” Your nails dug deep on his forearms. “S-Sylus!” 

“Are you crying?” His carmine eyes glinted of sadistic humor, running his gelid thumb across your lower lip only to sink it deep inside your mouth. “How does it feel knowing that the God you worship can’t save you?” 

A tear slid down from your eyes to your temple as Sylus started moving his hips in an achingly slow rhythm, each thrust going deeper than the last. You almost bit his thumb before he released your mouth by gripping your wrist. “Sylus—someone could see—!”

To your irony, the crucifix stared down at you and enkindled your conscience from this sinful act. Father, forgive me. You could only whisper those words in your head because your mouth was too occupied in crying out Sylus’s name.

“So warm.” It was hard not to think of how attracted he looked when he raked his fingers through his hair, later meeting your eyes with overpowering lust. He didn’t hold back at burying his cock into your cavern, allowing your walls to fit his girth like tight gloves—the feeling garnering his raspy grunt. “You’re mine, sweetie. All mine.” 

Sylus. You blinked your tears away as you closed your eyes. Sylus’s lips were now on your neck as he increased the pace of his member sliding in and out of your cunt with squelching noises that shamelessly echoed across the cathedral. “Sylus,” your lips were on his ear, “we’re in—aah—church.”

Unlike you, he was nonchalant about the sacredness of the house of God. He was mocking the supreme being that you held faith to as an act of engraving his existence into your mortal soul. While you restrained your moans as he slammed his pelvis against your hole, there was fulfillment rattling in his bones when he pressed your face to the side before diving in to suck on your sweet flesh.

“Cry more. Did you know your walls get warmer when you’re aroused?”

It was hard to describe the feeling. The median between pain and pleasure was the closest example you could liken it to. The grazing of his fangs added to the burning sensation that you had all over your body as if fire was ignited to light up all your nerves. 

Your hand latched onto his shirt before his body collapsed on top of you. With your legs spread wide, his head hung low on your neck—still and unmoving, strangely like he had fallen asleep. 

“Sylus.” You tapped his arm through the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

And before you could move away, he shot straight up and looked at you with those foxy incarnadine eyes that were now in the shade of deep crimson. Eyes that were wide and full of horror as he looked around the cathedral before he slowly realized what he had just done. 

“Y/N,” he said your name regretfully, pulling your dress down to cover your exposed parts, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I did this—? I don’t—” 

Long dried were the tears on your cheek. As you two scrambled to fix your clothes, you pulled him into a hug while he murmured endless sorry’s to your ear. At least, for now he was back. That was the most important thing with all the sanity you had left. 

“Just get me out of here, Sy,” you said, back into the arms of your human lover. 

~~

You’ve always wondered why Sylus often slept during the day. Or why his normal heartbeat was at the pace of someone who was having a heart attack. Or why he could get serious wounds but managed to heal himself fast. Sometimes he would disappear from your sight and transport himself into another. Sometimes he would see and hear things a thousand times clearer than any other person could. 

For almost a year of dating, these questions only came up to you without much of an answer. You thought that you were simply theorizing over things that you shouldn’t. Why does Sylus always wear that cross around his neck? At the back of your head, you were always intrigued. 

You didn’t find out about the real reason until two months ago when you finally met ‘Lucifer’ out of nowhere. If Sylus was Jekyll, Lucifer was his Hyde. It was his way to allow you to form a dissociation between the two beings in one body. 

You never believed in devils until Sylus showed his demonic face to you one night while you were supposedly peacefully sleeping. You recalled the screams that you released when you found out that Sylus was the fallen angel all along. That the rosary around his neck was meant to seal his dark side, the side that you still didn’t know much of. Up until this day, he didn’t provide a concrete answer as to why he needed to seal himself. He was taciturn about the topic of his other self despite you bringing it up every now and then. 

But because you loved him, trusted him, and believed him when he said that he didn’t plan to hurt you—you stayed. You knew his human side better than the monster within him, so you told yourself that you could stay for him. You just needed to learn more about him. 

There were still moments where you felt cautious around him, but when you looked to see his softened expression, you were comfortable at seeing the Sylus that you knew. 

“Y/N,” he broke the silence that lingered between you two as you walked around the city, “I’m sorry.” 

You tugged at his hand in reassurance. “It’s okay, I just...” As flashbacks of the earlier events returned to your head, you felt ashamed at having done such dirty deeds at a holy place. “He always gets what he wants.” 

Because you let him. 

“I can’t do anything when I’m trapped,” Sylus mumbled, keeping up with your footsteps as you strode along the street. 

Your curiosity bubbled from his statement. “What happens when he’s taking over?” 

This time, Sylus didn’t shy away from giving an answer while he interlaced his hand with yours. “I can hear everything, but I can’t feel or see. It’s all black, like I’m in a dark void.” 

“Like comatose?” 

“You could say that.”

How could a rosary seal his other self? How come he had two versions of him? 

“He’s obsessed with you,” he admitted, frowning at the thought as you passed rows and rows of boutiques and restaurants. “Your soul, your scent, your body. That’s probably why he always has the urge to come out.” 

The thought of it permeated heat on your cheeks even when it shouldn’t. Sylus had always been sweet and loving with his intimacy with you, but his other side was rough and sadistic. He liked tormenting your innocence with his immorality. 

“You said the rosary was meant to seal him, but how come he keeps on—”

“It doesn’t work these days. Only my father can help, but I don’t wanna go that far just to tell him about this.” 

Father. It was the first time he had ever spoken about his father in your twelve months together. Or did he mean father as in God? “Where’s your father, Sylus? Or the rest of your family? Are the other archangels roaming on Earth, too?” 

You could see it in his saintly face that he was about to give an answer and you anticipated it, not until the nearby catcalling distracted you two. 

“Nice legs, gorgeous,” whistled the man who was leaning by the street railings with a cigarette in his hand. The man was probably in his mid-40’s with disheveled hair and unshaved face. You sent him a glare but a crude wink was returned. 

“It’s a bit rude to ogle at my woman in front of me, don’t you think?” was Sylus’s warning, the tendrils of his black-red mist extending to surround the man.

You could hear the man hooting again, unaware of what would become of him. “Ha ha! You punk. I’d spread those legs in a heartbeat.” 

While Sylus’s eyes were deepening into a darker hue, you knew you couldn’t risk seeing him release his demonic side again. It was a dangerous gamble. And the city could become a bloodbath. So, in your insistence, you told your lover to just leave it be.

“Sylus, let it go,” you gently asked, tugging at his arm softly. You wanted to avoid confrontation and just continue walking with you until you could reach your destination. “It’s okay.”

~~

“Happy anniversary to my favorite couple!” 

The clinking of glasses was followed by cheers on the booth where your boyfriend and your friends sat together. It was Avery’s idea to celebrate the special day two days prior as an excuse to hang out and drink. Luke and Kieran, being Sylus’s minions, were very much willing to join. 

“It’s not until Wednesday,” Sylus corrected with a smile, sipping on his pint before putting an arm around you. He gestured towards Avery and Luke with a knowing look. “Now you two should date each other.” 

You giggled at the thought. “Yeah, I totally support that.” 

Instead, the two of them reacted heavily against it—faking a gag, making a face, name it all. They were adamant on showing how disgusted they were at the thought of dating each other and it was quite a hilarious sight to watch. 

“Boss, come on,” Luke replied in outward distaste. 

Avery, on one hand, was rolling her eyes. “You wish I was interested. I’d rather do Kieran than you.” 

Kieran was Luke’s twin, the less obnoxious and more empathic one. But when those two were combined, their level of mischief wasn’t really any different from each other. 

“Picking Kieran is the most insulting thing you can say to me,” huffed Luke, earning yours and Avery’s chuckle. 

After an exchange of playful banter and teasing remarks, the conversation was redirected back to you and Sylus as Avery curiously brought up how you first met your boyfriend. It was only a year ago and the memory was still vivid in your head. 

“Oh my God. I remember how Y/N first saw you at this auction,” she gushed towards your boyfriend while you blushed, gripping his arm closer, “and she’s acting like she just saw her soulmate.” 

Kieran decided to chime in, “Boss was looking at her too, though. He may look tough, but he’s a hopeless romantic deep down—”

“Enough,” Sylus warned before sipping on his glass. 

You rested your head on his shoulder and relaxed against him. “Next thing you guys know, we’re living together.” 

Frankly, everything was normal until Sylus showed up. 

“What do you like most about her, Sylus?” Avery egged on with a grin spreading on her face. 

Your boyfriend didn’t even take a second to answer, “She’s cute like a cat,” he said, caressing your hand with his thumb from under the table, “and smart, and caring. Can get spicy, too. It won’t end.” 

Sylus was the same, if not better. You didn’t have much experience when it came to dating, but you were surely on top of the luck department for being blessed with a man like him. He was the most protective person you knew, the most affectionate, the most thoughtful. Sylus was the moon that illuminated your dark nights. You could even remember how he would wait outside of your workplace to pick you up in his motorcycle—those were the little things that lasted for a lifetime in someone’s memory. 

“She’s also a nun.” 

The sudden panic in your eyes came simultaneous to the fast beating of your heart. You swiftly whipped your head to look at Sylus who was now displaying a deriding smirk across his pale face. Oh, were you doomed. The ruby eyes and the stony face was clear confirmation that the demon had taken over him. Twice in the same day. 

Even Avery was surprised by his word of choice, but nonetheless found it amusing as it was rare for them to see Sylus acting bold. You were grateful for her obliviousness because you didn’t know how else you could explain the situation at hand.

“She’s a what, boss-man?” Luke jeered, chugging on his pint and looking at his boss in his newfound entertainment. He was among the very few people that knew Sylus’s true nature. Because the twins were demons like him.

“A nun,” Sylus answered, sending a look of mischief your way. You were deeply panicking that you had to squeeze his hand in hopes of stopping him from showing his true colors. “What? Don’t be shy, kitten. Didn’t we have fun in that church?”

You quickly shook your head and denied it in front of your friends. “We didn’t. Don’t believe him.”

Avery was unbelievably taken aback. “Wow,” she held back a chuckle, “I didn’t know Sylus has a vulgar mouth.” 

~~

The night carried on while the downpour engulfed the streets heavily. Your desperation to leave the dinner earlier than intended was solely because you weren’t comfortable at having Sylus around other people. The man was clearly enjoying the embarrassment that he was putting you through. And you, you were only being cautious. Who knew what things he could do to Avery while in his other form? 

You didn’t want things to end up where Sylus would be ostracized by the people who knew him just because they couldn’t understand that he was completely harmless in his benevolent self. 

It took a lot of effort to finally make an excuse of getting home early while the skies have temporarily calmed down. However, as you two strolled across the street, Sylus wouldn’t stop blabbering on and on about how you should have stayed more to talk about how prudish you were. 

“I’m not in the mood right now,” you spoke in a detached voice, moving away from him as you walked together. Because you ruined it, you wanted to add. The cold breeze kissed your face through the dark. 

Sylus only moved closer to you. “You shouldn’t be so uptight,” he countered, “Is that how kittens should act? Or do I punish you back at home?”

Punishments. You didn’t wish to go through another round of his ‘punishments’ because you weren’t certain at how creative he could be at delivering them. There was no doubt that a man who traversed the ages would have seen enough torture devices used during the earlier times. Perhaps he could get inspiration from those. 

“I just wanna go home,” you muttered, almost inaudibly had his heightened hearing senses not worked. 

“Good, then I can have fun with y—” Sylus halted from his words as his face froze at the sight in front of him. His body had completely gone stiff and his jaws were clenched. You would have thought that he was angry until that evil upturn of his lips came to show. 

“Sylus...”

Following his sight, he was all eyes on a man from a distance before he dashed towards the stranger, leaving you utterly stupefied from where you stood. What’s he on about? You rushed as your heels landed in lightweight steps across the sidewalk while you watched in terror how Sylus mercilessly throttled the man by the neck and dragged him into a dark alleyway. 

“Sylus, stop!” 

As you reached him with a panting breath, you realized that the man he was holding high up against the wall was the same person that catcalled you earlier. The man was wriggling away from Sylus’s tight grip, only to be asphyxiated harsher than before. 

“Wh-What’s your problem?” The man struggled to breathe due to the strangulation and you were pulling Sylus’s other arm to stop him. 

At the sight of Sylus’s crimson eyes and vicious stance, you knew there was nothing much you could do to prevent harm. He was determined to do what he wanted without paying attention to his surroundings. 

“You’re fantasizing her, huh?” Sylus taunted with a sinister undertone in his words. “You wanna spread ‘em open?” 

Recalling the very words he spoke, the man saw you with frantic eyes as his face was reddening from the lack of oxygen. With a rushed shake of the head and a face that was begging for sympathy, he tried to break free. “N-No, no. She’s—haaa! She’s all yours.” 

“Sylus, stop it.” You grabbed his arms and attempted your best to pull him away despite the trepidation that caused you goosebumps. “Please stop, you’re gonna kill him.” 

Every time you saw this demonic creature, you were learning new things about him and most of those things were of the worst kind. Not only was he possessive—he was diabolical, potentially obsessive, and a cutthroat sadist who wouldn’t even blink before ending someone’s life. This was the true nature of a demon, not some silly fantasy that today’s pop-culture portrayed them to be. 

He was a body without a soul.

Unfortunately, you should have thought twice before choosing to get involved with him. 

“That’s my plan, sweetie.” 

[astraloverflow]

Good Cop, Bad Cop (They're Both Bad)

Basically cop!König and cop!Ghost pull you over Since my current König post is going to take a while, I decided to cook up this little post for you guys, I hope you enjoy it :) If there's enough traction, maybe I'll make a part 2, lemme know what you guys think <3 TW: power dynamics oh my, manipulation, implied smut, implied non-con/ dub-con WC: 4046 MDNI

The asphalt stretches ahead, darkness swallowing far beyond your line of sight. Your dim, aging headlights carve a soft path through the void for your eager eyes to make out, their yellow glow flickering against the cracked asphalt; trees loom on either side, their twisted branches reaching, almost as if to grab you. The night is thick and quiet— too quiet. Each bump in the road rattles through your hands on the wheel, a reminder that you’re alone out here. Or at least, you should be.

You push your foot on the gas, watching the speedometer climb up, noticing an abandoned car on the side of the dirt as you whiz by it. It’s customary to see at least one on these long deserted back roads. You’ve always wondered what ends up happening to these cars that are left behind by their owners. Do they rust away, staying on these streets? Do they get towed away? Broken into? Stolen?

You don’t think much more of it and continue tearing up the road, tapping your finger idly on the steering wheel, mimicking the music beating loudly through the speakers, wanting to get home as fast as possible. You’ve never been a fan of driving at night, especially not this late and alone. 

Suddenly, the headlights of this so-called abandoned vehicle come to life in the distance, flashes of red and blue catch your attention from the rearview mirror, and your heart sinks in dread, “fuck.” 

The police car eases its way off the gravel that lines the side of the street and onto the concrete. For a moment, the car gets smaller and smaller, your speed creating distance between the array of flashes, and you hope that this distance consumes the car straight out of your sight. To your dismay, the vehicle starts to speed its way to you, lights becoming more pronounced and more difficult to ignore. 

You curse yourself and pivot your foot from the gas onto the break, slowing your vehicle down steadily. Due to the sheer speed you were driving at, it takes a moment for the car to decelerate. The dial on the speedometer shifts counterclockwise and you watch as the numbers slowly crawl down, as if dying. After a few seconds, the car is slowed enough to pull it onto the shoulder of the road, tires crunching as they make contact with the gravel, the car rolling to a stop. Your heart is pitter-pattering in your chest, and your hand that was shaking from the sudden rush of adrenaline reaches for the transmission to push upwards on the knob, parking the car, doors unlocking with a click at the gear change. Your foot lifts off the break, and the car steadies itself with a small roll, tires locking. Instinctively pressing down the red and white triangle button on top of your audio system, the hazard lights flick on, imitating the tick of a metronome to illuminate the crushed rocks beneath the vehicle slightly. You’ve never so much as stolen anything before, being pulled over and having to face authorities in these conditions makes your stomach sink into a pit. As you ruminate, the police cruiser slows behind you, parking itself, lights still flashing wildly. You lament the situation, thoughts flooding your mind about how stupid it was for the cops to be here in the first place. It’s practically empty almost all of the time on these backroads, especially at this hour of the night; it doesn’t make sense to you why any kind of law enforcement would wait for a driver to pass by just to nail them with a ticket.

You almost forget that you’ve been pulled over, sucked into your thoughts, until you see a large figure exit the vehicle from the rearview mirror. Your heart jumps at this, and you quickly reach for your glove compartment to grab your vehicle registration, closing the door with a thud. A sharp knock at the window makes you jump and turn your head. He was fast, you thought you had at least a few more seconds. The officer bends at the hip after a moment, leering into the car, and you push down on the window switch, watching the glass disappear into the driver's side door.

You strain your eyes trying to make out his face in the dark, noticing that it is obscured by some sort of cloth, the only part visible being his eyes. You’ve never seen an officer hide their face before, let alone with a piece of fabric.

“License and registration,” he says, accent cutting through the silence like a knife, reaching your ears. 

“One second, sorry,” you stammer, grabbing your wallet in the middle console, unzipping it and pulling out a plastic card. You hand him both the registration papers and your license, and he takes them, gloved fingers brushing against your own for a fleeting second. Your heart jumps at this contact, already overstimulated by being pulled over— you retract your hand, placing both your palms onto your lap, beginning to think of excuses.

He stares down at the card, holding it in his large hand. Your name leaves his lips as he repeats it, reading it off of the thin piece of plastic, “Do you know how fast you were going?” His eyes flick up, boring into your own. The dark makes it hard for your brain to construct his eyes, but the light from your dashboard is enough to see the cold expression he holds in them, blue irises a thin line around his blown pupils.

“Uhm.. no officer,” you hesitate, a bit quieter than you had hoped for your words to come out. 

“About thirty over,” he states matter of factly before looking into your car, eyes catching your outfit, “What are you doing out this late?” 

You feel your mouth go dry at this. The truth is you were just at a house party, celebrating the end of a successful-ish semester. It was about 1:30 am now as you sat in your car trying to come up with any semblance of a believable story. You told yourself you weren’t going to drink, not having a ride back home, being forced to take yourself back to your place through the outskirts of the city at the end of the night. You told yourself. You even made sure to reject any and all alcohol until a close friend of yours urged you, drunkenly begging you to take a shot to celebrate finishing classes. “One can’t hurt, just drink some water after, you’ll be fine, please, for me?” Your friend’s words ring in your ears, and you wallow at yourself for being guilted into taking two more after their initial coercion. It’s been an hour since that, but fear creeps up at the thought of a breathalyzer test. Although you felt sober, you knew the test would not reflect that, and would get you in trouble with the bulky officer staring down at you from your left. It was best to just not act suspicious, take the ticket, and reap the consequences to your bank account later.

“I was just at a friend’s house. Stayed up too late watching a movie, so I decided I needed to get home,” you respond, lying through your teeth, hoping it was convincing enough, feigning a small smile nervously. 

The man hums in thought and you feel relief, thinking he bought your lie. He pauses before speaking up again, “Wearing that?”

You look down at your outfit, a pair of jeans and a tiny top that did little to preserve your dignity. You wish you brought a sweater. Arms almost immediately wrap around your waist, insecurity filling you whole. “Yes...” You murmur, hoping he won’t question you further than that. 

He breaks eye contact and motions towards the vehicle parked a few feet behind yours, almost like he was calling someone. You watch from the rearview mirror as another figure steps out, this time from the passenger's seat. Their silhouette looked almost entirely black, except for the white on their face that reflected the red and blue lights spinning on the top of the car. The figure’s boots made contact with the ground and crunched softly as they made a few strides towards the other man. “Ran a check, looks good on my end. Yours?” His voice was deep, with an accent behind it that you could only assume was from somewhere in England, something rough and commanding in its tone.

“Can’t say the same,” the taller man speaks out, eyes flickering to yours for a brief moment before quickly shifting away to meet the man standing beside him. The officer with the white mask makes his way toward the other, and as he closes the gap, your mind scrambles to make sense of his appearance. Squinting, you notice that the mask covering his face is white, with strange grooves etched into it that resemble the jagged shape of a skull, deep and haunting. His eyes are like dark, void-like holes that seem to bore right through you as he passes, there’s something unnatural about the way he carries himself, something predatory, and you can’t seem to pry your eyes away.

“What’ve we got ‘ere?” The shorter man, not to imply that his height was by any means unimpressive, chimes, his voice oddly casual. He leans towards the open window of the car, placing one forearm on the side of the metal encasing you safely, almost like a prison.

“Suspected intoxication,” the hooded man speaks up, his tone flat and emotionless. His words hang in the air, each one settling in your chest with an increasing heaviness. The other hums, eyes scanning you once more, but unlike the cold blue ones of the officer standing behind him, his gaze isn’t as icey, there’s something deeper in it, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“You been drinkin’ sweetheart?” His voice is laced with a syrupy sweetness that makes your stomach flip. The term ‘sweetheart’ rolls off his tongue like a curse, and the word itself feels out of place as if he’s using it to control the situation, to unsettle you. The question hits you hard, and your stomach drops with the weight of an anchor. The unease in your gut tightens into full-blown dread. Something about this doesn’t sit right with you. This isn’t how any regular traffic stop should feel, is it?

When you don’t immediately answer, his voice shatters the silence again, colder now, sharper, “Talk to me.” 

You feel your throat tighten, words barely escaping your lips as you answer meekly, “I haven’t..” It’s almost a whisper, barely audible against the growing noise in your head. The man at your window continues to stare at you, eyes piercing, trying to get a read of the situation, searching for any information he could use against you.

“Ghost.” The voice calls from behind him, a demand. The man you now know as Ghost turns, his posture stiff, his gaze flicking to the other looming behind him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, voice laced with annoyance. Shaking his head with a slight scoff, turning back to face you, his eyes crinkle in the corner softly, and you imagine that behind his odd display of a face, is a smile— though something about this situation makes it feel like a threat.

Watching this play out is frightening, to say the least. You feel your pulse quicken, and every second that passes tightens the knot in your stomach. You don’t know if this is the experience most people face when pulled over at night, or if it was just your terrible luck. You don’t have any prior experience to compare it to, but something in your heart screamed at you that this was wrong, something was terribly wrong here.

You stare at Ghost, now leaning forward slightly as he tilts his head. His voice breaks through your racing thoughts, low and silky, “Why doncha step outta the vehicle for us?”

Your body freezes. You aren’t entirely sure why you reacted this way; regardless of what it was, the suffocating feeling, the lead weight against your chest did not waver. Every single instinct inside you is telling you to get out of this situation. 

“Did’ja hear me?” His voice shatters through the silence again, sharper now, and the calm, almost bored tone from before disappears, replaced with a command, “Turn the ignition off, n’ step out, love.”

The instructions linger in the air like a final warning, and despite every fibre of your being telling you to refuse, your shaking hands reach for your keys nestled in the ignition and you twist, the engine dying, along with the lights at the head of your vehicle. Holding the keys in your hand, you step out of the car, hesitantly. Ghost steps back to give you space to open the car door and exit. You stand and immediately notice how he dwarfs your height, looking down at you through his skull mask, arms crossed over his police vest. The red and blue spinning on top of the police car creates a cast of colours, allowing you to still make out the scene in front of you despite the darkness that engulfs the scenery. You notice a dark streak across the white letters that read out ‘POLICE’ across his chest. In blue light, it looks almost black, but as the red circles back around, you make out a faint scarlet colour. 

Blood? 

Your eyes focus on it, your heart skipping a beat. Though the thought barely forms in your head before he speaks again, “Hands against the car, love, turn around.”

You blink, not understanding or comprehending the sudden demand, “What?” You ask, almost automatically, surprised at his sudden order.

“Gonna search’cha. Turn around, hands on the hood of the car. It’s standard protocol, isn’t that right König?” He remarks, turning to look at the man behind him. His words are so casual, so rehearsed, and it takes you a second, but you're suddenly hyper-aware of the looming presence of the larger man, König, who just nods in approval. 

You aren’t well versed in what your rights are exactly, despite seeing countless posts online urging you to become aware in case some cop tries to take advantage of your ignorance. You think back on those moments you’ve scrolled past and feel regret, maybe you should have been more cautious, should have taken some more time to read up on it. The thought of outright saying no flicks through your mind, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came; you’re not entirely sure if you have the right to refuse, so you comply and turn to face your vehicle slowly, moving your arms to place your trembling hands on the hood, still warm from the engine. “Good girl,” he whispers with a growl from behind you.

The words make your skin crawl, sending a wave of nausea through your gut. You want to turn around, stand your ground, and demand answers. You want to scream at him, ask why he pulled you over in the first place, especially here, in this deserted, dark stretch of road. But your body is frozen, your limbs heavy with a deep, paralyzing dread. You can’t speak. You can’t move.

As you find the courage to open your mouth and protest, a wall of muscle presses up behind you— the air is forced out of your lungs in a sharp, startled gasp, and all that escapes your throat is a choked sound, trapped and desperate. It dies instantly at the pressure as if your body knows it’s powerless to stop what’s happening. A nudge from something stiff, something heavy, something warm, presses against your lower back, and the sensation almost makes you fall forward, but you keep your hands on the car, shakily. “What are you doing?” You ask, heat rising to your ears, your voice quiet and cracking, breaking under the weight of the situation.

“Just gonna check ‘ya angel, no need to panic.” Ghost’s voice is smooth as his hands start to move along your sides, gliding over your trembling skin with cold precision as he pushes his hips into you, eliciting another small yelp from you that serves to bring heat straight to your face at the feeling of his hardness against your spine. He then slowly moves down each leg, bending at the knees to pat down your thighs, not before grabbing at the skin, and moving to your ankles. You’re humiliated, and you have to stifle the urge to ask him why this is even necessary. Your top is small, and your pants are tight against your skin, they’d be able to see if you had anything in your pockets, concealed away. His leather-clad hands are along your body. And then, he stands back up, his hands lingering near your stomach, just shy of touching your chest. You can feel the tension hanging between you two, the thin line between a normal pat-down and something much worse. His fingers hover, almost hesitant as if testing the waters, “You don’t mind, do ya?” 

You blink at this, your head spinning. Is this normal? He asked for permission, didn’t he? Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe he’s just doing his job, and you’re just nervous. But the doubt gnaws at you. You’ve heard of cops acting imposing, standing tall with a panoptic gaze, demanding submission without ever needing to speak a word. You’ve heard stories of them using that authority to cross boundaries with people— no, to break them entirely.

You’ve always struggled with confrontation. You’ve tended to let things slide before and made excuses for bad behaviour. It’s like a habit, but this, this is different. This is too much. The unease deepens into something darker. Something inside you screams to fight back, to speak up, to demand that they stop.

But all that comes out is a whisper, barely audible, “I’m a little uncomfortable.” The words feel weak, but you force them out, your voice trembling. You hope that’s enough— that the honesty will be enough to make him stop.

He was teetering the edge of patting you down, and groping you; you’re not sure if this is what a standard pat down is considered to be. You’ve seen people get checked at the airport after stepping through the scanners, lighting up with a flash, at the indication that something was out of place— it was quick, fast, non-invasive. But this. This felt like he was about to grab at your very soul, so tightly that it might as well burst in his hands, deflating any sense of pride or dignity you had left with a harsh crack and spill of the contents. “Poor thing’s uncomfortable,” Ghost murmurs with a frown, turning to look at König.

The other man doesn’t say anything at first, his towering figure casting a long shadow over you, but when he speaks, his voice is commanding, “Enough, Ghost.” Relief surges through you as Ghost steps back, his lips curling slightly in irritation as he clicks his tongue, finally, some distance. But your pulse doesn’t slow; it races, your heart still pounding in your ears, as the confusion and fear hang thick in the air, choking the space around you. Maybe they’ve decided to let you go now, but something in you tells you this isn't over. 

Your thoughts are silenced as your hands are suddenly grabbed from where they were resting, being maneuvered roughly behind your back. The sudden action makes you lose balance and fall forward with a yelp. When you make a move to straighten your torso up, a hand reaches the nape of your neck to keep you pinned to the hood of your car roughly, your chest and side of your face becoming dirty with the dust covering your vehicle. The taller man leans over your body, and you’re brought to your tippy toes as he does this, his erection pushing harshly against your ass. The cloth on his face drapes over your shoulder as he brings his mouth close to your ear, “You’re too soft with her, asking if it’s okay if she doesn’t mind. Slut like her doesn’t care about shit like that. Look at what she’s wearing… Begging for it, on display for us.” The way he spoke into your ear made your heart seize up. He spoke directly to you, but referred to you in the second person, dehumanizing you even further, not even addressing you as equal to them. This was beyond humiliating, beyond anything you would have expected. 

“Get off of me,” you protest, with a tone less than convincing. The one holding you down laughs, a chuckle breaking through his throat.

He thinks this is some kind of joke. 

“Fuck, Ghost,” he chortles, the sound low and sinister, dripping with mockery. “You should see how she’s trembling under me right now. It’s pathetic,” His voice cuts through the stillness, like a sharp blade, and the way he savours the words makes your stomach churn. Each laugh feels like a slap to your senses, echoing in your skull, ringing louder than the panic surging through your veins.

“Fucking bitch doesn’t even know we aren’t actually cops,” he says, and just like that, the ground shifts beneath your feet and your entire world is upside down. Your breath has ceased, and your lungs feel as if they were taken straight out of your ribcage. “We put on a good show for you though, right? Pulling you over like that? Saying you were going 30 over, Ghost saying he ran a check on you.”  A laugh spills from his lips again, thick with satisfaction, and every syllable feels like it's pulling you deeper into a pit of dread.

It’s as if time stops. The world tilts sideways, and your body goes cold. The weight of his words presses down on you, and you realize, with sickening clarity, that everything you thought you understood was a lie. The badge, the uniforms, the flashing lights— all of it was just a performance. A sick game.

“Cops in this area have no backbone,” König starts, with a sickening satisfaction lingering on the ends of his words, “They were so easy to take down too, Schatz, you have no idea.” Another laugh billows out from his chest, “Where else do you think we got this uniform from? The cruiser?” 

Your heart is pounding so loudly, and everything starts to click. The blood on Ghost’s vest, you should have known. You want to move, to escape, but your body feels like stone. The world around you is suddenly too small, suffocating like the walls are closing in with every laugh, every word. You want to scream, but the sound won’t come. A tear runs down the bridge of your nose and König hums, leaning in close to you to breathe in the scent of your fear, “Love breaking girls like you, fuck.”

Ghost remains silent in the corner, his eyes watching, but you can’t tell if he’s complicit or detached from the cruel charade. You’re too far gone to care now. All that matters is the cold truth sinking into you like a heavyweight. Your mouth goes dry, the room spinning as the sick realization settles in harshly. You weren’t just caught in a trap. You were the prey, and every moment of this has been designed to break you, to twist you into their game.

Your eyes look backwards to meet Ghost’s, and you plead to him with begging eyes, for him to say anything, to get the man on top of you off, give you some sense of respite, some room to breathe, some time to process what is happening. As you thought you were starting to make progress, looking at Ghost with such a sad, pleading look, König notices and glares down at you. He leans into your ear again and speaks words that make you feel like you’ve died, a million times over and over again, “Oh Schatz,” he chuckles with a small sigh, sounding almost disappointed at your display, “Don’t look at him like that, he’s just waiting his turn.”

[xprinceling]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆desire: unleashed

.ೃ࿐𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒

ׂ╰┈➤s. 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 wc. 2k p.𝑓𝑒𝑚!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒!𝑗𝑎𝑘𝑒 w.𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑠𝑒𝑥 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑣𝑒, 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑒 n. ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠!

three weeks had passed since the world twisted on its axis - since your best friend’s laughter dimmed into silence, since jake’s hands stopped feeling warm. three weeks since he disappeared for two endless nights and came back completely changed, the boy you once knew half-swallowed by something sharp, ancient and utterly broken.

you found him crouched in an underbrush, soaked to the bone, trembling uncontrollibly, his clothes torn and fingers painted red, like some kind of creature of myth. jake’s face had been unrecognisable at first - eyes wild, teeth sharp, the scent of blood clinging to him like second skin - and yet, beneath it all, it was still him. the same boy who had once tried to build you a treehouse and cried when he fell. the one who always carried gum for you even though he hated the taste.

you didn’t flinch when you discovered him. instead, you reached out with trembling hands, whispering his name into the quiet.

-

since that starry night, the two of you had resembled ghosts, drifting from one dark corner of the world to the next - motels, abandoned cabins, forests with no names, just to not get caught by hunters. you learned to sleep lightly and move quickly, to read the woods like a living, breathing thing. jake never stayed in one place for more than a day. you never asked what he did when he quietly slipped away at dusk with shadows marking his eyes, but you always felt it when he returned - colder, quieter, marked with guilt he never dared to voice.

you didn’t need him to say it, beacuse you knew.

he was hungry and not in the way humans hunger - not for warmth, food or touch - but in a way that clawed at his insides, gnawed at his conscience, and left painful bruises behind his ribs.

and yet, no matter how starved he became, he never touched you, not even once. that was more than a promise, a vow he was never going to break.

-

the pursuit today had been brutal in every way.

dogs barking, branches tearing, the glint of silver blades in the dark. you’d barely managed to outrun the hunters, lungs burning and heart threatening to crack your chest open. jake had pulled you after him, never letting go of your wrist, the two of you moving like a single shadow through the forest until you reached the edge of a cliff.

and then you jumped - a moment of wind, a heartbeat suspended in time. you had no idea if you were going to make it, but you trusted jake. and if you were going to die, then doing it with him would hurt a bit less.

the roar of the waterfall was endless - you were falling for what felt like an eternity, yet you still had your consciousness. you weren’t gone, your grip on jake’s hand unwavering.

suddenly, you were here beneath the god of water, which you just had a ride on. a cavern veiled by sheets of falling light, hidden from the world above. your body was more than shaking, soaked and aching, but you were okay, and all you could see was him standing with his back to you, rainwater streaming from his hair, muscles taut like he was barely holding something back.

you didn’t dare speak at first. you only watched the rise and fall of jake’s broad, freshly scarred shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides as if resisting the urge to claw at himself. there was something frayed about him, fragile, as though he was moments from unraveling entirely.

when you finally took the courage to whisper his name, it came soft, raw, unsure. jake turned slowly, like it pained him to do so, and you met his eyes. they were not the warm amber you remembered - they glowed faintly now, gold laced with hunger, a storm brewing behind them.

you slowly stepped forward, which resulted in him flinching.

“i’m fine.” - he muttered, voice hoarse and low, but you knew him too well - that tone meant anything but. his hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white, jaw tight with restraint.

“you’re not” - you said gently, reaching for him even as he recoiled.

“don’t.” - he growled -“don’t get close.”

but you did. you always did.

“jake” - you whispered, fingertips grazing the edge of his torn-apart sleeve, “please. let me help.”

“i’m not human anymore” - he spat, each word bitter and full of shame. “i don’t even know what i am. i shouldn’t be anywhere near you. i want-”- he cut off, breath shuddering.

“i know”- you said. you swallowed hard, throat tight- “you’re starving.”

jake turned his face away- “i could hurt you.”

“you won’t.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i do.”

he finally met your gaze again, and the anguish there was unbearable - raw and unfiltered, like an open wound. jake looked like a man being torn apart from the inside. you could see the hunger, yes, but deeper still, there was fear. of himself, of losing control, of losing you.

and still - even now - there was longing - a different kind.

one he didn’t know you had in yourself too. onehe hadn’t said out loud. not yet.

so you decided to say it for him.

“i love you, jake.”

the words fell into the cavern like a confession carved in stone.

he stared at you, stunned, as though the idea had never occurred to him. love was something reserved for only for humans, for lives not dipped in blood and darkness.

“i love you.” - you say again, slower this time - “not because i pity you, not because i think i can fix you in any way, but because you’ve always been the one for me, the one, who occupies every crook of my heart. even before this.”

jake took a step toward you, then another.

the fear didn’t leave his face. if anything, it deepened- “you don’t understand what you’re saying” - he breathes. -“if you stay with me, you’ll be hunted too. you’ll never be safe. and i don’t even know if i can ever go back to who I was before.”

“i don’t want who you were” - you said, stepping forward until there was barely an inch between you - “i want you. whoever you are now.”

something twisted inside him then.

a sound escaped his throat - half sob, half growl - and his arms were around you before you could blink. he buried his face in the curve of your soft, wet neck, his breath icy, grip almost too tight. but it wasn’t violent. it was desperate, like a man trying to keep himself from sinking.

you pressed your lips to the side of his head and whispered -“you’re not a monster.”

“i am.”

“fine. so be it.”

he pulled back, just enough to look at your expression, and then jake’s mouth was on yours in the span of a heartbeat.

the kiss was nothing like you had imagined. it wasn’t soft, patient or hesitant - it was fierce, unsteady, like he was fighting himself even as he was giving in. his lips were cold at first, but they warmed quickly against yours, moving with a hunger that wasn’t about your pulse, but something far deeper.

you kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for years -the ache, the unbearable love. your hands buried themselves into his wet, messyy hair as he pressed you against the stone wall of the cave, your breaths mixing in frantic gasps between kisses.

he was shaking not from cold, but restraint. his hands cradled your face like he was terrified you’d break under his touch.

“i’ve wanted this” - he said against your lips, voice breaking -“before all of this. before i changed.”

“so have i” - you breathed.

jake leaned his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, caught between ruin and salvation.

“i can’t lose you.” - he whispered

“and you won’t.” - you answered

you didn’t know who leaned in first this time, but when your lips met again, it was slower. deeper. the taste of him was wild and aching.

’’jake?’’ - you pulled away just enough to whisper

’’yes?’’

‘’please.’’ - you uttered, voice pleading for something you knew was going to torture his thirst to the maximum. your eyes were glistening with desire as you looked up at him, only to find the same expression written all over his own face.

jake lifted you into his arms and carried you deeper into the cave, where moss carpeted the stone and the sound of falling water felt like a heartbeat surrounding you. the world was nothing but shadows and breath. nothing but him and the way he touched you like you were something holy.

he laid you down like an untold prayer, and just before your bodies fell into each other completely, before you surrendered everything, he looked into your eyes and said:

“you’re the only thing keeping me even slightly human.”

then he dove into your scent completely. you were devastatingly beautiful under the weight of jake’s body - lips plump, skin wet and glowing, eyelashes fluttering up at him like he was the brightest star in the whole night sky. he loved you, and god was he willing to do anything to prove it to you now.

jake’s fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his touch featherlight, as if you might dissolve beneath him. his eyes - dark as the deepest night, yet alight with something hungry and tender - burned into yours. you arched into jake, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the unnatural stillness of his undead heart.

a shudder ran through him. his lips crashed against yours, not with the brutal hunger you had half-expected, but with a desperate, aching reverence. the kiss was deep, slow, intoxicating - each movement of his mouth against yours a promise, a plea.

jake’s hands roamed your body with a lover’s patience, learning every dip and curve as if you were truly sacred. the thin, almost destroyed fabric of your clothes was an unbearable barrier, and when his fingers finally slipped beneath, you gasped at the coolness of his touch against your fevered skin.

he worshiped you with his mouth, your throat, collarbone, the swell of your breasts - each kiss a brand, each sigh from your lips a torment to his restraint. you could feel the tension in him, the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back, the way his fangs grazed your skin in fleeting, dangerous caresses.

"tell me to stop" - he breathed against her stomach, voice ragged.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him up to meet your gaze. "never."

the word undid him.

his hips pressed against yours, and you felt him - hard, aching, every inch of him alive with need. the moss beneath cradled your bodies as he moved his dick inside you, rhythm slow at first, savoring the way you clenched around his length, the way your breath hitched when he filled you completely.

the mist clung to your skin, the waterfall’s song a relentless echo of your own pounding heart. jake buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts as he fought the unbearable urge to sink his fangs into your tender flesh.

"fuck, i want-" - he growled, voice thick with hunger.

"i know-" - you moaned, tilting your head back, baring your throat to him in reckless trust.

but jake only kissed you there, soft and lingering, before capturing your lips again. his thrusts grew deeper, more urgent, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, as if they had been made for this, for each other.

when the pleasure finally crested, it was your name on jake’s lips as he spilled inside. you followed him over the edge, your cry lost in the thunder of the falls, body trembling with the force of your release.

afterward, he held you close, fingers tracing idle patterns on your damp skin. the hunger still simmered in his gaze, but beneath it was something far more dangerous, something eternal.

and as the waterfall roared on, you knew - this was only the beginning.

-

divider credits: cursed-carmine

[i2sunric]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 (p.js)

PAIRING: hades!jay x persephone!reader

SUMMARY: labelled as unable of being loved, jay decides to steal a mortal to rule his realm with. what he hasn’t expected, though, is that it wasn’t you who he kidnapped, you had stolen his heart.

WARNINGS: kidnapping, enemies to lovers (but only reader hates jay), greek mythology, mentions of other idols as Gods, kisses. lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 22nd December 2024

WC: 3.5k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @who-tf-soddhi (oneshot) @monstaxdirtywonk @love4choso @heechwe

a/n: guess who’s back, back again. lol, i’m so happy with how this turned out! and i sincerely hope y’all like it too 🩷 have some nice holidays!

The gods of Olympus were never silent. Their laughter and taunts echoed across the heavens, filling their golden halls with noise and light.

Among them, Hades — so few knew him as Jay — was the quiet shadow in their midst.

Rarely did he grace their celebrations, his duties below pulling him away from the vanity of their world.

But he wasn't deaf to their jests.

“He'll never know love," Hermes — whose former name was Jungwon — had said to one banquet, leaning onto his caduceus with a smirk.

"Who would want to walk in those dark halls with him?" Aphrodite chimed in, her melodic laughter cutting through the room.

Jay had sat silent, his face impassive, but their words lodged deep within him.

He had never been a creature of longing— his domain demanded stern control, not vulnerability. And yet, as centuries passed, a hollow ache had begun to grow.

Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps he would remain alone. But then, there was the smallest flicker of rebellion within him.

“Let them doubt me," he whispered, his voice cold as the mist of the Styx. "I will find someone who can see me for what I really am."

♡.

Jay seldom visited the mortal world. It was too loud, too bright, too alive.

But something had pulled him there that day, a whisper in the back of his mind, a tenuous tug he could not ignore. And so, he walked among the mortals, his dark robes altered to blend in with their simple garb.

The sun beat above, merciless. Apollo — also known as Heeseung — really enjoyed making mundanes suffer. Mortals bustled around him, their voices a cacophony of trivial concerns.

He had nearly given up, retreating toward the shaded edge of a golden orchard, when his eyes fell on you.

You stood beneath an ancient apple tree, reaching up toward the highest branches.

Your hands grasped the fruit carefully, inspecting each apple before placing it in your basket.

The sun played in your hair, catching the edges of your figure like a halo. But it wasn't your beauty that arrested him; it was the way you moved— with confidence, with purpose.

Suddenly, a strange thought assailed him: You belonged in no one's shadow. It seemed as if not even the apple’s shadow could make you lose your spark.

A step closer he came, and almost faltered. You laughed softly as you took a bite of the sweet fruit, a slice of sound that cut through the din around him. Something in his chest stirred. An unfamiliar pull, sharp and insistent.

Before he knew better, he acted.

The earth had shaken beneath your feet, and you had stood stock-still, startled.

A chill had saturated the air, unnatural and heavy. You turned, your gaze darting around for the source, but the orchard had fallen silent.

Then the earth rent asunder. Shadows poured from it, twisting and coiling like living things. Swimming around you like water would from a waterfall.

Up from the chasm rose a chariot of black iron, its wheels spinning silently above the broken earth. The horses were ghostly, their eyes glowing like dying embers.

Your breath caught in your throat as a figure stepped from the chariot, the bitten apple falling on the ground, rolling. He was cloaked in darkness, his hood obscuring his face, but his presence was overwhelming.

Power radiated from him, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight.

"Who—" Your voice broke, trembling with fear and defiance. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer, only lifted a hand. The shadows surged forward, binding your legs like chains. You cried out, struggling against them, but they held fast.

"Let me go!" you shouted, anger flashing through your terror.

Jay raised a brow; he moved closer, and for the first time, you caught a glimpse of his face beneath the hood.

His features were sharp, almost otherworldly, and his eyes were a cold, unyielding gray.

"I cannot," he whispered, and then before you could reply, he took you into his embrace.

You struggled against him, your fists pounding against his chest, but it was like hitting stone. He stepped back onto the chariot, holding you fast as the horses reared and plunged into the chasm.

The world above disappeared in a swirl of darkness as you lost your senses.

♡.

When you awoke, you were no longer in the orchard.

The air was cool and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that sent shivers down your spine.

You sat up slowly, your heart pounding as you took in your surroundings. The chamber was huge, its walls carved from gleaming black stone that seemed to drink in the dim red light emanating from the ceiling.

And there, sat on an obsidian throne on the other end of the room, was him.

He watched you intently— his hood discarded, with pale skin and a face chiseled, striking yet severe. His dark eyes felt to see right through you, and you hated the way your breath caught under his gaze.

Hades. Ruler of the Underworld.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. You stood shakily, glaring at him. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed a queen," he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls. "A queen? You think I'd ever agree to rule this… this pit with you?"

His expression didn't change, though you could have sworn you saw a flicker of something in his eyes-annoyance, perhaps, or amusement.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You don't have a choice."

That struck a nerve. Your hands curled into fists, and despite the fear twisting in your gut, you stepped closer. "No one owns me," you hissed. "Not you, not anyone.”

For the first time, his calm cracked.

He rose with a slow, deliberate movement, and all the weight of his presence came down on you.

"I am Hades," he said, his voice thundering with power. "God of the Underworld, you are here because I chose you, and you will learn to accept that."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. "And if I don't?"

The silence hung heavy between you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he looked away. "Then you'll remain here as my prisoner. Either way, you belong to me now."

You swallowed hard, anger and fear warring within you. But one thought rose above the rest: You will not let him break you.

With the snap of his fingers, two servants in the form of a skeleton appeared in front of you. They looked at you with their void eyes and then turned around, walking.

You glanced up at Jay, who only beckoned you to follow them.

A scoff escaped your lips as you did just that, anything would be better than staying in the same room as him.

The skeleton's bones made a funny noise as they walked you down the neve -ending hallways. The castle was huge, crimson coated the walls as well as dark black.

“So,” you cleared your throat “Is your boss always like that? Or does he change expressions sometimes?” you tried to joke, but the skeletons didn’t reply.

Of course, they didn’t even have lips, “You can’t tell me anything, uh? Not even where the exit is?”

They just stopped in front of a door, opening it for you. Taking the hint, you slowly stepped inside, cautious.

The chamber was so spacious for only one person, a bed stood in the middle of the room, its sheets a dark shade of red.

The walls were coated with drawings of black dahlias, the ceiling so high it made you think the room never actually ended.

The skeletons closed the door behind your back, leaving you there, alone.

You walked to the bed, sitting on its edge. At least, the mattress was soft, the sheets silk and warm.

You finally allowed a sob to escape your lips, another followed and then another again.

Gods always did what they wanted, never truly considering someone’s feelings. You hated them, but more than anything, you hated Hades.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, if he wanted a wife, you’d show him just what you were made of.

♡.

The tension hung between you like a storm cloud.

Jay had come to visit you when you woke up, followed by a skeleton that placed a trail of pomegranate on your bed.

You didn’t know how much you slept, neither of it was morning or night. The Underworld had no light.

“I hope the chamber is of your likings.” He spoke after an awkward silence. You dared glance at him, but daren’t reply.

Jay let out a soft sigh, “It is the only fruit that grows in my realm, if you want anything in particular, I’ll have one of my servants fetch you something from the orchard in the Olympus.”

Finally, you reached down, picking up the pomegranate. Its scent was sweet, and the faint shimmer of the seeds made them look like tiny jewels.

Usually, you’d go crazy for the bittersweet fruit, but the Underworld made even that look dead, poisonous.

You turned it in your hands as if inspecting it. "And what if I refuse to eat?" you asked, tone sharp.

Jay's lips quirked in what might have been amusement, though it was fleeting. "You won't," he said simply, his voice soft but sure.

Your glare deepened. "How do you know?"

"Because you don't hate life," he said. "Even here, in this place you claim to despise, you'll find a reason to keep going.”

The words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but no words came.

You picked up one of the seeds between your fingers, observing the way the surface shimmered before finally placing it into your mouth.

The flavor burst on your tongue, sweet and tart, and for a moment, you were reminded of the orchards above— the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair, the simple joy of being free.

Jay watched you in silence, his expression unreadable. When you finally set the pomegranate down, he inclined his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your evening," he said, turning to go.

So, it was evening.

But before he could go, your voice stopped him. "Wait."

He turned back; his eyes were steady but questioning.

"Why do you keep trying?" you asked, quieter now. "Why not just leave me to my misery? Use me just for your plans?” after all, it would be typical of the Gods.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, stepping closer, he spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried across the room, “Because I've spent eternity surrounded by shadows, and for the first time, there's a light here."

His words had left you speechless for a moment. He bowed his head slightly and then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

♡.

The Underworld had a strange beauty to it, though you’d fought to see it.

The palace gardens, in particular, drew your attention on restless nights— or days. They were like nothing you’d ever encountered in the mortal world.

The flowers glowed faintly, their petals a soft silver-blue, and streams of water that sparkled like liquid starlight wove between them.

It was here, one evening, that you sat on a stone bench, your eyes fixed on the ghostly blooms. You didn't hear Jay approach until he spoke.

"You come here often," he said, his voice quiet.

You startled slightly but didn't turn. "I don't have many options," you replied, your tone still edged with defiance.

You had tried to wander around the castle, and Jay let you, but whenever you came too close to the exit, a puddle of shadows rose from the ground and brought you back to your chamber.

Jay sat beside you, leaving enough space to show he wasn't trying to intrude. He looked out at the garden, his gray eyes contemplative. "These flowers," he said after a moment, "Only grow here, nowhere else in existence."

You glanced at him, surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "You care about them?"

"They're life in a place where life shouldn't exist," he said simply.

The words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of understanding: the Underworld wasn't just a prison to him— it was a responsibility, a realm he nurtured despite its darkness.

It was the realm given to him by his father, and it was his job to keep it going, no matter how much he despised it.

After a moment, you exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Why do you do that?"

He looked at you, brow furrowed. "Do what?

“Say things that make it hard to hate you,” you said, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, perhaps weeks or months. Time seemed to flow slower there.

But you thought it would be easier to hate him, had he been scarier and less gentle. His sharp edges always seemed to soften whenever you walked into the room, and his clothes clung to his form, revealing a body any girl from your village would go crazy about.

Not that you stared at it too much, of course.

To your surprise, Jay’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. “I thought you’d hate me forever.”

“I’m still considering it,” you shot back, though the teasing note in your voice was unmistakable.

Jay chuckled softly, the sound low and unfamiliar. For the first time, the weight between you seemed to lift, if only slightly.

“Will you ever let me see the light again? The orchard?” or your family. Would your parents be worried, or had Jay already cast a spell on them?

“Depends,” he spoke, “Will you run away if I do.” fair point. The moment the sun kissed your skin again, you were sure you wouldn’t step inside this gloomy castle anymore.

Seeing your lack of reply, Jay just got up and turned around, murmuring “That’s what I thought.”

And for a seconds, you thought you saw something like hurt flicker in his eyes.

♡.

More time passed, and though you had resisted at first, you found yourself softening toward Jay. He had a quiet strength about him, a steady patience that wore down your walls like water against stone.

You spent most of your days in the library. Though your eyes weren’t used to the light anymore, your imagination worked just as fine.

You daydreamed of the life outside the suffocating walls of the Underworld’s castle, you dreamed of someone rescuing you.

And sometimes — but just sometimes — you fantasised about Jay, and his heart made of iron.

One night, as you sat by the fire in the great hall, he joined you, a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth clutched in his hand. "I have something for you," he said; his voice held a rare note of uncertainty. You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity pricked despite yourself. "Another 'gesture'?"

"Of a sort," he said. He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a delicate necklace of silver and black opals.

The stones shimmered like starlight, their glow faint but mesmerizing.

You stared at it, then at him. "Why?"

"It reminded me of you," he said simply. "Strong.. luminous, unyielding."

Your heart skipped a beat, though you fought to keep your expression neutral. "You think flattery will make me forgive you?"

"No," he said, holding the necklace out to you. "But it's the truth."

You hesitated, then reached out to take it. The metal was cool against your skin and for a moment, an odd sense of belonging overtook you, like this place, this moment wasn't entirely foreign.

"Thank you," you said softly and surprised yourself.

Jay's eyes relaxed, and for the first time, you saw not the god who had stolen you but the man beneath— the one who had spent centuries in solitude, yearning for connection.

for someone understanding, someone to love. Perhaps, you could learn to be just that.

You handed the necklace back to him, he looked at it, hurt. He thought you had rejected his gift, but as you turned around and held your hair up, his breath hitched.

“Would you help me put it on?” you questioned, your voice soft, unlike the usual bite it held.

“Of course.” Jay murmured quietly, his touch gentle as he put the jewel around your neck.

It fit perfectly, the dark necklace adorning your once tanned skin.

You smiled. holding it between your fingers, “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled.

Your eyes widened when he took in the sight, he smiled so warmly, and for a moment he even looked human.

“You’re beautiful.” Jay spoke, his voice so soft.

“Hades—“ You said, but he shook his head “Call me Jay.”

You gulped, the room suddenly feeling too hot, “Jay.” you repeated, the name rolling sweetly down your tone.

He let out a soft groan, like it both pained and healed him.

“I know you keep thinking ‘Why me?’” He murmured, caressing your cheek. The first time his skin met yours voluntarily “But for me, it has always been you— from the moment I saw you picking those apples, my heart belonged to you.”

You didn’t even have time to think about it, but your feet went on their tip-toes as you pressed your soft lips on his.

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. His eyes wide as body rigid, and for a moment you thought if maybe, he didn’t love you as much as he claimed.

But then, his hand held your face, the other tangled in your hair as his own lips moved on yours passionately.

Your fingers curled around his shirt, grounding you as uou got lost in the taste of him.

You took the hand that was on your cheek and guided it to rest on your racing heart, “Maybe you have the same effect on me.” You murmured on his lips.

His eyes darkened and he pulled away, “Will you marry me?”

You blinked faintly, your breath hitching at his straight-forwardness.

“Do I have a choice?” He stepped away, his breath still heavy from the kiss, “Yes— yes, I’m giving it to you right now.”

Your brows furrowed, so he added “If you think your future still belongs in the Olympus, then go. The door is actually just around the throne room.”

Jay gulped, hope flickering in his usually gloomy eyes “But if you have some sense of future here, with me, then stay. Stay and let me be your husband.”

You clenched your jaw and looked at the door of the throne room. If you exited it and followed the long hallway, you would be out.

You would see the light, feel the sun tickle your skin, see your family, your friends.

But you weren’t sure that was what you wanted anymore.

Your eyes set again on Jay. His expression had lost hope, like he had already lost.

But you smirked, crossing your arms over your chest “So,” you cleared your throat “When’s the wedding?”

A smile, brother than Apollo’s sun lit up his face as he closed the distance he had put and claimed your lips once more.

“Whenever you want, Y/N.”

♡.

In time, the Underworld became your home. Though the darkness remained, it no longer felt oppressive. The palace, once cold and foreign, now echoed with your laughter. And Jay, once a figure of hate, had become something else entirely.

One day, as you stood by the garden's edge, watching the silver streams flow, he approached you. His steps were quiet, but you felt his presence before you turned.

"You've changed this place," he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

You looked at him, a faint smile playing on your lips. "And you've changed me.

He reached out and took your hand in his, holding it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the ring. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with meaning.

Then he bowed his head slightly, his voice a low murmur "Will you teach me how to love you right?”

You looked at him, at the man who had once been your captor but was now so much more.

Slowly, you nodded. "I will."

[diejager]

Saccharine and Monstrosity pt.1

Pairing: Eldritch Horror!König x mermaid!reader

Cw: kidnapping, manipulation, DARK FIC, trap, luring, mention of breeding kink, protective König, mention of partial nudity, hunting, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 4K

I got inspired by @konigsblog ‘s post.

You enjoyed the sun as much as any other betta fish mermaid, laying on the warm rocks and bathing under the bright, yellow sun. You lived in a school of fish that moved near the shores of a tropical island a few generations before, building houses under the coral reef and rocks where newly placed branches would grow and work as a natural shield. The world you lived in - the part of the ocean you called your home - was bright and colourful, the shallow waters clear and gleaming under the warming sun.

You liked all things bright and colourful, either big or small, you decorated your part of the cave with things you found while swimming around your territory. Be it a golden coin shining on the ocean floor, or a shard of coloured glass, you picked it all up and stuck it around your room. Sometimes, you found pretty things near the limits of your home, and other times, you ventured closer to the edge of the darkness when something shiny caught your attention. 

Over the ridge of sand that drew the start of the darkness, that deep and menacing slope down to the deepest part of your ocean, where darker, meaner and cruel beings born of cruelty and madness lived. It was somewhere all mers were warned of, to stay far away from the darkness and never stray from the light that fed and protected you. You thrived in the light, your body absorbing the warmth from the sun that made your scales vibrant and feeding from the fauna and flora that lived beside you: seaweeds and small fishes. 

Your kind grew up with stories of horrifying monsters and cruel creatures that lived in that abyss, lingering near the shallow to catch a pretty, little mer for their hoard. Whatever became of the taken was still unknown, once a mer was taken by One, no one would hear from them from then on. Your parents had warned you about straying too close from the shallow, daring fate when you swam over the ridge to collect those pretty gems you fancied so much.

“Don’t worry,” you’d grin at her, fins flickering behind you. “I’m a fast swimmer, mom!”

You were a fast swimmer, slipping between rocks and corals, hands cradling your little shells while you fled from the dark, twisting over the ridge and vanishing between the corals. That’s what you did most days, picking up people’s trash to make it your treasure, fingers cleaning the sand off the holes and crevasses before sticking them to your walls. You also tinkered with metal creations you found, a silver fork or a rusted-looking instrument. 

Granted, you joined in hunts, catching sardines and herrings, claws digging into its scaled bodies and teeth ripping into its flesh, the only other taste being sea salt, or bathed under the sun, but you preferred scavenging for loot. Although mers hunted alone, most found it easier to do it in groups, swarming shoals of fish and catching in a group of a dozen at a time for your little colony. So when you were fed and rested, you were back out, treading the line between the shallow and the abyss.

You swam slowly, head turning left and right for anything that would catch your attention, for that small glint hidden under a thin veil of sand or a long metallic object sticking out from the ground. You already had a few things in your arms, a few shells, human objects thrown overboard or floated into the sea, and small treasures: white pearls. You picked things up from both sides, mind in a comfortable and pleasant space, prideful of your catch so far that you were oblivious of the eyes following your colourful body. 

His pale eyes wandered over your puffy cheeks and sweet lips, those squinted eyes in mirth as you searched for more. He went down the curve of your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, perky nipples covered by pretty shells, over your soft stomach and that bright, colourful tail of yours that first caught his attention. Every scale glistened under the sun, reflecting the light on the sand while you swam, your fins curving with the twist of your tail. 

You were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, an angel collecting treasure, just like he did. He saw the batch in your arms, clutched between your breasts when you dove to pick something up on his side. You were as adorable and innocent as you were pretty, your action oblivious of his predatory eyes, dipping into his territory without fear of retribution on his part. He liked that bold and daring attitude of yours, fitting for someone so courageously bright and flashing your bold colours to him. 

If he were to drop something closer to him, would you still swim towards it or ignore it for something closer to the ridge? If he hid until you were close enough, would he be able to wrap his limb around you? To feel your soft skin and coarse scales under his slimy arm. He was glad he decided to hunt today, searching for both prey - mer or fish, he isn’t picky about what he ate - and treasure. Hidden under a couple of tentacles, he dropped a golden coin a few feet away from him, his veil and the darkness helping him hide from your sight. 

His heart soared when he saw your eyes widen, a smile curling at the corners of your lips when you saw his little coin, diving towards him with enthusiasm. You were so close to him, hand stretching to grab the object with small, clawed fingers. When you held it in your hand, appraising it, he felt pride bubble in his chest, rising to his mind as he took this occasion to get his arm around you. You flinched when he wrapped the tip of his tentacle around your tail, squirming around in terror. In a panicked struggle to escape him, you dropped everything you’d collected and fled from him with a cry.

He watched you swim away from him through saddened eyes, hearing the thudding from the things you dropped, even the coin he gifted you. His eyes never left your fleeing body until you jumped over the edge, your tail the last thing he saw in that moment of self-deprivation and sadness. He hoped you’d come back, forgetting the fear of his sudden attention and daring fate once more.

He came the next day and the day after that, but you weren’t there, your precious smile and happy eyes were a memory in his mind, a fleeting moment in his gloomy world. He came back every day, hiding in the darkness, on the line between pitch darkness and light shading. He wished you were there every day, his eyes bleeding with optimism and hope for a single smidgen of bright colours. 

He hadn’t seen you in the following week. His shoulders slumped and caved into himself in sadness every time he came by, his blue eyes dulling bit by bit, that hopeful thinking drowning under realistic thinking and a pessimistic mind. Then he caught a glimpse of colour against the white sand. Before long, he saw arms filled with shiny items, trailing nearer to your side than his, but still chasing for treasures. 

If he wanted to approach you, to touch your soft-looking skin and run his arms over your scaled tail, he’d have to find a way to lure you in. He watched you the first few days, his tentacles curling on itself and burying himself in the sand, the hundreds of suckers searching for buried treasures to leave for you. When you turned your back to him, his unwinding arm left the things he found near the ridge for you to find and take. Little gifts for you, courting gifts he left and gifted you in an attempt to woo you. 

You were skittish and fleeing but took all his gifts with shaky smiles and grateful eyes, you knew he gave them to you. Of course, you did, you were his brave and smart little mermaid, approaching his offerings with apprehension - he felt hurt you feared and got nervous around him, but he understood you, his kind ate yours - and scanned the sand around you for any danger before crossing the line. He felt giddy when you added them to your stack, his mind-blowing with dreams and thoughts of you decorating your little cave with the things he gave you. On the ceiling, against the wall and on the ground or surfaces, you would use the things he gave you for your home. 

It sent him up the walls of his caves with joy and excitement, his limbs curling to rearrange his home to prepare for you, to accommodate your arrival to his big, lonely home.

It took a week or two - or so he thought, his perception of time was and had always been warped in some way - before you became comfortable enough to approach him, to let him curl his slimy tentacle around your tail and up your body. He could finally feel you and it made him ecstatic - he was over the moon every time he got to touch you. Little pokes, fleeting squeezes and feathery bites from his suckers on your flesh, all things he let himself taste before your coupling. A coupling between the prettiest and the cruellest beings in the ocean would unwind the seams that made your worlds, pulling the string that separated the beauty and the beast in this cursed universe.

Granted, you hesitated to cross into the pitch darkness of the abyss, dancing just a few inches from his abode with an armful of trinkets from König. Your slow and steady breath, words you blessed him with when you muttered to him, calling out to know if he was there and your grateful grin were a common, yet welcome sight in his daily swim. While a bit reluctant to join him on the other side, you eventually swam across, your eyes melting into the black before you. You were unseeing as much as you were blind, if not for the guiding palm of the Eldritch creature that you befriended and the shine of treasure you saw around him. 

You wished you could see anything but the gleam of treasure and the black mist of the abyss, your hand wandered over his, searching for his body, to feel the one who’s been gifting you treasures. Your fingers trailed upwards, feeling the tightness of his muscles, the curves and hardness of his arms were sinful. You truly wished you could see him at this moment, but you kept at your advance, clawed fingers moving slowly with unbridled curiosity. When you reached his broad shoulders and well-pronounced chest, it rumbled, a purr coming from König. Its deep sound shook you with need, your tail enthusiastically moving back and forth as you listened to him. 

“Are you happy, Schatz?”

His voice was even better than his soft purrs, in a way that made you want to melt into his arms and never bother moving if he kept talking to you, the sound of the creature that gave you gifts and affection. König’s spine-chilling voice seemed like a mix of many voices, both soft and raspy, and both deep and smooth, but it was something you enjoyed, that you found yourself liking a bit too much. 

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes travelling skyward, towards the source of his voice.

Your breath caught in your throat, choking a gasp at the prettiest blues you’d seen staring down at you. They were majestic, gem-like with a pretty sheen that made them glow like a beacon of light. You wondered why you’d never seen them, seeing how bright his eyes were. They lit up his face, or the veil he wore over his face, showing the pale streak of makeshift tears down the incision he made for his eyes. You shamelessly admired him, unbothered by the lost puppy-like stare you gave him in your glowing beauty. 

You’d crossed a threshold, where a creature of light never dared to cross, stepping into the arms of an Old One and embracing their madness. Although you were oblivious to his intentions, the loud proclamation of his courting rituals and attempts of crying out his love - the Old One’s rituals and cultures were much of a mystery to those who didn’t study them, much of a taboo for anyone outside of delusion and greed - he hadn’t refrained from his deliberate show that would be nearly shameful and embarrassing to others of his kind. 

Some wouldn’t bother with such frivolous acts: confessions from the deepest part of their dark soul, proclamation of love and undying adoration, or having to scavenge for gifts - offerings - to the subject of their attention. His kind took and took, reaching for that small glimmer of hope and beauty and corrupted it, bending it to their liking and building something from the ashes. It wouldn’t - would never - be the same as they were before, but that was how the Old Ones liked it: control, corruption, ruin, madness and power.

König wouldn’t do that, he wanted to cherish you, add to what you were and watch it bloom like those bioluminescent creatures in the abyss; even against his creator’s wishes. He’ll put you on the highest pedestal he has, eternally imprinting the image of you as his most precious treasure into his mind. You’ll be a thing of miracles, a thing of blessings, a thing of new beginnings. He wanted all and everything with you, but he’d have to take it slow, to coax you into this redundant pattern that ensured your trust and comfort and have you follow him of your own volition. 

He doesn’t mind waiting, he’s had hundreds of years of sitting and waiting, patience was a virtue he grew to learn, to hold in his giant palm and clutch like a gift from the ever-growing, chaotic universe. He can wait and plan, so he will, König will lay down his plan and wait until he can bring it to reality.

Wait he did, for you to grow comfortable enough to follow him deeper and let him pull you in from your side. It took you a month of back and forth, squirming around your infatuation with König and exchanging trinkets, words and fleeting kisses with him. He adored your little giggles when he traced your sides with a bolt tentacle, curling under your plush tits and the tip sliding under your strap. He loved the pretty shells you gave him, cleaned from sand and any barnacles, it showed him how much time you spent on it for him. His heart bloomed and swelled to impossible heights when you pecked his lips, giving him shy and gentle kisses that he grew addicted to. 

You were so sweet and so soft, your lips the taste of heaven for a creature of madness. Your hands were gentle like a cool balm over a burn, soothing his wild thoughts. Your little gifts for him - reciprocating his affection - were currently the most important things in his cave, a sign of your love and devotion. It made him wonder what would you let him do once you gave yourself to him. Would you succumb to the everlasting pleasures he could give you, or would you demand to help him take care of his own in a mutual haze? He couldn’t help himself, letting his chaotic mind conjure the most absurd and erotic dreams, his body vibrating with excitement; and now, at the peak of your trust in him, he watched his plan - a well-placed trap - come to fruition. 

“Come, Schatz,” he beckoned you forward, his burly arm stretching to coax you to follow him, holding out his open palm to you. “I have something I want to show you. Pretty things.”

Without a thought, to question his intentions or to ask why he couldn’t have bought them for you like he usually did, you took his hand and let his fingers curl over yours, intertwining your smaller digits to his as he pulled you to his chest. His embrace was as safe and pleasant as the last one - yesterday - and caused a flurry of emotions to erupt in your chest, he was warm in the cool darkness, loving in all the ways you could think. You could close your eyes and imagine a smile rippling across his face with joyfully squinted eyes peering down at you. 

Held against his chest, his other arm wrapped around your waist with a firm squeeze of his hand where your skin turned to scales. He whispered sweet promises, words of encouragement to see the way to his home and excited explanations of what awaited you. Pretty things, he said, you knew what he meant - at least you think you did - you shared much in common, and pretty things were something you both agreed on: shiny metals, interesting trinkets, shimmering shells or finely-minted coins. All things humans valued before throwing away; one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. 

How unfortunate that you couldn’t see in the dark, yet how fortunate you wouldn’t know the way back, it was something he relied on heavily to keep you, if you didn’t know how to navigate in this utter blindness, there were no risks of you trying to escape his caring hand. You were smart, you wouldn’t simply venture off without knowing where to go and how to see, especially with how vast his territory was and how dangerous it was. He shared his home with other simple-minded animals, sharks, fishes, eels and any other abyssal creature that lived and depended on the dark to live. 

Your innocent curiosity about the things he deemed pretty enough to hoard made his heartbeat, that addicting feeling he got from touching you, kissing you and speaking to you. Even if the deeper he went, the colder it became, you never once complained, your wide eyes and grinning face were the only thing you gave him. He was truly relieved to know that you were patient and understanding of his home, not one hiss or pout while you shook and clung to him, depending on him for warmth. He liked that, to see you rely on him so much. 

“We’re here, mein Liebling,” he hushed, cradling your face as he dove down, through the entrance of his cave. He shielded your fragile body with his many arms, protecting you from the rush of water current flowing against him. He chose this one to build his nest, using the strong current as a natural barrier against weaker creatures. 

When the waters calmed to a still, he loosened his hold on you, unravelling his arms to let you explore the many passages and alcoves in his home. To accommodate you, he strung up bioluminescent flora, using them as light to find your way around, with silken algae over a few rocks to mimic the beds mers slept in and a few other things that he thought you’d need: a mirror, a few floating plants to add to its mystical beauty and clusters of soft materials in nearly every room. 

He let you wander, your tail flapping back and forth to lead you down the long hall and explore the many rooms. He used a room to sleep, one as a pantry and storage, and another one to hold his hoard, but he had a lot of empty and unused space, more than enough for you and your children to thrive. He wanted to let you roam at your own pace, but he had something to show you, something he was proud of making. 

He pulled you from your little cloud of joy, wrapping an arm around you, his sticky suckers latching onto you as he coaxed you his way. Only then had you taken the time to admire König under blue light, cheeks warm with a burning flush and doe-like eyes staring at the naked expense of his hard abdomen, stomach sculpted to perfection that had Adonis shying away. His arms were big and round, muscles straining the scarred skin with delicious appeal. 

Downwards, following the sharp dip of his navel, were dozens of dark tentacles lined with round, pulsing suckers. Like an octopus, they were covered in a slimy sheen, every limb flexible and able to move independently. The lower ones were thick and soft, acting as a cover for whatever he hid beneath them, while some were thinner, whose source came from under his veil. Those, however, were a mix of normal and horrific tentacles, some had eyes replacing the usual suckers, tinted in the same colour as his irises, that glowing, pale blue. 

It made your body heat up, fingers tingling with nerves - or was it? When faced with something you found appealing, it’d be natural to feel flustered, no? König thought so, that’s how he spent the first days reacting to you, heating up to a bothersome flush to everything you did. He watched your awed stare, that daydreaming haze in your eyes when you looked him over, his whole body clear under the gentle light in his cave. 

“This way.”

Without making your gaze leave his figure, he drew you in, heading towards his biggest room where he caught and strung everything to fit his pleasure and mood. It was somewhere deeper into the system with walls strong and sturdy, and the round ceiling higher than the other rooms. On one side was a pile of golden objects of all shades, light yellow to a darkish gold, nearly bronze; on the other was a mix of pretty silver things and metallic black objects, rusted by age and the salty ocean; and on another, the smallest of them all, comprised of a few dozens of colourful shells and corals frozen in time that you’d given him. 

He saw your chest expand, your smile growing brighter and brighter at the pile of gifts you gave him, your bubbly laugh as you swam towards it, twirling around it proudly. You looked around the room, admiring his large collection and how it seemed to spill down every pile in an attempt to reach the other one, forming a protective ring around your presents, but always coming back to the bright pink, blue and yellow shells. You were happy and appreciative of the time he spent working and arranging his hoard. If he could, he’d preen and purr to you, to show just how much your proud smile meant to him, watching you appraise his work was satisfying. 

He already felt like things were falling into place perfectly, he could see the life he had envisioned with you coming to life, the little intricacies that popped into his mind seeming too appealing. His dreams were slowly becoming a reality, the things that he could only imagine were now tangible to his hands, and the future he salivated at was so, so close that he could sink his teeth into its flesh. 

He knew it. He knew it when he watched you swim to him with that big, adorable smile on your face, that it was in his hands. He could see it now, how his lonely cave would be filled with life and laughter, children with a mix of your beauty and his madness chasing one another between the many openings and your round, swollen stomach welcoming another of your children to the world. That was all he could think of while he cradled you in his arms, his tentacles latching to your tail and back. 

“You’re happy, ja?”

Next

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @candlewitch-cryptic @im-making-an-effort @0alk0msan 

[callmemonster68]

insatiable hunger | n.rk - ni-ki

He just wanted a taste, but now he can't stop. Lost in the despair of his own desire, Ni-ki won't let her go... not until he's satisfied every drop of his hunger.

Weekly challenge: Fantasy X Aphrodisiac secret-moonstruck & callmemonster68

paring: desperate!ni-ki x fem!reader 18+ | masterlist

wc: 2,312

warnings: nsfw content, unprotected sex, crying, despair, oral, aphrodisiac

The forest was a maze of green leaves and twisted trunks, where sunlight filtered in in golden beams, painting the damp ground with warm reflections. The air was thick, filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the earthy cool of wet vegetation. Y/N and Ni-ki walked side by side, their soft footsteps muffled by the moss beneath their feet.

They were in no hurry. It was just another afternoon exploring that almost magical place, where time seemed to slow down. Y/N was laughing at some silly joke that Ni-ki made, and he was looking at her with that mischievous gleam in his eyes. He always had this carefree manner, as if the whole world was a joke.

Ni-ki found a small reddish fruit, hanging alone on a low branch. Without thinking much, he took it to his mouth and took a bite. The juice ran down his lips before he swallowed it completely. The taste was strange, half sweet, half bitter, but nothing alarming.

Y/N: Hey, maybe you should spit that out. You don't even know what it is. (she joked, crossing his arms)

He shrugged, smiling. 

Ni-ki: Too late.

For a few minutes, everything remained the same. They kept walking, talking about anything. But then Ni-ki stopped. Y/N noticed it first by the abrupt silence, then by the way he was panting lightly, as if he had just run.

Y/N: Ni-ki?

He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes tightly. His chest was rising and falling faster than normal.

Ni-ki: It's... hot. (his voice sounded hoarse, almost strange)

Y/N frowned, taking a step forward. 

Y/N: Are you okay?

He swallowed hard, his trembling fingers closing around his own shirt, as if he wanted to rip it off. 

Ni-ki: I don't... I feel like something is wrong.

His body shuddered, and then he looked at her. Ni-ki's gaze was dark, intense, filled with something unknown. His lips were parted, his breathing was already uneven. Sweat began to break out along his jaw line, a damp sheen covering his pale skin.

That's when Y/N realized.

Y/N: Damn.

She didn't know what he had eaten, but it was now clear that it was some kind of aphrodisiac. And it was taking effect quickly.

Ni-ki took an unsteady step back, as if trying to control himself, but his hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists, his eyes darting away from hers.

Ni-ki: Y/N... (his voice was just a whisper, almost painful. He licked his lips, his chest heaving) I... need help.

At first, he was still trying to hold on. His brow furrowed, his legs tense, his entire body rigid in a desperate attempt not to give in to whatever was burning inside him. But it was a matter of seconds before something in him broke.

Niki: Please. (word came out as a shaky sigh.)

Y/N felt her stomach drop. What should she do? He was out of control, but he was still Ni-ki. Your friend. And he was clearly suffering.

She took a hesitant step back, but Ni-ki instinctively followed her. As if his body was drawn to hers without permission. He gasped again, eyes glaring at her, pupils dilated frighteningly.

Ni-ki: Y/N.

His tone was now a desperate wail. His body was so hot that she could feel the heat radiating from the small distance between them. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, falling onto his jaw before sliding down his exposed neck. He shuddered.

Then, something in Ni-ki completely broke.

He fell to his knees before her.

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to reason while watching him in that state. Her chest heaved heavily, her eyes begged for something she didn't know if she could give. She needed to keep him under control, help him without crossing a limit that perhaps even she didn't know what it was.

Y/N: Maybe...(her voice wavered) Maybe if you take off your shirt, it will be easier to bear the heat.

Ni-ki looked up at her, lips parted, trembling. Sweat dripped down the crook of his neck, tracing shiny paths across his skin. He didn't hesitate. His anxious fingers tugged at the hem of the fabric, and he tore off the shirt with a hasty, almost desperate movement. His bare chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, and he shivered as he felt the cool air against his skin.

But it wasn't enough.

Ni-ki: Y/N... (he whispered, his voice cracking, as if begging was the only thing he still knew how to do)

With a shaky movement, Ni-ki brought his hands to his own groin, pressing himself there as if trying to alleviate the unbearable pain that consumed him. His eyes flashed with desperation as he looked at Y/N again.

Ni-ki: It... hurts. (His voice broke, an involuntary groan escaping his throat. Sweat ran down his temples, his skin glistened in the light filtering through the trees)

He hesitated for a second, but then, in an instinctive and desperate gesture, he removed the fabric that covered him, showing her the state he was in. His member was hard, pulsing, an undeniable proof of the brutal effect of the aphrodisiac. He trembled, his shoulders slumping slightly, as if he were giving in to his own need.

Ni-ki: Please, Y/N... (he begged, breathing ragged, eyes teary) I... I can't take it anymore...

Shock ran through Y/N ​​like lightning, her heart hammering hard against her ribs. Her gaze darted away quickly, and a strange heat rose to her skin. She turned on her heel, turning her back to him, as if that would be enough to contain the situation.

Y/N: Ni-ki... (her voice was uncertain, thoughts racing in her mind) What... what can I do to help you?

She wanted to choose the right words, wanted to keep a cool head. But behind her, Ni-ki let out a shaky breath, as if the mere sound of her voice broke him even more. He moved, moving closer instinctively, his body seeking her presence as if it was the only thing that would keep him together.

Ni-ki groaned in frustration, her body shaking with need as her hands sought support on Y/N's shoulders. Sweat ran down his hot skin, his eyes clouded with desire and desperation. She held her wrist tightly, pressing his forehead against her back in a silent plea.

Ni-ki: Please... Y/N... let me fuck you... I need... (his voice broke, taken by the raw agony of uncontrollable desire) It hurts... please...

His chest rose and fell heavily against her back, and Y/N closed her eyes, her heart racing. She didn't want to take advantage of him, not like that. He bit his lip, fighting the temptation.

Y/N: Ni-ki... you're not in control, I... I can't do this to you (in an uncertain voice, as if he needed to convince himself too)

But Ni-ki did not accept the refusal. He turned her around desperately, cupping her face in his warm, clammy hands. His eyes were full of pleading, shining in the golden light that passed through the leaves.

Ni-ki: Y/N... I swear... I want this... I need this (he gasped, lips trembling) Use me... do whatever you want... but please help me...

His fingers slid down his own hard shaft so she could see his aching erection, throbbing against her skin. He trembled as he exposed himself, his breath hitching.

Ni-ki: Look at me, Y/N... it hurts so much... (his voice broke into a broken sob) Only you can help me...

Y/N felt her throat tighten, her eyes fixed on him, her chest contracting with anxiety and desire. She tried to search for some semblance of rationality, but the way Ni-ki was shaking, the way he was practically crying with need, completely disarmed her. The decision wasn't made with words, but with the way your hand hesitantly slid down to his skin, feeling the heat it emanated.

Ni-ki gasped at the first touch, his fingers squeezing Y/N's waist hard enough to leave her breathless. He groaned as she slid to the ground, her knees touching the soft earth of the forest. His gaze was feverish, desperate, watching her every movement as she approached, his breath hot against her sensitive skin.

Ni-ki: Y/N... (he whispered, eyes wide in pure despair)

She hesitated for a moment, but then closed her eyes and gave in completely, enveloping him with her lips. The moan that tore from Ni-ki's throat was almost a sob of relief and need mixed together, his fingers burying themselves in her hair as her entire body shook. Every touch, every slide of his tongue made her body arch, the tension growing almost unbearable.

He held her strands tighter, his voice choked with pleasure and desperation.

Ni-ki: Don't stop... please... I need it... I'm so close... (he moaned, his hips shaking against her mouth)

It didn't take long. With one last strangled groan, he fell apart, his body convulsing with pure relief, his knees giving out a little. Y/N swallowed it all, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she watched him catch his breath, his eyes fixed on her like he was about to collapse again.

But instead of relaxing, Ni-ki pulled her up, his lips seeking hers in a bold and desperate kiss.

Ni-ki: Not yet... (he panted against her mouth) It wasn't enough... I need to be inside you, Y/N... please...

Ni-ki held her tightly, her body still shaking, but the need hadn't diminished. He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his breath ragged and hot.

Ni-ki: Y/N... please... it still hurts... I need to be inside you... (his voice broke into a sob, his fingers squeezing her waist as if she were his only salvation)

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts clouded by the heat emanating from him. She swallowed hard, trying to regain her breath and reason.

Y/N: Ni-ki, you don't know what you're saying... (she tried to move away, but he didn't let go. His eyes were moist, shining with despair)

Ni-ki: I know, yes! I need you, Y/N, please... (he whimpered, burying his face in her neck, the kisses trembling, pleading) I can't take it anymore... please... let me... let me feel you...

Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine at the way he begged, as if his life depended on it. Desire boiled inside her, but guilt also consumed her.

Y/N: I can't, Ni-ki... I don't want to take advantage of you like that... (her voice was a hesitant whisper, fighting the wave of heat that invaded her)

Ni-ki sobbed softly, his hands sliding up to cup her face, making her look at him.

Ni-ki: Please... (tears streamed down her face, desperation visible in every feature of her expression) I just want you... help me... please, Y/N... let me feel you...

Her barrier of rationality crumbled. His body pulsed against hers, so hot, so needy. He cried, trembled, begged, and each plea went through his body like an electric shock.

Y/N closed her eyes and, with a shaky sigh, finally gave in.

Y/N: Okay... (she murmured, feeling his fingers press her skin as if she was afraid she would disappear) I'll leave it... just...

Ni-ki didn't wait any longer. He pulled her to the ground, covering her body with his, his breathing quickening as he kissed her with an almost insane urgency. His shaking hands slid over her skin, touching her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

When he finally slid inside her, a ragged moan escaped her lips. He buried his face in her neck, his entire body shuddering.

Ni-ki: So good... so hot... (he gasped, moving desperately, as if he needed to sink into her to survive) Thank you... thank you...

Each thrust was a silent request, a raw need that spread between them. Ni-ki held her as if he were afraid she would abandon him, his moans interrupted by sobs of pure relief and pleasure.

Ni-ki moved desperately, her moans breathless and interrupted by sobs. The heat was overwhelming, and he trembled against Y/N, holding her as if his very existence depended on it.

Ni-ki: Y/N... I'm so close... (he gasped, his voice between crying and ecstasy) Don't let go of me... please...

Y/N felt her entire body being taken over by pleasure, her hands grabbing his shoulders as her movements became more erratic. The intense heat enveloped them, and she couldn't hold back the loud moan as the climax hit her. His body shook violently, and it was enough to take Ni-ki along.

He sank into her one last time, a long, broken moan escaping his lips as he came undone, trembling against her. Her body relaxed, but the tightness around her didn't ease. He buried his face in her neck, panting, tears still flowing.

For a moment, everything was silent. Just the heavy breathing and the distant sound of the surrounding forest.

Then, Ni-ki moved slightly, pressing his lips against her skin.

Ni-ki: I still want more... (his voice was hoarse, broken, and a shiver ran down Y/N's spine)

She froze when he pulled back slightly, his dark, intense eyes meeting hers. There was something different about him now, something almost...predatory.

Sweat dripped down his face, his hair sticking to his skin, and Y/N felt her heart race again. The aphrodisiac was still coursing through his veins, and now that he had tasted her, he didn’t seem willing to stop.

Ni-ki licked his lips, watching her with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

Ni-ki: You're not going to run away from me now, right? (he whispered, his voice full of desire)

✿ If you don't reblog and comment, you can be sure I'll be showing up in your dreams tonight... and I won’t be as sweet as in the story ✿

[hellinistical]

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching. 

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle. 

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.  

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up. 

But you did remember one thing. 

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds?  What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter. 

Never mind that. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter. 

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now. 

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey—no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand. 

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs. 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise. 

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake! 

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[stylesispunk]

The soldier in the armour | part iv

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: Acacius put his plan on march, starting by sending you away with a sealing promise of returning back to you, but you cannot bear the thought of him fighting alone, and some plans are destroyed.

wc: 7k (lazy)

warnings: angst, age gap, mentions of miscarriage, blood, violence against women, power imbalance, kissing without consent, mentions of death. The events of this chapter happen on the same night.

a/n: Sorry for being so lazy about writing and updating lately. I'm just a teacher on her summer break. This one will be intense. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading. 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"Hold my hand," Acacius said, extending his arm toward you. You were sitting by the fountain, feeding the fish. The last couple of days had been torture for you, and he wanted nothing more than to shower you with acts of love from the deepest part of his heart.

You looked up, your eyes meeting his. There was a softness in his gaze, a quiet determination that melted the tension in your chest. The cool breeze rustled the leaves above, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to pause.

Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. He gave a gentle squeeze, as if trying to transfer some unspoken strength to you.

"Come," he whispered, his voice a balm against the chaos of your thoughts. "Let me take you somewhere…”

You hesitated, glancing back at the rippling water, watching the fish dart beneath the surface. But the pull of his presence was stronger. You stood, your fingers still entwined with his, and allowed him to lead you away from the weight of the past few days.

He led you through a narrow corridor you didn’t recognize, its walls lined with ivy that crept in through tiny cracks. At the very end, hidden behind a heavy wooden door, Acacius paused. He glanced back at you, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“No one else knows about this place,” he murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “It’s just for us.”

He pushed the door open with a soft creak, revealing a hidden courtyard tucked away from the rest of the villa. It was small, intimate, overgrown with wildflowers and shaded by an ancient olive tree whose twisted branches reached out like protective arms. The air smelled of lavender and sun-warmed stone, and the only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant song of cicadas at dawn.

Acacius turned to you, his expression softening. “I come here when I need to feel... whole again.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, lingering. “And I thought maybe, just maybe, it could help you too.”

There was a strange tone on his voice, as if he was lingering to your presence before slipping away from you, but you decided to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach.

"I know you're worried” you whispered, looking up at him to meet his gaze, smiling softly “but I’m gonna be fine. I’ll recover from this someday.”

“Can I confess you something?” He asked almost ashamed of the question

You nodded, inviting him to speak his truth.

"This is embarrassing for a general but I'm really scared."He confessed, “I…I have someone to lose this time"

Your breath hitched and sudden wave of anxiety crept into your bones.

"You won't lose me" you reassured, caressing his checks with your fingertips.

"From all the battles I fought. Falling in love with you came easily to me...I thought it was going to be difficult for a man like me to be deserving of someone like you.

"This sounds like a goodbye and I don't like that tone in your voice." You said, voice breaking at the thought.

“You know things could go wrong-“

“They will not.” You interrupted, reassuring him once again.

“Allowing myself to know you and love you has been the bravest thing I've ever done," he whispered, his voice trembling just enough for you to hear the depth of his fear, and his love.

Before you could respond, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you gently but urgently toward him. His lips met yours in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, as if he were pouring every feeling inside on it, every hidden feeling into that single, breath-stealing moment. The world around you seemed to dissolve, the rustling leaves, the distant cicadas, all fading into the background as the warmth of his mouth ignited something deep within you.

Your heart raced, the anxiety still humming in the edges of your mind, but his touch grounded you, as always. You let your fingers trail through his hair, pulling him closer, as if anchoring him to this promise you both silently made.

You won't lose me. We won’t lose each other.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless, hearts pounding in the same rhythm, at the same time. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize this moment, to etch it into his soul.

Then, without warning, he kissed you again, this time with a raw urgency that stole the air left from your lungs. His hands slid from your jaw down to your waist, gripping you as though he could mold your bodies into one. His fingertips dug into your skin, tracing every curve, every inch he could reach, as if committing the feel of you to memory.

You responded in kind, your hands roaming over his shoulders, his back, clutching at the fabric of his tunic like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. The heat between you was electric, a fire burning bright against the looming shadow of what was to come.

When he finally pulled back again, his breath was ragged, his lips lingering against yours for a fleeting second longer. His hands framed your face now, thumbs brushing softly against your cheeks in contrast to the urgency of moments before. His gaze was heavy, filled with a thousand words he couldn’t seem to say.

He leaned in, pressing one lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

"My heart, my body and my soul belong to you in every lifetime." He whispered, nosing your neck, savoring the taste of your skin.

"My heart, my body and my soul belong to you in every lifetime. Since the day you saved me from the bathtub and sword you would love me." You whispered the same words back because you meant them.

He smiled against your neck, feeling his eyes watering already. For a man of a thousand battles these shows of affection tended to seen as a sign of weakness. But by your side he learnt about the vulnerability that it came when you loved someone.

You smelled like calm lavender, and your souls interviewed in an unbreakable thread destined to meet in every single lifetime.

You were his person; the best Rome had ever given him back for all the duty and sacrifice. It broke his heart to send you away.

He didn’t fear death anymore, but not seeing you again broke him.

Acacius helped you up, his strong arm supporting you, your heart still ached with the lingering sensation of his words, his love, his devotion. You walked together, the world outside the villa seeming quieter. His hand remained gently wrapped around yours.

When you reached back to the villa, the air felt heavy, as if something was waiting for you there. The grand doors opened to reveal Lucilla standing near the font, her hands trembling slightly as she stood motionless, her gaze distant. Her expression was clouded with worry, yet there was an undeniable sorrow in her eyes that you couldn’t ignore.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” you asked, stepping forward, concern flooding your chest as you glanced between her and Acacius.

Lucilla turned her head slowly, her eyes brimming with tears.

"They are here" she said, painfully ignoring your questions as she looked at Acacius.

"It's time" he said, painfully, avoiding looking at you for a moment, then he glanced at you "Look. They are some of my men. They are here to take you out-“

"I don't want to leave" you protested, coming to Lucilla, "Mother, please don't do this again. Come with me"

 You stepped back, your heart twisting painfully as you listened to Acacius, walking to your mother.

"I don't want to leave," you protested again, your voice trembling. You reached for her, the distance between you growing wider with every passing second. "Mother, please don't do this again. Come with me."

Lucilla’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and for a moment, she looked as though she might give in. But the sorrow on her face deepened, and she shook her head gently. "I cannot, my dear. I failed Lucius once." Her voice cracked as she spoke his name, a deep, haunting sadness settling over her. "I won’t fail you too. Not again."

You felt the sting of her words like a dagger in your chest. She was leaving you, just like she had left him. The memories of her absence in the darkest moments of your life, when you were fighting for survival, flashed before your eyes, and the thought of repeating that same pain was unbearable.

"So, you're failing me now?" you asked, the sharpness in your tone betraying the hurt you felt. Your breath was ragged as you held back tears, frustration and confusion bubbling up inside you.

Lucilla stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached for you, but she stopped just short of touching you. "Oh no," she whispered, shaking her head. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you to this. If you're away, Geta won’t be able to use you as a tool against Acacius or me. I can't risk you being taken from me as he was."

The words stung, but in them, you realized the depth of her fear. She wasn’t abandoning you, she was trying to protect you, to keep you safe in a world where everything felt uncertain and dangerous.

"But I don’t want to be safe without you," you said softly, your voice breaking. "I can't go alone.”

Lucilla looked at you, her gaze softening for a brief moment, but the fear in her eyes remained. "I love you too much," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "And I can't watch you suffer here.”

Acacius stood behind you, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. His presence was a steady anchor in the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. He knew how hard this was for you, but his silence spoke volumes. He understood what it meant to love and lose, and now, he was offering you something that felt like the only way forward.

Lucilla’s voice quivered as she took a step back, her hands clenched at her sides. "I cannot go with you... but I will wait for you here. And I will pray that one day you come back to me. That we both do."

You felt as though your heart was being torn in two—torn between the woman who had given you life and the man who had become your lifeline. The conflict swirled in your chest, but all you could do was nod, unable to find the right words.

"I love you," you whispered softly to her, your voice breaking as the tears finally fell.

Lucilla gave you a sad, bittersweet smile. "I love you too, my darling. Always."

You turned to Acacius, your heart sinking at the pained expression that crossed his face as his gaze shifted from you to the three men who had appeared in the distance. His posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing as they approached with purposeful strides.

The moment felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. His soldiers had arrived. The plan was set in motion. The urgency of the situation weighed down on both of you, but there was something else, something unspoken in the way Acacius held himself. His pain, too, was palpable. As much as he had sworn to protect you, he knew what this moment meant. The time for goodbyes was closing in, and there was no turning back.

"Acacius..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached for his hand. But he stepped back slightly, his jaw tightening as his men neared.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, his eyes full of regret and determination. "You need to go. Now."

The men stopped in front of him, their faces unreadable but their posture betraying the tension of the moment. Acacius addressed them with a tone that brooked no argument, his voice firm but clipped.

"Prepare the horses," he commanded, and one of them nodded before heading off to carry out his orders.

You looked at Acacius, pain flickering in your chest as you realized that the next few moments would change everything. The world you had known was slipping away, and there was no going back to the life you had before.

"You’re leaving me, aren’t you?" you asked, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

Acacius looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his gaze softened when he saw the hurt in your eyes. "No. I’m not leaving you." His voice was low and full of certainty, though there was a storm of emotions raging behind those words. "I’ll never leave you. But I need you to trust me now."

You nodded, though the uncertainty in your chest remained. His men were getting ready, and you knew that there was no time left to hesitate.

"Promise me you’ll come to get me back," you said quietly, the words more of a plea than a command.

Acacius stepped closer, his hand brushing the side of your face, his thumb tenderly tracing over your skin. "I swear," he said, his voice raw and filled with emotion. "I’ll come back for you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure we’re together again."

The words were like a lifeline, but the storm of emotions raging in your chest made it hard to hold on to them. You wanted to believe him more than anything, but the world was so unpredictable, and you knew better than to expect anything in these dark times.

As Acacius turned to give orders to his men, you felt the weight of the world crashing down on you, the finality of this moment settling into your bones. You wanted to run to him, to beg him to let you stay, but you couldn’t, because deep down, you knew what he was doing was necessary.

This was bigger than the two of you.

Acacius cupped your face once more, his eyes soft but heavy with the weight of what was to come. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, one that spoke of promises and unspoken fears. His touch was tender, like it was the last thing he could give you before everything changed.

"Be safe," he whispered against your lips, his breath warm and full of urgency. "No matter what happens, remember that I will always love you."

Your heart ached as his words sank in, the depth of his devotion resonating through every fiber of your being. You nodded, though your throat tightened, unable to find the words to express what you felt. His love, his promise, were everything you had left to hold on to in this fleeting moment.

He stepped back slightly, his hand still resting on your cheek, and without another word, he helped you onto the horse. His movements were swift and precise, his touch strong but careful as he steadied you in the saddle. His gaze never left yours, filled with a quiet desperation, as though he could somehow will the situation to change with just his stare.

As he stood next to the horse, his hand resting on the reins, he gave a final, lingering look, as though imprinting you into his memory. Then, with a slow exhale, he spoke again, his voice filled with finality.

"Trust in me," he said, his eyes intense. "No matter what happens, trust that I will find a way back to you."

His men began to move in the background, preparing to take you away. Acacius placed one last kiss on your forehead, a soft, lingering touch that felt like it was marking the end of a chapter. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his presence, remained with you, even as he pulled away and nodded to his soldiers.

With a final glance, he stepped back, his face a mixture of sorrow and determination. His hand reached out toward you one last time, as if he wanted to pull you into his arms, to hold you just a moment longer. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

"Go," he said quietly, the word almost a command, but it carried so much emotion that it cut deep.

As the men took the reins of your horse and started moving you away, you cast one last look over your shoulder. Acacius stood there, still watching you, his face a mask of stoic resolve but his eyes betraying the pain that he had hidden behind his duty.

And then, as you were carried further away, the world around you began to blur. The sound of horses’ hooves pounding against the earth, the rustling of the wind, it all faded as you focused on the one thing that remained clear.

As the path beyond you seemed to haunt you, you tightened the cloak around your shoulders, its coarse fabric doing little to shield you from the chill that seeped into your bones. Every step away from the villa felt heavier and suffocating, each one pulling you farther from Acacius, your mother, and Lucius. The road stretched ahead, but your mind remained trapped in the past, tangled in memories and regrets.

You couldn’t shake the image of Acacius’s eyes, the way they softened when he looked at you, or the feel of his lips pressed against your forehead. The smell of lavender on his neck that seemed to lullaby you into sleep every time he wrapped his strong arms around you. Your heart ached thinking about your mother, her face etched with sorrow and strength as she pushed you to safety. And Lucius, your brother, the rightful emperor of Rome, forced to live as a slave under a name that was never his.

As Acacius's men guided you through the winding paths, the weight of your separation grew unbearable. You were being secured by Acacius’s army, hidden away from the dangers that loomed, but it felt more like a prison than protection. You were trapped in the middle of something larger than yourself, and the distance only amplified the helplessness curling in your chest.

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Acacius stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the direction you had disappeared. His heart clenched painfully, the hollow ache of your absence settling deep within him. A single tear escaped down his cheek, betraying the stoic facade he tried to maintain. The emptiness in his chest felt insurmountable, as if a piece of him had been torn away.

You were the Achilles heel on his life, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being away from his protection.

Lucilla, seeing the turmoil etched across his face, stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, like her father” she whispered, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her own eyes. “And you will find your way back to her.”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his hand coming to rest over Lucilla’s in silent acknowledgment. The touch sent shivers down his spine; it wasn’t love but understanding. The both of you letting go your heart away.

His eyes never wavered from the path you had taken, his heart silently vowing that no matter what, he would find you again.

Beneath the cloak, you knew you hadn’t far away from the villa. Just one bold movement and you could go back.

There was a weight that became heavier to bear. Acacius would risk his life to free an empire from its tyranny, and perhaps the power would go back to your family while your mother would get stuck in the middle and Lucius real identity would display.

Suddenly, the weight of it all became unbearable. Without thinking, you yanked on the reins, bringing the horse to a skidding halt. The men guarding you shouted in alarm, but their voices were distant echoes compared to the roaring in your ears. You leapt off the horse, your feet hitting the ground hard, and before they could react, you were running, running back towards the villa, towards the people you couldn’t abandon.

"Stop! Come back!" Acacius's men called after you, their voices laced with desperation. But you didn’t listen. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t let them risk their lives while you hid away, blind to whatever horrors might unfold.

you couldn’t turn your back on them. Not now. Now after all.

You were stronger than that. You were the daughter of Maximus Decimus, a man of honor.

You wouldn’t let them risk their lives while you hid away, blind to whatever horrors might unfold. The wind tore at your cloak, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your feet pounded the dirt path. Every step closer to the villa felt like shedding a layer of fear, replaced by a fierce, unyielding resolve.

The villa loomed in the distance; it brought a strange comfort to your heart. Your mind raced faster than your legs, what if you were too late? What if Acacius or your mother were already in danger? The thought spurred you on, ignoring the burning in your lungs and the aching in your legs.

Behind you, the shouts of Acacius’s men grew fainter, their figures shrinking against the horizon. But your heart was set, you belonged there, in the thick of it, facing whatever fate awaited alongside those you loved. As the gates of the villa came into view, your heart pounded not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force of your determination.

You were almost there.

"Acacius!" you shouted, breathless as you reached the entrance. As soon as he came into view, you crashed into him, and he caught you effortlessly, his arms wrapping around you in an embrace that felt like home.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was hushed, desperate, his hands moving to cradle your face, as if he needed to be sure you were real.

"I can't-" you gasped out, struggling to steady your breath. "Don't ask me to run away while you stay here. Please, don’t."

His fingers traced your jaw, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhaled shakily. "I can’t put you in danger," he whispered. "I won’t."

You closed your eyes, your breath mingling with his. His warmth surrounded you, grounding you, but the ache in your chest only grew stronger.

"How?" you whispered, searching his eyes. "How can I leave when you will be here fighting?

Acacius’s jaw clenched. "You know what will happen if you stay—"

"And you know what will happen if I go!" You pulled back slightly, forcing him to see the determination burning in your eyes. "I grew up in a world where privilege was handed to me until it wasn’t. My heart was humble until it wasn’t. I never realized how greedy I could be until I met you, until my heart started beating for you. I want everything that comes from you—your words, your breath, your smile, your heart, you. And if there is a chance, they take you from me, then I’d rather meet the spirits myself than live in a world where you don’t exist."

His breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw something break in him. A vulnerability so raw it threatened to consume you both. His hands trembled against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen.

"Please," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don’t make this harder for me."

Your heart twisted painfully. "Then don’t make it harder for me, either. You already know how voiceless women are here. Let me make my choice for once."

His eyes darkened with conflict, with love, with fear. And then, without another word, he crushed his lips against yours. it was a desperate, aching plea. A promise. A surrender.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged, his hands still cupping your face as though afraid you’d disappear.

"Then stay," he whispered. "And if the gods are kind, we will survive this together."

But you were afraid the gods had never been kind to lovers like you.

Lucilla watched the exchange in silence before stepping forward. "My child," she said gently, "I know you are willing to risk your life for those you love. But this is not a fight you can win with your heart.”

You turned to her, desperation burning in your eyes. "I know this villa better than anyone. I grew up here. I know every passage, every hidden corridor. If I can get to Lucius, I can free him. We can hide. We can escape and Acacius and his army will free Rome."

"No," Acacius said immediately, shaking his head. "Absolutely not."

"He’s my brother!" you argued.

"And what happens when you get caught?" Lucilla’s voice was softer, but no less firm. "You think Geta or Caracalla will show mercy to you? He’ll use you against us, just as he always intended."

Acacius tightened his grip on you. "You are the only thing keeping me from turning this entire city to dust. If something happens to you, I won’t stop. I won’t care about the cost."

You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. "Then let me help you. Let me help Lucius."

"The best way to help is to stay safe," Lucilla insisted. "We will find a way, Acacius-“

“Lucius will refuse Acaciu’s help.” You interrupted, “He took the city he was in, but I’m his sister.”

Acacius's jaw tightened, his eyes dark with frustration and the fear it came when danger seemed to follow you. He shook his head. "That’s exactly why you can’t go. You think he’ll just follow you? Lucius is stubborn. He won’t leave. He won’t abandon his pride, even for you."

"He will if I make him see reason," you pressed, your voice trembling with conviction you wanted to believe. "If I remind him who he is, what he stands for. He’ll listen to me."

Lucilla exhaled sharply, stepping between you and Acacius, her presence like a steady force in the eye of the storm. "And if he doesn’t? If he refuses, what then?”

You flinched at her words. The weight of this pressed down on you, but you refused to let it break you. "Then at least I’ll have tried," you whispered. "At least I won’t sit in hiding while the people I love fight for their lives."

Acacius turned away from you abruptly, running a hand through his hair, his breath ragged. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath before spinning back toward you. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you know what you’re asking me to do?" His voice cracked, raw and unguarded. "You’re asking me to send you straight into the lion’s den. To just…juts let you walk into danger while I stand back and watch."

"I’m asking you to trust me," you said, your voice fierce despite the tears burning your throat. "I have spent my whole life being protected, shielded from the ugliness of this world. But I am not some delicate thing to be tucked away. If we are to have any future at all, we must take risks."

Acacius closed his eyes, as if trying to drown out your words, to quiet the war inside him. Lucilla placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. "She is her father's daughter," she murmured, her gaze heavy with understanding. "You cannot change her mind when it is already set."

He let out a shaky breath, his hands curling into fists before he finally looked at you again. "If you go, you do not go alone."

Your breath hitched. "Acacius-"

"You do not go alone," he repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I will not let you face this without protection."

Lucilla nodded. "I know someone who can get you into the cells unnoticed. But you must understand-this is your one chance. If something goes wrong, there will be no second attempt. No coming back for you."

Your heart pounded as the full weight of the decision settled in. There was no turning back now.

"Then I will not fail," you promised, meeting Acacius’s gaze.

But even as you said the words, you knew that fate was a cruel, unpredictable thing.

“I will wait for you at the end of the dungeon” He explained, “Once you free Lucius, both of you, especially you will come and going to go away. Then when tomorrow came, I’ll get everything settle for what’s coming.”

Lucilla’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes something like resignation. "We don't have time to argue anymore," she said finally. "If you're going to do this, you must go now."

Acacius stepped closer, his hands gripping your arms as if he could anchor you to him. His touch burned, searing into your skin, branding you with the weight of his worry. "Promise me," he murmured. "Promise me that no matter what happens, you won’t hesitate. The moment Lucius is free, you run."

You swallowed hard, nodding, though you weren’t sure if you could keep that promise.

Lucilla moved toward the entrance, glancing over her shoulder. "I will send word to the one who will take you inside. Wait for him by the servants' passage near the western wall. And keep your head down."

Acacius leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Be careful," he whispered. "I need you to come back to me."

You lingered there for a moment, memorizing the feeling of his hands on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he looked at you as if you were something worth fighting for.

"Mia vita" he called out, stopping you on your tracks to kiss you softly, the pulled back slightly “Please don't let this to be our last kiss"

"We still have a life to live together" you smiled against his lips, peeking his lips once more "at peace this time"

"I will find you" he promised, peeking your lips once again, savoring every single second of this. "I'll be waiting for you at the end of the dungeon."

You nodded, feeling shivers down your spine. He kissed your lips again as if couldn’t let go because of the fear, tasting the sweet flavor of fruits on them, lingering to the feeling that in a few hours he would free Rome from the tyranny and escape with you to a happy ending, a happy life.

"Be careful, love" he whispered as you walked from his grasp.

Then, with one final look, you turned and disappeared into the shadows.

And as you did, Acacius stood still, watching you leave, his fists clenched at his sides.

He had never felt so powerless.

The night stretched long and cold as you moved through the villa’s outer corridors, keeping close to the stone walls. Every shadow felt like a threat waiting to cut you in half, every sound a warning. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced yourself forward. Your mother’s contact was waiting near the western wall as promised, a hooded figure who barely looked at you before motioning for you to follow.

"This way," he whispered, leading you through a narrow passage. "The guards are fewer tonight, but that won’t last long."

You nodded, pressing yourself deeper into the cloak wrapped around your shoulders. The passage led downward into the lower levels of the coliseum, where the scent of damp stone and burning torches thickened the air. With each step, the reality of what you were about to do settled heavier in your chest.

Finally, the man halted near a rusted iron gate, peering around the corner before motioning for you to stop. "Beyond here, you’re on your own. You already know where the cells, be fast my lady.”

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself before slipping through the gate. The corridor was dimly lit, flickering torchlight casting shadows along the stone walls. You kept low, moving carefully. Every instinct screamed at you to hurry, but you couldn’t afford mistakes.

Then you saw him.

Lucius sat in the farthest cell, his head down, his hands bound in front of him. His tunic was dirtied and torn; his face shadowed with exhaustion. But he was still alive.

"Lucius," you whispered urgently, pressing yourself against the bars. His head snapped up, eyes widening at the sight of you.

"By the gods," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"

"Freeing you," you said, already fumbling with the lock. "We don’t have much time, Acacius has a plan, but we need to go now."

Lucius let out a short, breathless laugh. "Acacius? And here I thought you had come to your senses and abandoned him.”

You shot him a glare, your fingers working as quickly as possible. "Do you want to fight about this, or do you want to walk out of here alive?"

Before he could respond, footsteps echoed down the hall. Your breath caught.

The guards were coming.

You barely had time to think. With trembling fingers, you worked at the lock, gritting your teeth as the iron refused to give. Lucius shifted impatiently behind the bars, his gaze darting toward the approaching footsteps.

"Hurry," he muttered.

"I know," you hissed, forcing yourself to focus. The crude metal bit into your skin, but finally, with a sharp click, the lock gave way. You got the door open, and Lucius stepped out, shaking the stiffness from his limbs.

"We need to go," you whispered.

Together, you slipped into the shadows, pressing yourselves against the cold stone walls. The guards were close now, their voices carrying down the corridor. You gripped Lucius’s wrist, pulling him forward as you sprinted through the winding path of the dungeon.

Your breaths came fast and shallow, your heart hammering with every turn. The torches flickered wildly in the drafty halls, casting distorted shapes that sent chills up your spine.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached the end of the dungeon, the meeting place Acacius had promised.

But he wasn’t there.

You came to a sudden stop, chest heaving as your eyes darted around the empty space.

"Where is he?" Lucius whispered harshly.

You didn’t answer. He should be here.

He said he would be here. You thought.

A cold feeling crept up your spine. Something was wrong.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Think. Think faster. Acacius wasn’t here. That meant something had gone wrong. That meant-

“We have to move,” you whispered, gripping Lucius’s arm.

He gave you a sharp look, but didn’t argue. You took the lead, slipping through the dimly lit corridor, your body tense, ears straining for any sound. The dungeon air was thick with dampness, every breath heavy in your chest.

Acacius had told you to wait. But waiting was a death sentence now.

He could be in trouble. He could be dead.

No. You forced the thought away. Acacius was strong. He was waiting for you somewhere else. He had to be.

Lucius kept pace beside you, his voice low and urgent. “Where are we going?”

“Out,” you said, scanning the hallway. “I know another way.”

A narrow servant’s passage was carved into the farthest wall, one you had used as a child to sneak out when the world inside these walls had felt too suffocating. You yanked open the hidden door, pushing Lucius through before slipping inside yourself. The stone closed behind you, sealing you both in darkness.

The passage was narrow, forcing you to move single file. Your fingers trailed the rough stone as you navigated through the twisting tunnel, the air cool and stale. You could hear Lucius’s uneven breathing behind you, but neither of you spoke.

You reached the end and pressed against the wooden panel that led to the outside. For a long moment, you hesitated.

If Acacius wasn’t here, it meant something had shifted in the plan. But you had no time to figure out what.

You had to keep moving.

Bracing yourself, you pushed the door open and stepped into the night.

The night air was a fleeting whisper of freedom before it was ripped away.

The moment you and Lucius stepped beyond the hidden passage, torches flared to life, illuminating the ring of imperial guards waiting for you. The glint of their drawn swords was the only warning you had before rough hands seized you.

Lucius struggled, his fury a silent storm beside you, but he was outnumbered. A soldier slammed the hilt of his sword into his stomach, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.

“Lucius!” you shouted, lunging toward him, but another set of hands wrenched you back.

A grizzled guard stepped forward; his expression smug beneath his bronze helmet. “Did you really think you could slip away unnoticed?” he sneered.

You twisted against their grip, but they held you firm. “Where is Acacius?” you demanded. “What have you done to him?”

The guard chuckled darkly. “Worry for yourself, little dove.” He leaned in, his breath rank against your cheek. “Emperor Geta will not be fond of you after this treason.”

Your stomach twisted. Geta. He knew.

The guards yanked you and Lucius apart, dragging him in the opposite direction. He thrashed violently, eyes burning with desperation as they pulled him away from you.

“Stay strong,” he shouted. “Don’t give them what they want!”

Then he was gone.

You fought harder, but it was useless. The last thing you saw before they forced you forward was the blood-red banners of the empire swaying in the cold night air.

The throne room was suffocating with tension, the air thick with the scent of oil and burning torches. Acacius and Lucilla stood before the imperial dais, their bodies rigid as Emperor Geta lounged with lazy arrogance in his gilded chair. Caracalla stood beside him, his fingers curling and uncurling as if barely restraining his temper.

The moment Acacius learned you had been captured, something inside him had snapped. His presence alone carried a storm, his jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides, the veins in his neck straining with suppressed fury.

“Where is she?” Acacius demanded, his voice like thunder cracking through the hall.

Geta smirked, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Who?” he mused, feigning innocence. “Oh, you mean your wife.” He sighed dramatically. “A shame, really. I expected more from you, Acacius. But in the end, even the great general is brought to his knees for a woman.”

Acacius took a menacing step forward, only for Lucilla to press a warning hand against his arm. “You do not want to do this,” she whispered, though even her voice carried the edge of a threat.

Caracalla’s lip curled; his rage barely restrained. “You made a mistake, Acacius. You should have fled with her when you had the chance.”

“I will get her back,” Acacius growled. His eyes snapped to Geta, cold and unrelenting. “Emperor Geta, torture me if you want, but don't dare to lay a finger on my wife.”

Geta’s expression darkened at that word.

His knuckles went white around the goblet before he set it down with deliberate slowness. “But I will,” he said, his voice dangerously smooth. He walked towards Acacius, stepping closer, his grin cruel. “Now, I’m going to see her.”

Acacius lunged, but the guards were already between them, forcing him back as Geta strode from the room. The moment the doors slammed shut behind him, Acacius let out a roar of frustration. He whirled, striking one of the marble pillars with his fist hard enough to crack the stone.

Acacius’s chest heaved with each ragged breath, but when he turned to face Lucilla next to him, his eyes were filled with something worse than fury.

Desperation.

His hands clenched into fists again. “I will kill him. I swear it.”

The cell was damp and smelled of rust and decay. You hit the ground hard as the guards shoved you inside, the impact jolting through your knees and elbows. The cold stone bit into your skin, but you barely felt it, your mind was reeling, heart hammering in your chest.

"You should have stayed where you belonged," one of the guards sneered from the other side of the iron bars. "Emperor Geta will not be fond of you after this treason."

You lifted your head, eyes burning with defiance. "I still have you to make him beg for mercy."

The guard scoffed but did not reply. He only smirked, slamming the barred door shut with a loud clang before disappearing down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the darkness.

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to sit upright. Every part of you ached, but pain was the least of your concerns.

You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to your face as tears threatened to spill. But you wouldn’t cry.

Instead, you allowed yourself a moment to gather your strength. Tomorrow was coming, and with it, the arena and whatever fate awaited Acacius. Whatever happened, you wouldn’t let Geta break you.

Then, a sound.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

A chill ran down your spine.

You knew who it was before you even saw him.

The door creaked open, and there he stood.

Emperor Geta.

The first thing he did as he took glance of you was grabbing your face forcefully with his hand, forcing you to spare him a glance. He wouldn't even dream of seeing you like this, is disbelief, with your hair a mess, and bloody. You weren't made for a life like this, but now under these conditions, this was the closest he had come to have you.

"Escaping with that slave, my dear lady? You marrying Acacius felt less insulting than this." He said, looking dead into your shining orbits.

"Marrying you would an insult to myself. I would rather eat shit than be tied to you." You spatted.

Geta's smile widened as a cruel laugh escaped his lips as his studied your features. Your before soft skin seemed dirty by drops of blood and dirt. You were a delicate doll, but now smashed and crumbled.

Geta’s expression twisted, his smugness evaporating in an instant. His jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with rage. Before you could react, his hand lashed out, the sharp crack of the slap ringing through the chamber.

The force of the blow snapped your head to the side, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the floor. Your cheek stung, the pain radiating hot and angry, but it was nothing compared to the cold fury swelling in your chest.

Geta loomed over you, his breath heavy, his hand still trembling from the strike. “You will not speak to me that way,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “You forget who holds your life in his hands. You forget who I am. I'm the emperor and you're just a prisoner granted privileges because of your mother and Acacius" his face got close to you, "but now you're a mere slave accused of treason."

You spit on his face. The anger and loathing consuming like a fire burning your body.

Geta took his hand to his face, cleaning your spit with disgust written on his face. You had ended with his patience and he couldn't bear it anymore.

Just a few hours ago you had been secured on Acacius big arms, surrounded by the faint scene of laurel and lavender that seemed to calmed you down.

Now the stink of dirt and humidity rusted your nostrils. You wanted to close your eyes and feel the lavender on your nose, Acacius lips on your temple. You wanted him to save you, you were pleading the gods.

"Please stop this...let me see him" you begged, your voice broken. "Don't hurt him."

Lifting your gaze to see if by chance there would be a tiny bit of sympathy dancing on his eyes, you face the coldest gaze you had ever seen.

"Acacius' life is on my will, your mother's...even that beloved gladiator of yours." He got closer once again, looking directly to your eyes, you felt his wine breath on your face, "Test my patience once again, my lady and I will snap my finger like this" he snapped his fingers in front of you, getting closer to your lips you can almost feel his on your and it felt repulsive "and all of them will be dead. All of them!"

You gritted in protest, the repulsion of his touch filling you with an instinctual fear that made your skin crawl. The air between you felt suffocating, and the words he spoke echoed in your mind like a distant nightmare, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, forcing you to remain still as his lips lingered too close to yours. The stench of wine and bitterness clung to him, every part of him an invasion to your thoughts, to your soul.

"Don’t you dare," you hissed, your voice trembling but filled with defiance. You refused to let him have the satisfaction of breaking you.

“You have no idea what I could give you,” Geta began, his voice low and smooth, carrying the weight of his authority. “Power, wealth, freedom to rule by my side as my wife. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of could be yours if only you’d open your eyes and choose me.”

You hold your gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips pressed forcefully against yours. The taste of wine and greed made your stomach churn, and every inch of your body screamed in protest. This was not love. This was a sick obsession, an attempt to break your will and twist your bones. You clenched your fists, refusing to let him see the fear creeping at the edges of your resolve.

"I would rather die than choose you," you spat, your voice full of venom.

“I don’t care what you want” he said, pulling away just to stand up, smiling cruelly down at you on the ground. "Chain her to the wall." He ordered the guards

Your despair filled the dirty dungeons "No, please. Don't" you squirmed under the men's hold "Let me go!"

The cold stone wall bit into your skin as the guards’ iron chains wrapped around your wrists, pulling you taut against the damp, dark dungeon. The echo of your cries was swallowed by the silence of the place, but inside, your fury burned with an intensity you had never known. You clenched your teeth, fighting the tears that threatened to fall, determined to stay strong.

"Goodnight, my princess," Geta’s mocking voice lingered in the air long after he was gone, a cruel reminder of his power over you.

Your screams followed geta's steps as he walked away from you. You were left there to drown in your own tears as you curse and whatever plan his Machiavellian mind has.

Your fingers tightened into fists, nails digging into your palms as you whispered a curse under your breath, a spell woven from the ancient words passed down through history. Soon the future of Rome would be defined and you were going to take charge of it.

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[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter seven

a quiet place

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 1.3k

a/n: a baby chapter for my babies. not sure if i like it but we move. trying to get the next one up before i leave for SF on friday <3

content: light angst with something softer, mutual pining (i was writing this like y'all are married please be serious)

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

when satoru left your room, he sat in the hall with his back against your door for a while. not to listen or to speak. just to be there, in case you changed your mind. in case you opened it.

he didn’t mean to fall asleep there.

he wakes to silence, and he’s not sure what he expected—some kind of explosion, maybe. footsteps storming toward the door, your voice through it saying you’re an idiot, but i’m still here. even just the sound of you moving around, existing.

but there’s nothing.

you didn’t want me.

it loops in his head—not your words, exactly, but the way your face fell when you said them. the way you wouldn’t look at him.

he should’ve said something. god, he should’ve said something.

you’re the only real thing in this place. you make me want things i’ve never wanted.

but he didn’t. just watched you slip away with his hands in his pockets like a fucking bystander.

he makes the tea anyway—quietly, like it matters.

it’s stupid, how automatic it’s become. how much of you he’s memorized without trying. it hasn’t even been a month. hasn’t even been a month, and he knows what tea you won’t drink when you’re sad, what kind of fruit you eat when you’re pretending not to miss home.

he leaves the tray outside your door. doesn’t knock, doesn’t linger. just sets it down and walks away before he does something selfish.

he can feel you—curled inward in bed, asleep. probably. your cursed energy is low and steady, dull around the edges, like a song played underwater.

he doesn’t mean to check. doesn’t want to. but his eyes are built for knowing things he’d rather not.

the house seems unfamiliar as he walks away. like your parents took the gravity with them when they left yesterday. like someone rearranged the walls as he slept.

and yeah, he’ll give you time. he’ll give you space, just like he said he would.

he’s not going to knock on your door or drag the words out of your throat. but you’re going to talk to him when you’re ready. he knows that much. he’s not going anywhere.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

satoru said he would give you space, and he does.

he gives it thoroughly—no stolen glances, no accidental brushes of fingertips. he doesn’t even knock, though sometimes you catch the shadow of his feet lingering outside, like he’s waiting for a sign that he’s allowed closer.

like he’s scared to make it worse again.

your heart twists at the thought.

you didn’t mean to push him away like that. you’re not mad at him, never were. not for saying the wrong thing, not even for turning you down on your wedding night. the distance wasn’t supposed to be a punishment, but now you’re afraid he thinks it was.

the days pass in small kindnesses.

tea appears every morning at your door—always fresh, always how you like it. it feels oddly intimate that he knows your preferences. that he never makes a sound, placing it gently enough not to disturb the fragile peace you asked for.

flowers too, left in the evenings. little bundles of wild blooms and carefully trimmed stems. nothing extravagant, nothing showy—just reminders that he’s there, thinking of you, extending olive branches across the gap you’ve created.

a strange loneliness settles in you, heavy with a truth you haven’t quite admitted:

you miss him.

you don’t understand how he can be this kind to you.

how he can keep leaving tea and fruit and flowers like you didn’t shatter in front of him and leave him to sweep the pieces off the floor. it makes no sense, how he keeps being soft. like you’re still someone worth being soft for.

your mouth curves into something bittersweet. it’s funny, how the silence you wanted is louder than anything he could say.

and it’s cruel, you think, how distance from satoru only makes you realize how much you want to be around him.

it’s not just him, but the way he fills the space, the way his voice softens when he talks to you, the warmth that seems to trail him everywhere. you miss the easy way he holds himself, his casual confidence. his smile. you miss the way he sees you, clear and bright and gentle.

without it, the days feel dimmer. colder.

you stare at the note he left with your tea, reading it again even though you already have it memorized. a formal invitation to the kamo estate, and a piece of paper that reads:

please come with me tomorrow night. i promise i’ll behave.

there’s a little heart sketched at the end, like he’s smiling at you through the paper. you trace it with your thumb, marveling at how easily satoru manages to slip tenderness where it doesn’t belong.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

your palms are dusted white with flour, fingertips tacky from shaping each round of kikufuku. they sit in a neat row on their tray, soft and sweet—fragile, you think, with a faint twist of irony, as you rinse your hands and wipe them.

maybe it’s stupid. maybe he won’t even want them. but you had to do something. he’s been tending to you quietly for days, like none of this hurts him. like you didn’t make it worse. this is all you know how to give back.

still, you hesitate. you could leave the tray by his door, retreat before he opens it.

but the thought aches.

so you pick up the tray, feeling strangely delicate with your courage held in both hands.

the halls are quiet, sunlight spilling across the polished floors, and your pulse climbs with each step toward his room. it’s foolish, perhaps, to be nervous over a tray of sweets—but you know it isn’t just sweets you’re carrying.

you pause outside his room, shifting the tray in your grip as you lift your hand to knock, but the door is already sliding open.

satoru stands there, blinking at you, caught between surprise and something more tender—warmth, or relief. his mouth curves into the softest smile.

“hi,” he breathes.

“hi,” you echo, quieter than intended. you glance down at the tray, suddenly embarrassed by the obviousness of your gesture. “i made kikufuku.”

his gaze flickers down, curious. “for me?”

“well,” you murmur, “it would’ve been wrong to eat them all myself.”

he huffs a quiet laugh as he steps aside to let you in. the tension in your shoulders eases as you cross the threshold, and something warm spreads through your chest.

you realize you haven’t been in here before. it’s filled with sunlight, the same layout as yours, clean and familiar. his presence behind you is respectful, patient. he gives you room to breathe, but stays close enough that your heart feels less heavy. a little less uncertain.

after a long moment, you find your voice. “i saw the invitation.”

“yeah,” he says gently. “i wasn’t sure if you’d be up for it.”

he’s giving you an out, always mindful of your comfort.

you glance away, fingers curling into your sleeve. “do you—” you falter, insecurity coloring your tone despite yourself. “do you want me to come?”

satoru blinks, like he hadn’t expected you to ask. and then he tilts his head, eyes sparkling with familiar affection.

“well,” he says, playful enough to hide nothing at all, “i could go alone, but it would be pretty boring without you.”

your heart settles quietly, a soft certainty taking root.

and when you slip back into the hallway, you feel lighter than you have in days.

[mushgloomz]

A New Perspective

Joel Miller x F!Reader OneShot

• an: y’all i have been GAGGED over some of the sex pollen fics I’ve read recently and i truly couldn’t help myself. as usual, this is not proofread whatsoever and was merely written in a horny-for-Joel-Miller induced haze, so apologies for any errors you may come across <3

• warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - SMUT/NSFW CONTENT. SEX POLLEN (DUBCON). unprotected p in v (not worth it irl!! don’t do it!!), reader is afab, able-bodied and has hair. language, descriptions of genitalia, pet names (baby, baby girl, sugar etc.), joel has a fat cawk but what’s new, creampie

• wc: approx 5.2k

Late spring had washed over Wyoming, introducing a plethora of flora and fauna to what was a barren waste of ice all but a few months earlier. Luscious greenery stretched as far as the eye could see; the snow-capped mountain range barricaded by acres of plentiful forestry. It was beautiful. A soft breeze swilled around your head as you took in the view from your vantage point.

“Would’ve asked for a different partner if I knew you’d stand around gawpin’ all day.”

Reality trickled back into focus as the grumble from your foraging partner reached your ears. Joel Miller, Jackson’s own resident asshole, had been paired with you four days prior to complete a week-long expedition. You’d been sent off to retrieve anything of value from abandoned settlements, and to stock up on ingredients for herbal remedies. How you’d fallen under the misfortune of being partnered with the most miserable bastard in the county was beyond you.

Joel hadn’t even turned to voice his complaint, continuing to walk toward the tree line. You mentally weighed up whether being left to raiders could really be that bad, before scampering off to rejoin him with a huff. “Didn’t exactly choose to be here myself, dickwad”, you hollered, falling on deaf ears as you closed the distance between yourself and the man ahead of you.

You reached the tree line, standing to inspect the foliage before you.

“If you’ve got anything stupid to say, get it out your system now. I ain’t dying on your count ‘cause you can’t keep your mouth shut.”

He couldn’t be more condescending if he tried. He stood at arm’s length beside you, rich brown eyes staring you down, arms crossed across his chest in a display of patronising authority. A singular eyebrow raised in your direction, prompting you to break the silence. “Oh fuck off already”, you mumbled as you barged past him and onto the dirt path, intentionally knocking into him with your shoulder as you went.

The woods were thick. Shrubbery of all varieties grew between the trunks and twisted roots of staggeringly tall trees as you edged your way further inwards. Insects provided a constant thrumming sound, broken only by the twittering of small birds, high above the underbelly on which you walked. Once in a while, a twig would snap underfoot, followed by a hushed shut up from Joel trailing behind you.

You peered through branches, your mental checklist of ingredients being ticked off gradually as you foraged through the underbrush, scoping out your remaining items. The ground was unforgiving, swelling and receding with reckless abandon, threatening to throw you off balance at any given moment. You continued your trudge, until you came across a small and unusual clearing.

You kept your volume low as you enquired about the strange plant ahead of you. “What… what the fuck is that one?”, your curiosity piqued by the shrub in the middle of the clearing, seemingly warding off any and all other vegetation. You stepped forward, wanting to get a closer look at the vibrant blooms spreading across the tangled mass of deep green leaves and twisted branches.

“Christ, don’t you have any survival skills? Where’d you learn to stick your nose into plants that you don’t recognise? G’damn FEDRA didn’t teach you shit, clearly.”

The hiss of Joel’s words were delivered straight into your ear as you were yanked backwards by a firm hand on your shoulder. Not to give him any credit, but you hadn’t realised quite how close you had gotten to the bright red petals in front of you. You jerked your shoulder from his grasp and shot him a warning glare.

“Get movin’, next settlement should be ‘bout a half mile from here.”

It was Joel’s turn to barge past you, leading the way around the small glade and past the shrub. You couldn’t tear your eyes from the blossoms adorning it’s branches, the crimson colouring almost magnetising to your eyes. You hadn’t been paying attention to your footing as you passed, and before you could rebalance, you stumbled over an overgrown root and found yourself tumbling into the sprawling clump of petals and greenery.

Despite the prickle of broken branches, toppling over had been less of a pain in the ass than a majority of the expedition. The smell, for one, was divine. It was powdery and light, yet simultaneously heady and almost nauseatingly sweet. You couldn’t describe it even if you tried. And tried you did, as you sat and breathed deeply through your nose, not even attempting to right yourself. A calloused hand breached the branches directly in front of your face.

“Get. Up. Now.”

But even Joel’s sour tone couldn’t distract from the aroma. You clasped both hands around the one ahead of you, and with a grunt coming from the other side of the branches, you were hauled up and out of the bush onto your feet. The smell clung to your clothes as you brushed twigs and squashed petals from your body. Joel did the same, having leant a fair distance into the centre of the plant to retrieve you.

As soon as you were stable again, Joel took off without another word. You didn’t care particularly. You trailed a few feet behind, cautiously watching your steps to avoid another fiasco. You walked in silence, arms swinging gently by your side, ambling along. You sighed. As you scanned the environment, you realised that everything had become slightly hazy, the borders of your vision tinged with a fuzziness that hadn’t been there before.

“Did I hit my head on the way down?”, you questioned out loud. It was the only explanation you could think of; the only answer as to why everything in your field of vision had taken on an almost shimmering iridescence. Sunlight breaching the canopy of trees beamed down and quite literally sparkled. Warm hues were more pronounced - an ambience that you hadn’t noticed before surrounding you as you continued to sidle along the path. Joel didn’t answer, remaining steadfast in his pace.

Ten minutes passed, and you noticed that your skin felt hot and clammy underneath your clothing. Trailing a hand toward your neck, you unclasped the buttons of the denim jacket that suddenly felt all too much for this weather. Shit, maybe you did hit your head. But this didn’t feel like a typical concussion; everything looked far too pleasant, the melding shades of green and brown making you hum unexpectedly, as if you were purring. Everything felt… good.

“Sh-should be five minutes from here now.”

The sound reached your ears, a rumble from just ahead of you. It was warm, much like yourself, like everything else; viscous like honey and borderline blissful to hear. Heavy eyelids lifted from the path in front of your feet as you glanced toward the source. Joel. Unlike everything in your periphery, Joel was crystal clear.

You took him in, in all his glory. And glorious he was, as he swaggered in front of you, strong legs stepping rhythmically across moss and detritus. You’d never noticed quite how broad he was across his shoulders as your eyes worked their way up his back. Curls sprung from his nape, perspiration making unkempt hair even more unruly. It made you salivate. A source of light just beyond him let you know that you were nearing the edge of the forest, the settlement you’d be pitching up in for the evening just ahead. And that’s when he turned his head, painfully slow, to glance over his shoulder at you as he walked.

It was like you had been electrocuted, or stung, or something. Eyes that had rarely held anything but disdain for you now frenzied looking, pupils blown out. Ravenous. The glance lasted far, far too long, or at least it seemed like it did. A plush pink tongue swept over parted lips and you damn near gasped. A singular bead of sweat sat atop his usually furrowed brow, now knitted in a delectable blend of need and desperation. That’s when the ache started, deep in the pit of your stomach, inescapable. Your breath sat heavy in your chest, each inhale seemingly adding to this godforsaken pressure now lingering between your legs.

Not once had you thought of Joel in a sexual manner, you thought to yourself as you stepped into the sunlight beyond the tree line. He was always so unimpressed by you, so harsh and scolding. He was handsome, no one would argue that point, but his sharp tongue and unrelenting judgement of others made him unapproachable. How stupid of you, to overlook something quite so beautiful. Your stomach knotted, painfully aching as you continued to watch him head toward the small building a mere few metres away.

Each step became arduous as you reached the abandoned house, your thighs rubbing in your jeans. Joel didn’t hesitate to enter, swinging the door open, mumbling bathroom in your direction before slinking off upstairs. It was so unlike him, to act so precariously. Why did it make you wet? You eyed an armchair, hideously upholstered in a carpet-like fabric, before approaching and resting. As soon as your ass hit the cushion, your thighs pressed together as though your very own body may betray you if you didn’t seek to contain yourself. Teeth clasped your bottom lip, a stifled whimper echoing in the room. Did you just make that noise?

You were desperately uncomfortable. The armchair played no part, the discomfort stemming purely from yourself. You rubbed your legs together, the friction offering no relief. Hazy-eyed, you peered around the room. Joel hadn’t returned. God, how long had it been since he went upstairs? You crossed your legs, your core hot with an unrelenting need to act. The thought of touching yourself, slipping a hand under the waistband of your jeans, sprung to mind. You shook it off, and no sooner had you done so, you whined. Animalistic, like a bitch in heat. You were no better than any wanton animal, desperately seeking out relief from the ache that consumed you.

What the fuck was going on? Why were you acting like this, so uncontrolled, so unhinged? Your back arched against the chair behind you, eyes squeezed shut and inhaling deeply. You had to do something, anything, to settle the ache inside you. You hesitantly unfurled your legs, biting your lip harder. Your thighs trembled as you stood, and you willed them to carry you toward the staircase that Joel had disappeared up.

After braving the stairs, you could see a number of doors. One was open, a trail of wet footprints leading from it and toward another, the end of the path being cut off by a closed oak door. You followed the footsteps in reverse, heading toward the bathroom. You could smell the pine shower gel that had been wrangled from the mirrored cabinet above the sink, the cracked tile underneath you slippery.

You closed the cabinet and looked at yourself. Staring back at you, eyes wide and dazzling, pupils stretching your irises into a thin circle of colour around a bottomless pit of pitch black, was a version of you that you’d never seen before. Your hair was windswept, flyaways sticking to damp skin on your face. There was something feral about the woman that looked back at you. She was beautiful. Without thinking, you reached out to touch the cool surface of the mirror, in awe of how her lips parted just so, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. The ache returned and interrupted your admiration with a ferocity unmatched.

You wanted relief. No, needed relief. As you stood, you trailed a hand down your chest, past your naval, and down to the button of your jeans. Your fingers fumbled for just a moment before threading the button through its hole, immediately seeking out the metal zipper after. You didn’t even bother with shedding the denim from your legs. A supple hand slid its way over your mound and toward your clit, slick and saturated with want. Bracing yourself with one hand on the porcelain sink, forehead pressed against your own cold reflection in the mirror, you began to draw slow circles around yourself.

A heady moan left your mouth, your clit sensitive under your touch, the relief your fingers could offer barely scraping the surface. The frustration swelled inside you as your fingers drew tighter circles, adjusting both pressure and pace in a bid to meet your climax. A strangled sound escaped your throat, high pitched and breathy, as you came, the ache inside you merely ebbing before burning brighter than before. This wouldn’t be enough, you thought, as you rinsed your fingers under icy water from the tap and wiped them on your jeans.

That’s when you heard it. Quiet, muffled by brick and wood, coming from a different room. A groan, somehow both pained and yet drowning in bliss. You’d barely finished re-buttoning your jeans before your feet had moved of their own accord, seeking more of the sweet sound that you knew could only be coming from one person. There was something so wrong, so obscene, about you stood outside of the doorway, ear pressed against chipped wood. The breathing inside was laboured, part grunt, part sigh. It may as well have been a live wire entering your eardrums, the way that it electrified you and made the hair on your arms stand on end.

You pressed harder against the door, pleading for more of the delicious noises to reach you. Your stomach coiled and churned, painful and hot, tension brewing across your shoulders as you fought to keep yourself upright. Teeth found your bottom lip once more, stifling your own lewd sounds, praying that you wouldn’t be caught in such a compromising position. It was then that you heard it, quieter than any noise that proceeded it, but it was there. Your name, moaned at a volume no louder than a whimper, intoxicatingly melodic as it reverberated inside your head. Your jaw was slack, spit pooling, and a moan left your mouth with no warning.

You clapped a hand over your mouth the moment it had happened, but it was too late. The sound of springs shifting, of feet making contact with floorboards, replaced the lusty melody as you span on your heels and pressed your back against the wall beside the door. You sank to a crouch as footsteps neared the doorway, and clarity breached your mind just for a moment, the consequences of your voyeurism being weighed up. Joel was a dangerous man, that much you knew, and you silently hoped that he would be forgiving as the doorknob twisted.

The door cracked open ever-so slightly. You could hear panting through the gap as you willed your own chest to settle. Door edging open, you squeezed your eyes shut, as if not seeing Joel would make the whole scenario better, as if you hadn’t just been caught in the act. With your eyes closed, you could smell him, like your remaining senses had been switched on for the very first time. He smelt of vetiver and musk, of leather and whiskey. Had your eyes not been shut, you’re sure you would’ve seen stars.

The crouch that had been holding you against the wall failed you, your thighs trembling and buckling, and your knees made contact with the hardwood floor underneath. Head ducked, you opened your eyes slowly and were met with the view of unlaced boots. Your gaze lingered as you raised your head, taking in strong thighs wrapped in starched denim, a shirt thrown haphazardly over an otherwise bare torso. A trail of dark curls closed the gap between naval and waistband, a runway for your eyes to follow, leading you to the thick imprint of a cock aching to be released from its confines. You drew your eyes away from it after a moment, and with your heart hammering inside your chest, you glanced up to Joel’s face.

“Get up.”

His voice was commanding but non-aggressive. There was a hint of desperation, as if you needed convincing. He looked down at you, soaking you in, and you wondered whether he too saw the beauty in the wild woman you’d seen in the mirror. Cheeks and neck pink with warmth, he held out a hand, which you took gratefully. Touching him, touching skin that wasn’t yours, was exhilarating. His hand swallowed yours, the skin of his palm firm and coarse, fingers thick and long. He hoisted you up to your feet, dropping your hand and scanning your face.

“Can’t be around you. Ya gotta go downstairs, can’t trust myself.”

Joel could’ve been speaking in tongues for all you knew. All you had heard was a throaty grumble, your attention all but consumed by the shape of his mouth as he spoke. The way his jaw tensed as he paused, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped in air. You swear his cock twitched in his jeans as your name left his mouth. You felt hotter than the sun, resisting the urge to double over as pressure reached a crippling peak between your thighs. “J-Joel, I need you to help me”, your voice cracking, pleading with him. You watched pink swipe over his lips, now glistening, hand reaching out and clutching at his bicep to steady yourself instinctively. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, please. Please, just-“.

Your sentence was cut short as a firm thumb found its way to your lips, coaxing them to part as it pulled the lower one down. Strong fingers held your chin up. Muscles flexed beneath your hand, tensing much like the ones you watched in Joel’s jaw. Tears welled in your eyes, threatening to escape as your insides boiled, only fueled by the contact on your skin.

“Shhh now baby. You feelin’ it too? Reckon it was that damn plant, not been able to walk straight since you fell in it.”

Baby. The way it rolled from his tongue so naturally, like he’d always wanted to call you it. It made you feel giddy, head lulling harder into his grasp. You didn’t attempt to stifle the whine that left you. His fingers flexed around your chin, and he hummed his approval, the sound emanating from low in his throat.

“Oh darlin’, gotten yourself in a real state ain’t ya? Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can make it better.”

Was this really happening? His thumb brushed over your bottom lip before he removed his hand, placing it on your upper arm and squeezing gently. Your breathing was shallow, words unable to form. A wave of pressure swelled low in your abdomen and without thinking, you tip-toed, tilting your head up to reach Joel’s, and kissed his cheek. Stubble scratched at the swell of your lips, and the smell of him so close drove you to the brink of frenzy. It appeared the same happened to Joel, as he tightened his grip on your arm, bringing his other hand to sit flat on the small of your back and pressing you toward him in one fluid motion.

His mouth met yours with a vigour unparalleled; his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, all-consuming and dominant in its nature. You were putty under his touch, his hand following the arch in your spine up toward your hair. Breathing was no longer a priority - you needed this man more than oxygen. A fistful of your hair found itself wrapped around Joel’s hand, and with a firm tug, your neck was exposed. You were his for the taking.

Lips traced along the length of your neck, occasionally nipping and sucking as they made their way down to your clavicle. Flat-tongued and panting, Joel worked his back up toward your ear, licking as he went. Any self-restraint you may have possessed was long gone; begging him to give you all that he had. “Please, I need - oh fuck - I need you”, your hushed tone perceptible only to his ears. He stopped his attack on your neck and collar, eyes dark with desire, releasing his grip on you only for a moment before grabbing at your wrist and pulling you into the room that he had left.

The room contained little more than a double bed, a nightstand and a dresser. The bed was in a state of disarray, sheets peeling at the corners, a pillow lost to the floor. The smell of sex hung in the air, the aroma giving Joel and his earlier activities away. You squirmed from his grip to remove your jacket, far too aware of its weight on your aching body. Hands deftly made their way to the hem of your t-shirt, before lifting and shedding yet another layer. You stood, your upper half bare, and looked at Joel.

“Fuck, look so pretty for me baby. Gonna make you feel so good, promise.”

The words fell from his mouth, rumbling and low, and it sent chills up your spine where his hands had not long been. You’d no doubt soaked your panties, and at this rate, your jeans wouldn’t be far behind. With an almost pained expression, Joel tore his eyes from you and moved toward the bed, shrugging the shirt off of his bare torso and letting fall to the ground. He turned, facing you again, and sat himself on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh, beckoning you over. He leant back on a single propped arm, shifting his hips to accommodate the somehow still growing bulge in his jeans. It was vulgar to witness, and you moved quickly toward him.

Hands found your hips as you stood before him, feet planted between spread legs. He worked one hand over your zipper, and tucking both thumbs into your waistband, pulled both your jeans and panties to the ground in one fell swoop. He drew his lips toward your stomach, placing wet kisses in a downward direction, his breath hot against your exposed flesh. Goosebumps prickled along your legs, blood replaced entirely by red-hot adrenaline, as he neared your core.

“S’all mine, you hear me?”

No sooner had the words reached your ears, did you feel Joel’s hand snaking it’s way up your inner thigh toward your cunt. In a desperate bid to stop yourself from rocking your hips forward, you instead opted to nestle your hand into thick brown curls, tugging hard and reaping the rewards - a moan cascading from Joel’s mouth. “Please, Joel, I can’t - need something, anything”, you begged, as though your life depended on it. It very well may, you thought; the heat in your core reaching a precipice and threatening to bring you to your knees with its blistering pain. You felt a number of fingers drag through your folds, hot and slick, before two were pushed inside you without warning. You yelped, not with pain, but with a scorching desire for more.

“So fuckin’ wet for me baby. Must be hurtin’ real bad.”

You whined as the fingers inside you curled, brushing against the velveteen walls of your cunt, deeper than you’d ever been able to reach yourself. You felt yourself clench around the soaked digits, pumping themselves in and out, stilling only to drag themselves across your g-spot.

“Make me wanna cum just watching you, sugar. See what you’re doin’ to me?”

You glanced down past the curls still tangled around your fingers. Joel had unbuttoned his jeans, his cock thick and leaking, almost purple and just begging to be attended to. He held the shaft steady around its base, his other hand continuing to unravel you from the inside out. “P-please, I need-“; your words were cut short as Joel moved his thumb to your clit, nothing more than a strangled moan escaping you. He pressed firmly as he swept the digit left to right, his fingers now curling inside you - you felt as though you’d left your body as your orgasm drew closer, grounded only by the rhythmic motion of thick fingers and the blissful sounds of Joel’s humming.

“Cum for me baby, I know you’re needin’ it. Wanna see you make a mess of this pretty little pussy.”

Spurred on by the obscenities leaving his mouth, you held your breath as your orgasm rushed through you. As the wave of pleasure hit, momentarily replacing the ache in your abdomen, a cry left your parted lips, your head tipped back. Joel’s fingers worked you through the bliss, coaxing every last sound he could from you, murmuring as he went.

“Such a good girl for me.”

“That’s it darlin’, gonna make it all better.”

“So tight around me baby, don’t think I can hold on much longer.”

Your breathing was rapid, your chest rising and falling in shudders, knees desperately trying to refrain from buckling beneath you. And yet, before you could discern exactly what had just happened, your stomach tensed with a vengeance - it simply wasn’t enough. With his jeans still around his thighs, you gawped at Joel, sat cock in hand, precum dripping in glistening beads from its tip. Your fingers unwound themselves from his head as he slipped his fingers from your heat, slick release coating your inner thighs. You stepped out of the remaining clothes that sat bunched around your ankles, and made for Joel’s lap, wide and inviting.

He leant back further, using both arms to hold himself upright, as you climbed across his thick thighs and sat on him. Your chest was at his eye level, and he took full advantage of such a fact, dipping his head toward your breasts and nipping at the swells. God, if only you had the foresight to see what you’d been missing out on this whole time.

You weaved your hand between your bodies, further down until you made contact with his cock. It was girthy and solid, the weight of it surprised you as you curled your fingers around its length, your thumb not quite reaching the other side of your hand. Hesitation zipped through your mind, questioning whether or not you could actually take him, but the visceral groan that met your ears was enough to dismiss any and all doubts.

Steadying his shaft in one hand and balancing yourself on your knees, you lined him up with you. He stared up at you, brows pinched and pleading, surely feeling the heat radiating from your core. Hands remained at his side as you made your descent, the stretch as you engulfed him inch by inch borderline painful, but oh so worth it. The gasp he let out as you reached the hilt of his cock was downright criminal, his face flashing with both shock and desire. You let yourself adjust to his size, the fire in your belly quelled for now.

“Don’t know how long I’m gonna last; been a while since I last-“

You’d rocked your hips as he was speaking, and in turn had unintentionally cut him off, your name interrupting his flow of words, jolting out of him as if it were the most obscene curse word he could muster. It was music to your ears. You’d never felt so full, packed to the brim with Joel, cock-drunk and giddy as though you’d been fucking him for hours. He’d not done so much as thrust, and yet he had you enraptured.

“You’re so tight baby girl, I can’t - Christ - I can’t think straight.”

You rolled your hips, not just once but repeatedly, making light work of the friction that the smattering of curls at the base of his cock offered against your throbbing clit. You mewled as you pushed your hips down harder, seeking as much purchase as physically possible, Joel twitching against your walls.

“Such a pretty girl, making me feel so good. Always knew you’d take me so well.”

If it weren’t for your state of bottomed-out delirium, you’d have questioned Joel on what he meant by always. Had he pictured this exact scenario before? Was it as good as he’d imagined it would be? Selfishly, you didn’t care. You had started to lift yourself along his length, finding a pace that quickly filled the dank room with a cacophony of moans. Your knees ached against the mattress as you brought yourself up and down repeatedly, thighs trembling once more. You couldn’t be contained; a woman unraveled. Joel dug his nose into the crook of your neck, breathing you in deeply, muffling his groans of pleasure with your shoulder. He filled you to such a degree that you could feel him pressing against your cervix, hard and wanting.

“That’s it, fuck yourself on my cock, sugar. Gonna squeeze the cum straight outta me, so g’damn tight.”

The crude description alone would’ve been enough to send you tumbling into your next climax, even without the swell of Joel’s cock inside you. You bore down and rutted against him, dizzy and blissed out as you sought out your release. You choked on his name as you came, bracing yourself against his tensed shoulders, milking his cock as your walls quivered and clenched around him. As you rode out your climax, Joel wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you in place. He lifted you ever so slightly, creating just enough leverage for him to buck his hips up into your pussy, chasing his own orgasm.

You watched as he set a ruthless pace, sloppily thrusting upwards, eyes screwed closed. The slapping sounds as his hips met your own nearly overpowered the guttural moaning escaping his mouth. “Cum for me Joel, p-please - fuck - please fill me up”, you babbled, too enthralled by pure lust to consider the consequences. You needed him to fill you, claim you.

Your begging tipped him over the edge, and with a groan he shuddered his hips up, painting the walls of your cunt with hot, thick ropes of cum. You could feel him pulse inside you with each spurt, the muscles in his chest and stomach tensing, shoulders heaving with strain. He pressed his damp forehead against your chest, still hard inside you.

“Don’t think I’ve ever cum so hard - damn near knocked me out, pretty girl.”

He chuckled, still panting as he spoke. You shifted your weight and leant against his shoulders as you lifted yourself off him and to your feet. No more than a minute after you had unsheathed him from your walls, his spend still dribbling down your thighs from your slit, did the ache return. It brewed inside you, bubbling low in the tender flesh of your stomach, freshly bruised from the frivolities you had just taken part in. The building pressure made you whine, and as you glanced at Joel, cock still throbbing and stood to attention, you realised that your evening was far from over.

[clovermoters]

fresh out the slammer - spy!ln4 x spy!reader

summary - after months of heartache over the loss of your boyfriend, he finally comes home.

warnings - description of some violence, small amounts of angst, reader crys.....ALOT, kisses!

wc: 2.4k!!

authors notes - incase u couldnt tell im obsessed with spy au's so i had to write my own! as always i hope you enjoy and reblogs and likes are always appreciated, lots of love, clove!

the sound of your heels across the marble floor of the london headquarters pierced through the silence as you made your way through the sleek office. 

it had been four months since lando had left undercover to infiltrate redbull– a branch in the agency that was suspected to have gone rogue–, you lost contact one month ago. 

The agency presumed him dead. 

You remember when they told you, calling you to the very room you were making way to. It was a dark day, the sky had cried centimeters of rain throughout the day, as if it was foreshadowing the grief you’d come to feel that very evening.

Zak Brown, the head of the Mclaren Institute in the FIA Spy Agency, sat across from you. Sometimes, you can still faintly hear the sorrow in his voice as he told you the news

“As of today, agent 004 is presumed dead after loss of contact for more that 120 hours”

You remember the way your stomach twisted, something heavy settling in the pit as you tried to keep your stomach contents down

It felt like a piece of you had been torn right from you, ripped at the jagged seams in the shape of your lover.. tears pouring from your eyes as you listened to what was next, telling his parents, moving his things to storage, cleaning out his office. 

His office was the hardest part for you. 

you'd spent countless hours in that office, often you’d be found there more than your own office. The sound of both your laughter isolated the walls, providing a sense of comfort in your busy days. 

It was where you had your first kiss with him, clad in sweatpants at 2am, a pizza box forgotten as you two lied on the floor, brains fried from combing through files and finishing paperwork from your previous mission together. 

The day after they told you, you didn't leave your apartment— the apartment that had remnants of him in every corner, like it was taunting you that he was gone. You grieved Lando for weeks, taking administrative leave from your duties to spend time with his family, mourning the loss of your boyfriend. 

So why the hell did they want you in office? 

You walked to the receptionist desk, the young woman looked new. Her hair up neat as she typed away on her computer doing god knows what. 

“I’m here to see agent Brown” you say, voice wavering slightly. The woman does a few mouse clicks, then looks at her screen, then back to you. 

“Agent 003?” 

shivers run up your spine as you nod, lando had told you to pick 003 the day you both made field agents. He told you that he wanted your number next to his so you could be partners for all of eternity. 

How you hated that your number now stood alone.

She instructed you to sit down as Brown was still handling a previous matter. You picked at your fingers as you waited, the late evening sunset casting a glow throughout the room. Other agents were scattered around, doing paperwork, chatting with coffee as you sat in your own world. 

You thought back to the day he left, waking up in his arms to the sound of downtown London. Clinging to each other as you get ready, soaking in the feel of his touch before you were deprived of it. It had been a cozy morning. 

You kissed him sweetly at the front door, and then again in the car, and then again when you reached the agency. Held his hand tightly until he had to get on the chopper, he looked at you like he was memorizing every inch of your face one final time. 

“Ill see you soon” he placed one final kiss to your lips, certain and slow. A final goodbye before you watched the helicopter rise into the sky. 

He was smiling out the window as you stayed still on the helipad, tears filling your eyes, watching the love of your life leave for what you didn't know would be forever. 

“Agent 003?” The urgent voice of Zak Brown shook you from your thoughts. You rose to your feet, wobbling slightly as you entered the office before taking a seat on the familiar leather beneath you. 

“Hi y/n, how are you doing?” There was caution in the way he asked, like he was defusing a time bomb. Though his body was calm– relaxed even, as if he met you for a cup of coffee to catch up, not check in on one of his grieving agents. 

“Im…managing” you pick at the hem of your knit sweater, your eyes trained to the picture of your agency graduation class placed just behind Zak, you and Lando stood out in the photo, found next to each other with beaming, identical smiles. 

The man leaned forward as if he was telling you a secret, “I have some good news for you” you tilted your chin at him. He took a deep breath before he continued. 

“They found him, Landos alive.”

Your brain stopped, short circuiting as if pouring water onto an electrical circuit

He was fucking with you surely, the man always had a love for jokes but this was too far.

“Thats not funny,” you say quickly, ignoring the way your voice wavered. “after all my years working for the agency, you have the audacity too-” you're cut off by the shrill of the phone ringing. 

Zak answered the phone “Brown...yup shes here…” it was silent for a few seconds the faint murmur coming through the phone was impossible for you to understand. “Yup we’ll be up there in a moment” he hung up, looking at you with a smile. 

“Lets go” he urged you out of the room, you followed him to the elevator frantically asking where you were going. What was going on?

 He hit the button to the roof and you almost stepped out the metal box, which felt like it was increasingly becoming smaller. You step towards the sliding doors “No- Zak, i cant do this-” 

He grabs your arm gently before you can make your exit, pulling you back into the elevator “trust me agent, your going to want to be up here” 

The lift moved slowly, each floor felt like a lifetime, a soft ding ringed in your ears as it reached the top, the doors opening to the helipad where you watched him leave months ago and you felt like you were going to be sick. Your stomach twisting more with every step you took.

You heard it before you saw it, the blades slicing the air as they carried the helicopter over the horizon. Your breath hitched in your throat as it descended onto the helipad. You couldn't breathe, the door opened and no one moved. 

The helicopter's engine came to a stop as you watched a familiar pair of air forces place themselves on the concrete, you took a small step forward, behind you Zak stiffened. 

Then you saw him. 

His hair was longer, grown into more of a mullet with curls going in eight different directions. His knuckles were bruised and he had a small split in his lip, but he was here. He was alive.

You rushed to him, his eyes met yours and he made his way. You met half way but you were hesitant to reach for him, as if you weren't truly convinced he was standing in front of you.  

your silence gave your idiot boyfriend an idea.

He blinked “Who are you?” 

your heart dropped. You couldn't breathe, stuttering, you tried to speak but your words died in your sternum. 

This couldn't be happening you thought. 

Lando broke out into a huge smile seconds later “kidding! I'm kidding!” he breathes, you exhale, emotions boiling over as tears flow down your cheeks, his gaze softens. 

“ohmygod im kidding.. hi baby,” he pulled you into his arms immediately, you melted into him, your arms gripping onto his back like he’d disappear if you let go, and you’d wake up to an empty bed again. The thought made you squeeze him tighter. 

His touch was warm, his hug grounding you into the reality that you've been floating in for what felt like years. You stayed like that, rocking back and forth in each other's arms, tears of relief silently falling while Lando shushed you softly. 

Lando pulled back, his eyes pouring into yours, it felt like your souls were intertwining after months of separation. tethering you to him as he pulled you in for a deep kiss, you kissed him back, hard. His hands cupped your cheeks as he drank the kiss like it was his source of oxygen. It was as if you were drowning and his lips had the sweet taste of fresh air.  

You pulled away, sending him a harsh glare, sending a blow to his chest "don't do that!” you muttered with no real anger behind it  “You gave me a heart attack” 

He just chuckles as he finds his own tears of happiness start to slip freely down his cheeks, while he wipes yours. “I know I'm sorry, I had to do it, come on!” he jokes, pulling you back into his embrace. His hand stroking your hair as you cried in his arms, finally feeling like you could breathe after months of agony and pain. 

He greeted Zak, shaking hands while his other stayed intertwined with yours refusing to let go as you return downstairs, agents clapping as you walk through the corridors, smiling as they welcome one of their own home. 

“Welcome back agent” Zak spoke proudly as he led you to the medical bay, mentioning some tests they wanted to run on lando before he was safe to go home. 

You never left his side, you stayed curled next to him in that small medical cot while his IV dripped. You watched the colour slowly bleed into his face again, his eyes returning to their natural shade of green. 

Your head rested on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as your eyes fought sleep. Real sleep, the kind of slumber you haven't had in months, not without him in your arms. 

In the midst of the quiet, Lando spoke softly, you almost missed it. “They held me hostage ” 

You lifted your head, your gaze finding him as his fingers ran up and down your forearm.

“They kidnapped me in the middle of the night, left Oscar a note along with my gps device.” he took a shaky breath. “they wanted me to sell out the other agents undercover, give them intel on the MTL assignment.. They wanted anything that could harm the institute.” your eyes watched his stay trained on his knuckles. Bruises accompany scabs across his hand from what you learned was when he had to punch his way to freedom. 

"They tortured me, physically and mentally, told me I was just some kid who didn't have what it takes to be a top level agent, until one night I escaped, fought my way out and ran back to base where I found Oscar cleaning out my stuff, called for a rescue team immediately” 

Your heart broke listening to your boyfriend speak, you remembered the day Oscar came to London for a report after Lando was presumed dead, shaken at the loss of his friend. he brought you some of his things he kept on base, and held you while you cried. 

You placed a featherlight kiss to his hairline, “you're alive, and you’re home. That's all that matters” 

The doctor came in shortly after, the woman explaining Lando had some bruised ribs and was very dehydrated. Ordering him to rest at home for a foreseeable future, taking his mental wellbeing into account of his recovery. 

– 

It was late when you finally entered your apartment, the sun dipping below the horizon as the air turned cooler. 

The apartment was silent as you two made your way inside, Lando almost felt foreign in a place he’s spent countless hours, he’d only been gone four months but it felt like everything changed. This was his home with you, the roof you two built a life under. He spent nights dreaming of coming home to you, now that he’s finally here he worries he’ll be a guest in his own home. 

You twisted the key before slowly opening the wooden door, revealing the dimly lit apartment. It looked exactly the same, part from some wilted bouquet of flowers and a new throw blanket found on the couch. 

Lando took a step inside, his shoulders relaxing as he took in his surroundings, the familiar scent of your favourite candle you must’ve been burning before you got Zak's call. 

He noticed there were more pictures up, moments of your life together framed and hung around the apartment like it was a museum. You walk in behind him, seeing his eyes trace the pictures. 

“Your mum framed those,” he turns around as you say quietly, feeling a lump in your throat. “she thought they would’ve been nice additions for me to have– to uh– to remember you by-” you choke on your words as a small sob shakes from your lips. 

 Lando strides towards you, pulling you into a hug “hey hey hey, im here baby, im alive, im not going anywhere.” he shushes, his hands wrap around your waist as you buried your face in his shoulder. “Im so sorry, it must’ve been so hard for you” he whispers, holding you tightly as you offer a small nod. 

You pull away, sending him a small smile while you wipe your cheeks dry, sighing before taking his hands in yours. “It was hard, but you're here, you're safe, and I want to sleep next to my boyfriend again so can we please go to bed and worry about everything else tomorrow?” 

Lando returns a smile to you, placing a kiss onto the tip of your nose “yeah baby lets go to bed”

And you did, you fell asleep that night wrapped in each other's arms. Limbs tangled together as your breathing synched with one another. sleepy mumbles of “i missed you” into his skin could be heard before sleep pulled you both under. 

You both slept like babies, finally feeling the warmth of each other's touch after your skin ran cold for months. No night terrors of the other being alone and afraid shaking you awake, just you two, holding each other tightly, finally at peace.

hehehe hope u enjoyed

[reit0o]

his resolve .ᐟ ⋆˙

★ summary- caleb x fem!reader. Caleb has never known safety, but he’s learned what it means to protect it. So when he finds four guys cornering you, he knows he can finally do something about it. Because you're the reason he fights—the only thing that makes surviving feel like something more. Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

★ wc- 3.4k

based on these calebweek prompts 🍎

The park near your house was the perfect place for finding unusual flowers—the kind that didn’t usually make it into flower crowns or get crushed into pigments for paint, but held their own kind of charm. They were perfect for breathing life into Caleb’s and your little ‘secret base’, as you called it. Your personal touch.

Today was different from normal. You had snuck out early, your plan carefully plotted. You wanted to surprise him with a flower garland—something beautiful and a little messy like the both of you—to hang above the entrance of your shared haven. A quiet declaration that ’this place was ours.’

The park was always alive with soft background noise—murmurs of old ladies working out on the creaky fitness equipment, the tinny laughter of toddlers being pushed on swings by their mothers, and the steady hum of everyday life. But you didn’t head toward the open areas. You turned a sharp corner and slipped through the patch of thinned-out shrubs, worn down from all the times the two of you had snuck through, until you reached it: a little corner garden, hidden just out of sight. The community had planted it to help wildflowers grow freely.

The waft of the flowers was both overwhelming and alluring. It always smelled sweet here, sweet enough to make your chest ache. You leaned in, wide-eyed, fingertips brushing gently over the blooms. Primrose. Sunroots. Asters. You picked the fullest ones, stems breaking with a soft snap as you tucked them into your dirt-streaked hand, careful not to overpluck from any one patch.

The only other kids nearby were four older boys from the neighbourhood loitering around on the swings. You kept adding to your bundle, unaware of the swing’s squeal as it came to a stop. Unaware of the gritty sound of gravel underfoot, drawing closer—until they stood right behind you, shadows obscuring the sight in front of you.

“You’re that girl,” a voice said behind you. Older. It belonged to one of the four from the swings. “The orphan.”

The word cracked against your spine like a branch splitting.

“The one who clings to that boy like his tail. Caleb, right?”

You turned slowly, unsure if you should respond. But before you could speak, one of them stepped forward and grinned. There was something sharp and cruel beneath it, something that made your stomach twist.

“What are you even doing here?” another scoffed, then looked down at your bundle of flowers. “Trying to play house in the dirt like some stray?”

Then one of them kicked the flowers out of your hand.

You dropped to your knees instantly, grabbing at them, but they were already crushed. One of the petals tore in your hand. You sat there, crestfallen, eyes lingering only on the scattered remains lying defeated at your feet.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” another boy sneered. “Nobody’s gonna care what some charity case brat wanted to hang up. You and that moron Caleb—no wonder you stick together. Freaks find freaks.”

Laughter broke among them. Your knees stayed rooted to the ground, the weight of their words clinging to your back like wet clothes. You didn’t dare look up.

“What’re you doing?”

The voice cut through clean like a blade.

Caleb turned to her, kneeling beside the scattered flowers. He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the crushed remains before landing gently on yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded, just barely. Your voice caught in your throat, unable to form a sound, eyes grazing past his shoulder at the boys who were still watching.

The boy frowned. “We were just talking to her.”

Caleb stepped closer.

“Didn’t sound like talking.”

Caleb didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scowl or shout. But something in his presence shifted, almost quiet and terrifying, like the still air before a thunderstorm.

Your eyes scoured him, your only sign of guidance, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m just gonna have a chat with these guys,” he said, brushing a bit of dirt off your knee. “Don't worry about me, pipsqueak, I’ll be back soon.”

Then he reached up and gave your nose a gentle squeeze, the smallest curve tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you start hanging these around our base?” he added, nudging your shoulder gently in the other direction. “Make it look nice and pretty when I get back.”

You hesitate and take a step back, anxiety clouding your thoughts with each movement at the mere idea of Caleb might do—or worse, what might happen to him. The crushing thought of him coming back injured made you glance over your shoulder, but before the thought could fully form, gravity seemed to drag you forward, and you stumbled into the garden.

The tall metal gate loomed before you, and the sharp click of its lock echoed in your ears, sealing your fate.

Dread began to pool in your stomach. Your plans from earlier vanished swiftly from your mind. The bouquet slipped from your hands, dirt clinging to the once-vibrant petals. Panic rising, you lunged for the gate, trying desperately to pry it open with your bare hands. But it held firm. Locked.

Your hopeless struggle left you with nothing other than guilt-ridden fear.

Your knees, now sore and reddened, buckled beneath you. You crawled back to the mound of dirt where the flowers had fallen, now bruised and broken, and collapsed limply beside them.

Part of you feels like this was your punishment for sneaking out. Now forced to sit alone, swimming in guilt for the foolish decision to leave after lunch against Gran’s and his wishes.

You only wanted to do something nice for him. But the cost of that decision left you locked away at the edge of your garden, cut off from the world beyond the stupid gate. And Caleb—the one always eager to take care of you—was now out there fighting your battles.

Tears welled, blurring your vision. You sniffled, trying not to break down completely, trying not to seem even more like a helpless case in need of saving. But every passing minute drove you deeper into despair.

The sun dipped lower, casting hues of gold and pink across the sky. Its last rays clung to the walls of your house like soft brushstrokes. The flowers in your hand drooped, nearly bare now as you sheepishly plucked the petals one by one, letting them pool around you. Just as you reached for the last one, the familiar creak of the gate split the silence.

It swung open slowly.

And there he was—Caleb. Stiffly stepping into the garden, flashing you a weak smile.

His hair was dishevelled, dirt-streaked his knees, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. One hand clutched his stomach; his wince betraying the pain he tried to hide behind that familiar, reassuring grin.

Your legs sprang into motion as you stumbled forward, knees weak and numb as you tried to regain your balance. Small hands clung to his rumpled clothes, searching desperately for more injuries, for an explanation.

“Caleb, what happened to you?”

A short, humourless laugh escaped him as he braced himself against the wall. “It just got a little rough,” he muttered. “You don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to know is—they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You searched his face for something—pain, fear, even regret, but found none. You didn’t care about the kids who had been teasing you. The only thing that mattered was the boy in front of you, wincing with every breath as he tried his best to bite down  any pain he was feeling.

“Cale—”

“What happened to your knees?” he interrupted, hunched over anxiously, examining the light marks and abrasions turning into bright red sores.

“I tried climbing over the gate,” you weakly admitted.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put? Come on, let’s go inside before it starts to get infected.”

“But—”

“I said don’t worry about me,” he cut in again, softer this time. “I’m okay, I promise.”

He was lying. And you both knew it. But you didn’t fight him on it. Instead, you let him loop an arm around your shoulders and guide you into the back door of the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled faintly of antiseptic. The quiet hum of the fridge filled the silence as you sat on the wooden chair.

Caleb had already cleaned your wounds, applied antiseptic, and plastered your knees with care—even drawing a little smiley face on one of the bandages as if that could somehow undo the chaos of the day.

Even when he was hurt, he still took it upon himself to tend to you. You always had his full, undivided attention.

He commended your bravery and promised to make your favourite snack as a reward. The skin around your nails reddened from the constant picking, and your legs could do nothing but swing from the wooden chair. Brave? That was the last word you’d use to describe yourself.

No. Liar. Selfish. Weak.

A brave person wouldn’t let someone they care about get hurt in their place.

“This is all my fault,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have snuck out.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose roughly on your sleeve.

“I just wanted to make our base look pretty… add something of my own. But instead, you got hurt because of me. Why didn’t you let me stay?”

The last word cracked, almost squeaked out, betraying the tears pushing up behind your eyes.

Caleb didn't say anything at first. He just wiped your cheeks with the edge of his shirt.

“How come when I see you, you always have tears running down your face?”

“You got seriously hurt, Caleb!”

“And you think I would’ve let you fight them all alone?”

You hiccuped. “No… but we could’ve gone home together, where it’s safe. Or fought them together.”

Silence hovered between you for a moment. Caleb’s brow softened as he let out a long, tired breath.

“Look at me,” he said, flexing his arm in a half-hearted show of strength. “I may not look it, but I’m strong. Stronger than you think. I don’t need you going out looking for trouble when I’m around.”

His eyes drifted to the window. He stared at the fading light, and for a second it looked like he wanted to say more. But whatever thoughts stirred behind his eyes stayed there—unspoken.

“Not everything ends in a fair fight.”

“Next time,” he said finally, turning back to you, his tone firm, “tell me. You don’t have to tell Gran everything. But let me know.”

His gaze held yours, unwavering.

“I don’t think I could forgive myself if you got hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said gently. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll tell me everything.”

He raised his pinky toward you.

You wrapped yours around him, tugging tight with all the strength in your small fingers.

“I promise.”

The evening had quietly settled over the kitchen by the time Gran returned home. At the dining table, you had already fallen asleep, leaning into his side, your arm still wrapped tightly around his, like you were trying to hold onto him even in your dreams.

Earlier, you’d practically begged him not to leave. Sleep had made your head bob, and eyelids heavy, but you fought it with everything you had, clinging to him as he fed you snacks. When he offered to carry you up to bed, you refused outright. Your grip on him only tightened.

You didn’t want to lose sight of him. Not again.

The kitchen was eerily still as Gran slipped into the seat across Caleb, quietly applying ointment to his injuries. There were no thoughts, no distractions, no outside noises leaking in, only the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.

His usual easygoing demeanour had all but vanished, replaced with a hollow, strained stillness. His eyes tracked every motion of Gran’s hands, each cut and bruise slowly bandaged. There was no pretending when you weren’t awake. His limbs hung slack, lacking their usual tautness and strength. It felt like he’d just run a marathon, every muscle screaming with exhaustion.

Gran’s brow furrowed deeply when he lifted his shirt, revealing a particularly nasty bruise blooming just below his left rib.

“Caleb,” she murmured, her voice low and resigned. “I don’t want you getting into these fights anymore. When I took you in, I asked you to look after each other, but… this isn’t what I meant.”

His nostrils flared outward, fingers spread white against the edge of his seat.

“If I hadn’t been there,” he swallowed hard, “she would’ve gotten hurt. Badly.”

“Just look at the number of bruises on your legs.”

He winced as the ointment touched a deep scratch along his leg, muscles twitching against the sting.

“This is nothing,” he hissed.

But another flinch betrayed him when the ointment brushed against his arm, pain flashing through him in waves he couldn’t fully hide.

The events of that afternoon flooded his mind, threading through his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Any smart kid would’ve backed off the moment they saw the odds—four against one. The others were older, bigger, meaner. But Caleb didn’t flinch.

They were fast. Fast enough that two of them had grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back while the others took their turns. Each picked their blow with cruel precision, mocking him before finally knocking the wind from his lungs. When they were done, they dropped him like a broken toy—discarded, unwanted, like some street dog left to rot.

It didn't last long. It felt pitiful to drag out what already seemed like a losing battle. His knees and elbows took the worst of it, scraping hard against the gravel as he crumpled to the ground, helpless and abandoned.

His hands still prickled as he flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp sting of humiliation. He could still see them—laughing, sauntering away without a care, their figures shrinking as they disappeared from view.

He thought of the garden. Your safe place. The promise that he made to you every time his name trembled and failed to leave your lips.

He never knew his heart could sink that low, twisting deep in his chest, his stomach unravelling into a pit of guilt and helplessness with every step of that memory.

He remembered how powerless he felt in the lab—how his voice hadn’t mattered, how his body hadn’t been his own. But now… now he had freedom. And freedom was a weapon. A chance.

He’d be damned if he let that go to waste.

“What happened to those boys, Caleb? The lady on the corner said she looked out her window and saw four young boys crying, clutching their arms in pain. They were screaming loud enough for the next neighbourhood to hear.”

Her words fell through the silence like water flowing into a gutter. His mind was far away from the conversation.

Her words broke through his thoughts like a knife. “She said one of their arms was broken.”

Gran licked her thumb and gently wiped a smudge from his cheek, then gently cupped his face. He looked at her expressionlessly. There was no guilt, just a quiet acceptance of what he’d done. She peered at his face, looking for any hint of reasoning. His eyes didn’t waver, just stern and fixed, backed by a quiet determination. A look that said all how he was feeling, full of something far older than his years. He wasn't scared.

He wasn’t like kids his age who had the freedom to do as they pleased. Caleb had seen the horrors, what it was like to be powerless. To have choice ripped away. He knew things weren’t guaranteed in this life. He knew fear better than anyone else, and he didn’t flinch in the face of it anymore.

“I won’t lose,” he said, voice low. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

I have someone I must protect.

He would break the world first, than lose you. Gran’s gaze softened with sorrow, with helpless guilt. No child should know the weight of survival like this. Fearing for his safety is a burden she wishes she could lift from him. The wounds on him serve only as a reminder of her inescapable remorse.

“I don’t want her to be in pain again,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath, the last word catching at the edge of his throat.

And she saw him, for a brief second before he turned away, casting a glance at the sleeping girl beside him before discreetly wiping his eye with the back of his hand.

She saw it clearly then: his legs dangling off the edge of the chair, and his tiny fists clenched tight around the hem of his stained shorts.

Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

She carried them both to the couch, settling them gently before tucking a blanket around their small, tired bodies.

“You two only have each other in this world,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “She looks up to you, Caleb. When she sees you hurt, she hurts too. I need you to look after yourself, just as much as you look after her.”

She never knew if her words ever truly reached him. Deep down, she suspected he would never see things her way. To him, there was only one truth: that they had no one else. Just each other.

He gave her a silent nod.

She leaned down, kissing them both softly on the head.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

His eyelids felt heavy. With a small, sluggish shift, he tried to adjust his arm into a more comfortable position, but your hold only tightened. You burrowed closer, murmuring in your sleep, “Caleb… don’t go…”

He turned his head toward you. Your face was still blotchy from tears, the bottom of your nose marked with dried snot. His arm had long since gone numb beneath your weight, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh, resting his head back against the couch cushion.

He was the product of an experiment before he was ever a child. A child who met more tears than laughter. The sterile confines of the lab taught him his first lesson—that tears were worth less than the dust collected on the floor.

That feeling of helplessness was less a memory than a constant reminder. The image resurfaced in his sleep every night, the haunting picture of your unconscious body on the operating table, surrounded by people who treated you like nothing more than data. Watching it all unfold like he was living through a tragedy he had no power to stop.

He would always remember how gently he’d introduce himself to you, again and again, with a softness neither of you had ever been given. It was the only thing he could offer then—tenderness in a world that had given them none.

The promise you made in the safety of your shared haven was bound tighter that night. And so too was the vow Caleb made to himself.

A tethered kite can only soar so high. But he swore he would fly farther. Farther than the weight of fear, farther than the gravity that tried to keep him grounded. He’d make sure your days ended in laughter. That your joyful cries would finally outnumber the tears you no longer remember shedding. He would be your anchor when every adult had failed you. Your home, when the world gave you none.

To him, failure wasn't an option. Failure meant losing you.

His hand came to rest gently on your head, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen along your cheek. Caleb looked at the dim reflection cast in the glow of the living room lamp—your image softened in its warm light, quiet and still, as if untouched by the chaos beyond these walls.

The steady rhythm of your breathing pulled him closer to sleep, like a lullaby only he could hear.

He wrapped the blanket more securely around you, drawing you into him as if the simple act could protect you from every shadow waiting just beyond reach.

His purpose came from you, and what had left that lab was a love born from survival.

He stroked the back of your head slowly, gently, each pass easing him closer to rest. Soft fragments of a promise lingered on his lips.

“Don't worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

If he could help it, he would shape the world into something safer for you. He would stand in the way of anything that tried to hurt you.

He would build something better.

A world so far out of reach that harm could never graze you again.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! feel free to ask me anything or pop in and say hello ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

a/n- let's ignore the fact im already a few days behind in this calebweek. im still a firm believer josephine cared for caleb but their relationship was def rocky and not the same she had with MC. i love this prompt so much bc caleb was still a child when he took on his protective role, like they were both just babies. also if you see me spam post to catch up, no u didnt

as always hope you enjoyed reading!!

[mistiell]

Oh, Your Love is Sunlight

summary: While on a supply run with your (insanely attractive) neighbor and friend, Joel, you nearly die twice. Once to an infect, and second to hypothermia, when you fall through the ice while trying to take a short cut home to Jackson. Joel spends the night trying to warm you up and keep you alive, and the morning after, you both come to a realization.

wc: 8k (Yikes, sorry y’all)

warnings: VOMIT (For my fellow emetephobics, I put ** at the start and end of the part), Fem! Reader, canon typical violence, graphic description of killing an infected, hypothermia, near death experiences, body heat as a survival tactic, like brief indirect mention of Star Wars that might be inaccurate bc I’ve never seen it (DONT COME FOR ME, I JUST HAVENT GOTTEN AROUND TO IT), Worried and protective Joel, very very briefmention of original characters towards the end bc i needed people and didnt feel like searching the wiki, slightly jealous Joel but it passes quickly. if i missed anything lmk. NOT PROOFREAD (will likely come back to fix any mistakes later)

a/n: Hello i have returned with a fic i started last year and just finished (oops lol), and it is my longest fic to date so enjoy! This will likely have a smutty part 2 if i ever get around to it.

**NOTE: I've linked ways to help Palestine here. If you're in a position to donate anything at all, please do! If not, you can reblog the post that's linked so it gets out to more people.

---

You don’t hate Joel Miller, but you really hate him right now.

Tommy was supposed to do this run with him – something about guitar strings for Ellie that they couldn’t get awhile ago – but something had come up. Joel had come to you to ask if you’d go with him instead, and your will to please him overrode your vehement dislike of sub-zero temperatures. It’s become apparent in recent months that you just can’t say no to the man; a flaw that you are actively going to work on fixing when you get back, you decide as you trudge through what has to be double digit inches worth of snow.

“Remind me why we couldn’t have ridden the rest of the way?” You huff, lifting and heaving your heavy winter boot yet another step after him. You really wish it were safe to wear snowshoes out here. It would make travelling through this shit so much easier. Alas, while it’s great for travelling faster over snow, the same can’t be said for escaping any infected you may have the misfortune of running into out here.

He sighs, but reminds you again for the third time in thirty minutes, “Horses can’t make it through this way in the winter.”

“Couldn’t we have found a way around?”

Bemused, he shoots you a sidelong glance, “Unless you wanna walk home in the dark, no. Sun’s already too low for my likin’.”

“It’s barely afternoon, Joel.”

“Might be past that by the time we head back.”

“Might be isn’t will be.”

Shaking his head, he breathes an exasperated chuckle. You’d think he was genuinely annoyed if this wasn’t your routine. You try to vex him, he pretends it’s working. He looks fond as he shakes his head, “D’ you gotta be so goddamn argumentative all the time?”

“‘Course.” You grin puckishly, “Part of my charm.”

He snorts, lifting a tree branch and letting you duck under his arm, a little bit of snow flaking off the nettles and dusting your hair and eyelashes, “Charm ain’t exactly the word I’d use.”

“Yeah? What word would you use, then?” You ask, turning to look at him just as he ducks under the branch after you. As he straightens, you realize you’re so close, you have to tilt your head back a little to look at him.

It’s only when you’re this close to him that you’re reminded of just how broad he is. Broad shoulders, broader chest. One of his hands could encompass nearly a whole half of your face, you’re sure. Leaving the two of you in spouts of steam, you watch your breaths mingle and dance in the space between you. Humming a low rumble, his mouth twists and eyes narrow as he pretends to think, and you almost forget what you’ve asked until he replies, “Annoyance.”

Moment lost. You roll your eyes. “Aren’t you sweet.”

He chuckles, the sound rich in his chest as he continues on and prompts you to do the same. As you emerge from the treeline, you spot your destination a ways away. A small, rundown town centre. You can just barely see a sign with a treble clef peaking out from behind the large building blocking your view.

“You’re sure this area’s clear, right?” His silence unnerves you. “Right?”

“Should be.” His brow creases. He looks about as reluctant to be doing this as you are, but Ellie needs new strings and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get them before her birthday. The things you do for those you love, you suppose, “Keep a look out, just in case.”

“Yup.” You sigh, popping the ‘P’.

The town is a frigid wasteland when you make it onto the main street, storefront windows smashed to bits with snow drifts sloping up the walls and creeping inside, blowing snow whooshing up in swirls like mini tornados across the open spaces. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you traverse the street, nerves buzzing with the anticipation of danger that is ever present out here.

More walking, before glass crackles underfoot as you step through the mangled metal frame of the music store’s front door, careful to avoid the jagged pieces still jutting out of the rust-flaked steel. The two of you split up to look around, Joel making his way over to a wall that houses a couple of fair quality acoustic guitars while you survey a few shelves lined with CD’s and tapes on the other side of the room.

“Y’know guitar strings ain’t gonna be over there, right?” He calls, and you roll your eyes.

“Obviously. I figured I’d try to find something for her, too.” An album cover catches your eye and you slide it out, tilting your head uncertainly. It looks old, but you recognize some of the songs off the list on the back, “You think she’d like ‘Heart’?”

“What, the band?” You call back in confirmation, and he hums out a breath in thought as he picks over his side of the store, “I reckon she might.”

“‘Heart’ it is, then.” You murmur to yourself, slinging your pack from your shoulders and kneeling to unzip the main pocket.

Something clatters somewhere ahead of you, and you freeze, head snapping up in the direction of another door, wooden this time. You watch and wait, unblinking, palming the hilt of your pistol. Quads, hamstrings, calves wound tight and poised to move quickly, you rise slow into a half crouch, holding your breath. Something bumps again, chittering, hard enough this time that the door shudders in the corroded frame.

“Joel-!”

The door flings open and hits the adjacent wall with a BANG!, and with a guttural, inhumane cry, something flings its body at you chest first, knocking you off your feet. Your shoulders slam into the tiled floor with a hollow thud, knocking the air from your lungs and taking your ability to scream with it. You flail, forearm pressed hard against the infected’s fleshy throat as you fight wildly while trying desperately to breath, scream, something.

A large hunk of Cordyceps encompasses a quarter of it’s face, rubbery ridges stretching several inches from the surface of its skin. One wild, bloodshot eye meets yours, pupil blown and lids split so wide with hunger you can see where the yellowed white begins to curve into its skull. Your heart thrums painfully in your throat as you realize you’ve nothing to do but stare back and pray Joel gets the hell over here before the thing tears into you. Its teeth gnash, still shrieking, mouth opening so wide you can see the mottled grey of its rotting tonsils behind flashes of bloodied incisors. Its rancid breath has your stomach churning.

A strong arm wraps around its neck from behind, and then it’s off you, and you’re staring wide eyed at the ceiling listening to the cracking of bone, a far off, dying keen. The wet squelch of brain matter and rotten cerebrospinal fluid spilling out of its skull and likely splattering over the wall is muffled but just as terribly, egregiously sickening. Its only once you’re pulled up by the shoulders and spots dance across your vision that you realize that you’ve still yet to take a proper breath.

Joel takes your face between large palms, lips moving with no sound beyond the ringing in your ears. You watch his mouth wrap around your name, then the words ‘Breathe’and ‘Please’ several times over as he pats feeling into your cheeks. Over his shoulder, the thing lays motionless, its head so mangled, its just a wet mess of reds and greys and sharp fragments of bone. Your stomach rolls. **You twist out of his hold just as it contracts and spills its contents over the grimy floor, black pressing into your peripherals until you finally shut your eyes, retching. A hand smooths over your shoulder blades while the other collects any loose strands of hair and holds them back behind your nape. **

Its easier to breathe by the time you’re done, and you can finally hear his voice again, low and soft as he soothes, “S’ alright, you’re okay.”

“Oh, fuck.” You rasp, throat burning something awful as you spit the acrid taste from your mouth

“I know, I know.” He turns you to him by your shoulders as soon as you’re done and looks you over, gaze frantically jumping between your face, neck, shoulders, arms. “Did it get you?”

You blink dumbly at him.

“What?” Your mind is still catching up to the present moment, and it takes too long for you to process what he’s asked.

“Were you bit?” His voice is high, shaking and scared, his hands on your shoulders like vice grips.

“N-No.” You force out just so he’ll calm down. You’re not actually sure yet, adrenaline still prickling in your extremities, so really, you could be. Its just that seeing him so genuinely panicked is more than a little disconcerting. His hold on your shoulders starts to ache, and you squirm, “Joel, you’re hurting me.”

He lets go like he’s been burned before gently pushing your jacket and shirt collar to your right, then left as you slide your sleeves up a little to check your wrists. No bites, no scratches. You both breathe sighs of relief.

“You get the strings?” You rasp, and he looks at you incredulously.

“You almost died n’ you’re worried ‘bout the guitar strings?” You shrug, and he breathes a laugh, beard scratching under the pads of his fingertips as he rubs at his mouth, “Christ, you are gonna be the death of me.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I got the damn strings.” With a quiet grunt, he rises, holds out a hand, “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Clapping your hand into his, you let him hoist you to your feet.

---

Walking, freezing, joints aching, the sun looms low in the sky, stealing away with it slowly the light of day. Joel holds up two fingers to the horizon and scowls. You sigh, trek onwards, a shiver jittering down your spine and making your teeth chatter briefly, causing you to accidentally nip the tip of your tooth paste coated finger as you attempt to rid your mouth of the remnants of your earlier close call.

“You alright?” He asks for what has to be the thirtieth time as you spit into the snow and wipe your mouth with your sleeve.

For the thirtieth time, despite feeling a little gross, you answer, “Fine.”

“Y’sure?” He rubs a gloved hand roughly along the length of your shoulders, warming the nape of your neck even through layers. “You’re shiverin’.”

You want to curl into his side. Slide under his arm, wrap yours round his back and squeeze so close you’d have to mirror his gait so you don’t trip over his ankle. You shake your head minutely. The cold is weakening your resolve.

“I’m okay. Just wanna get home.” You try to sound normal, like his touch isn’t setting you on fire.

He gives you a soft squeeze and retracts his arm. You mourn the loss swiftly and silently, “You n’ me both.”

The shadows around lengthen considerably as you keep going. Glancing up at the sky, the sun has dipped lower, turning the sky a dusted pink. You scowl at the realization that he was right. At this rate, you won’t make it back to Jackson before dark.

“We’re not makin’ good time.” He articulates your thought with a sigh, brow creased.

“We could pass over the lake?”

He hesitates, then makes a face like he’s smelled something rotten, “S’ not a good idea.”

“It’s been frozen over since November.” You argue. It’s nearly March now, but the snow is still crisp under your boots and the wind is cold enough that your cheeks and nose are numb. It’s the quickest way back, you know he knows that.

There’s a pause as he contemplates whether or not it’s worth the risk. There are about a hundred things that could go wrong, and you watch him mull over them all in the minute it takes for him to finally reply, “Fine. But if you fall in, you’re gettin’ yourself out.”

There’s no truth to it. He might scold you, but he’d do it while breathing life back into you, cursing you between each exhale. Your breath comes out in puffs of fog as you chuckle, “Deal.”

By the time you reach the crossing, the sky has taken on a lovely lavender hue that serves as a less lovely reminder that you’re quickly running out of daylight. Joel hums doubtfully as he eyes the ice, sizing up the distance between the two of you and the bank on the other side.

The lake isn’t very large to begin with, and the path crosses a narrow strip where the water tapers in like the neck of an hourglass. It’ll take you fifteen minutes or so to get all the way over to the other side. In the height of winter, you can even get the horses safely across. But while it’s still well below freezing, and the ice looks thick enough to jump on from here, it could be weaker further out.

Hands in his pockets, Joel frowns, “I really don’t know about this.”

“It’s fine.” Emboldened by thoughts of your warm bed and a steaming cup of tea waiting for you on the other side, you step onto the ice and turn back to him, “See?”

“Mm-hm.” He hums, displeased as he follows after you carefully.

Ten minutes of walking and you’re already a little ways passed the halfway mark. Joel’s had his eyes on the dark abyss beneath you nearly the entire time. “If you keep looking down like that, you might fall.”

“N’ if I don’t, both of us might fall.” His use of ‘fall’ means something different to yours. Humming, you turn your gaze forward again.

“We’re close, now. The ice is stronger closer to the edges, right?” You already know the answer. There’s no point in asking, but you do anyway just so he’ll talk.

“Mm.” He grumbles. That stubborn crease between his brows has deepened, you find when you glance sidelong at him.

“Exactly. We’re fi-.” An ear splitting crack bounces off the ice, to the trees, and back again in a terrible echo as the ice splinters beneath you. You nearly slip in your haste to stop. The both of you go stiff as statues. You’re petrified. Joel looks doubly so.

“Joel.” You whisper, as if your voice weighs enough to be the extra bit that sends you plunging into the icy depths below. The chalky cracks are in stark contrast to the dark backdrop of the water beneath. Just how deep must it be for you to be unable to make out anything below you?

You feel like you might be sick.

“Hey. Look at me.” Tears hot with panic well in your eyes as you do as he says, and the look on his face makes it worse. You know that look. He thinks might lose you, and he’s decided he won’t let it happen. His breath trembles, but his voice doesn’t waver, “S’ gonna be alright, yeah?”

You manage a nod, and only then does he look down, then left, scouring the ice and treeline barely fifteen feet away. Back to you, and you both realize he’s to far to reach you. Second time you’ve almost died today, and this time he can’t come to your rescue.

“M-Maybe I can...” You bend your knees a little as if to move and he throws a hand out.

“Don’t-!”

The ice gives, and the fear takes up so much space you’ve barely room to take a breath before you’re engulfed in painful cold. It bites at your face as you attempt to swim up. The water muffles everything but the sound of your heartbeat as you fight against the weight of your clothes and backpack. You make the mistake of opening your eyes and find yourself swimming up, up, up through far too much nothing. It hurts to kick your legs hard enough to propel yourself, and it takes what feels like forever for you to breach the surface. You take in a heaving lungful of air as Joel calls your name.

He’s on his belly, body parallel to the edge and arm outstretched, but not close enough for you to grab just yet, “Don’t pull yourself up. Just- Just get your arms on the ice n’ kick your legs a little, alright? Can you do that?”

“Uh-huh.” It comes out jittery, jaw vibrating, teeth clacking together painfully as you hook your arm clumsily up over the lip and do as he says. The lower half of your body gradually rises until you’re level with the ice, and it’s then that he beckons you closer.

“Now scooch forward.”

You kick your legs harder and carefully pull yourself toward him until your chest is out of the water, then your torso. The ice dips a bit as you reach for his outstretched hand, and as soon as he’s got yours, he pulls hard enough to get you the rest of the way out, nearly wrenching your shoulder out of the socket. The moment you’re close enough, he wraps his arms tight around you and rolls you both away from the hole in the ice.

Panting, trembling, he keeps you there in his arms moments longer than he probably should.

“Don’t you ever do shit like that again.” His voice breaks on ‘ever’. “Gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack. Too old for this shit.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ do it on pu-purpose.” You slur with lips too stiff to fit around the words right. Even your tongue feels frozen, but you think that’s probably more from the shock, “Thought y’said I’d have’ta get myself out.”

He huffs a short laugh, incredulous and utterly relieved. “Had a change a’ heart.”

“C’mon.” Carefully, he shifts onto knees before standing. He doesn’t let go of you once as he helps you to your feet, “Gotta get you warmed up ‘fore you freeze.”

He says it like there’s somewhere warm waiting for you just beyond the ice. You’re too tired to be outwardly pessimistic. “Yeah.”

You should be anxious as he shuffles the two of you to shore as quickly as is safe. When you make it there, he stops you only to peel off your mitts and scarf before ushering you forward. It’s freezing, you’re soaked. It’s a recipe for a very miserable death, you think dismally. But you trust Joel, and the tight grip he has on you makes you relax, even when you’re toeing a very fine line between life and death. You know he won’t give up on you easily. If you started spontaneously disintegrating tomorrow, he’d carve out pieces of himself just to keep you whole. There is no way in hell he’ll let a little cold take you from him.

“Y’see that?” You lift your head sluggishly to see a small opening tucked into the drop off of a very large, rocky hill. “Just gotta make it there, alright?”

You try for an ‘okay’ but all that comes out is a small hum as you slump further against him. Maybe you’ve relaxed too much, “M’ tired.”

“I know, darlin’, I know.” The pet name sparks something in you, and you try to foster it, let it liven you up a little. Darlin’ Darlin’ Darlin’ like a mantra over and over in your head. He squeezes your arm roughly, and you peel your eyes open as he pleads, “Just a little further n’ you can sit down, okay? Promise.”

Sit down, not sleep. You know you can’t sleep until you’re not at risk of freezing to death anymore. By the time you reach your destination, you can barely feel your fingers and toes.

Joel has to duck to get the two of you out of the cold and into the cave, but he manages. It’s warmer in here, you think. Although maybe its not warmth, but just the absence of the wind nipping at your skin. You’re a little alarmed that you can’t tell the difference.

Sliding down the wall to sit clumsily, you watch him as he slings both his and your packs from his shoulders. You vaguely wonder when he’d managed to take yours. The zipper clinks sharply as he sets it down and reminds you suddenly.

“The CD.”

He frowns, “Huh?”

“Ellie’s birthday gift.” You clarify through the haze rolling over your brain. “The ‘Heart’ CD. I left it.”

He blows a short huff out his nose as he reaches into his back pocket, sliding said object from the denim and giving it a waggle.

“Oh.”

Breathing a very small laugh, he shakes his head, “You’re welcome.”

Theres a short lull, although it feels like longer. He looks you over, jaw working before, “You’re gonna have to strip.”

You blink owlishly, “Huh?”

Cheeks and neck flushing a lovely rose, he clears his throat, “Your clothes are soaked. You’ll freeze if you keep ‘em on.”

“Oh.” That checks. You’re sure your face would be on fire if your blood wasn’t slush in your veins, “Right.”

Tentatively, you attempt to peel your jacket off while he unrolls his sleeping bag, but your arms won’t cooperate with you. They’re slow and hard to maneuver. It feels more like operating two arcade crane machines simultaneously, and you huff after failing to get the cuff of your sleeve unstuck from your wrist.

“Here.” He sighs, kneeling in front of you to tug it the rest of the way off and toss it aside. It’s stiff as it lands, mostly frozen. When he looks back at you, the corners of his mouth twist down, and he takes one of your cheeks in a big, calloused hand, thumbing under your eye. You were right. It does encompass nearly the entire side of your face.

“What?” You ask weakly, head lolling until the full weight of it rests in his palm.

“Nothin’.” He replies quietly, shaking his head. You watch his gaze dip to the hem of you shirt before it meets yours again, wary, “Can I... You want help?”

All you can do is nod. It’ll be quicker – safer – if he does it for you, you justify, as he carefully slips his fingers just under the hem and lifts. His knuckles feel like brands where they brush over your ribs, and you jolt reflexively.

He pulls it over your head and off your arms, “You alright?”

“F-Fine.” Just being undressed by the man you think you’re in love with. No big deal.

He gets off your boots next. Wetting his chapped lips briefly, his fingers twitch as he glances down at your jeans, “These too?”

It takes a second for you to realize he’s not asking if you want them off, but rather if you want help getting them off. You swallow, then through chattering teeth, “Uh-huh.”

Wordlessly, he undoes the button, then the zipper without dawdling, strictly business. You plant your palms and use what little strength you have left to lift your butt from the floor so he has room to wiggle them down your thighs. They slip over your calves and past your ankles with ease, taking your socks with them.

“You, uh...” Again, he clears his throat. “You can get in the sleeping bag ‘fore you take off the rest.”

Drawing your knees in makes your bones ache, and you list to one side when you attempt to shift your weight forward onto your feet. He catches you roughly by the shoulders and soothes, “Easy. C’mere.”

He helps you over and into the sleeping bag, zipping you up. It takes effort, but you manage to unhook your bra, throwing it near your other clothes weakly. Joel’s got a gloomy look on his face as he scrubs a large hand over the length of your bicep. The warmth from the friction seeps through the fabric and into your skin, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

“You’re wet too.” He looks down at himself at your observation. The front of his clothes are indeed wet. The fact that he’s not near freezing is a miracle.

He hums, hand still heavy on your arm, “Only got one sleepin’ bag.”

“Body heat. S’ better for kee-keepin’ warm anyway, right?” A strange look crosses his face, then, and you feel a little silly for suggesting it. “Only if you want.”

Only if he’s comfortable.

Tentatively, he asks, “You alright with that?’

“Mm-hm.” It sounds too eager. You’re too tired to care.

He hesitates a moment, before nodding, “Alright.”

You mourn the loss of his touch briefly as he stands, moving your packs closer before sliding off his jacket. He lifts his shirt just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the soft slope of his abdomen before seemingly remembering himself.

“Don’t look.” He mumbles, suddenly shy. You do as he says, listening to the shucking of fabric, the clinking of his belt buckle, the zipper of his jeans.

The soft sound of socked feet padding quickly over stone as he rushes to escape the cold. He hisses as he slots himself in behind you.

“Christ, woman, you’re like ice.” His skin is blessedly warm as his torso presses hot against your back.

“Think I don’t know that?” You quip with no malice, body wracked with shivers that aren’t entirely to blame on the cold anymore.

Puffs of his breath fan over your ear as he chuckles, “Wasn’t thinkin’ when I said it. Sorry.”

“S’ okay.” You lift your head so he has space to stretch out his arm, and the curve of your cheek bone fits snuggly into the crook of his elbow. You find his bicep makes a very comfortable pillow, “Your arm’s gonna fall asleep.”

“You comfortable?” He asks, and you nod, “Then I don’t much care.”

You pray he can’t feel your heart palpitating in your chest as you whisper, “Okay.”

The heat radiating off of him could rival a space heater cranked up to the highest setting. It’s doing wonders, thawing your own body and slowly bringing your temperature back up to something more human, less breathing corpse. He’s stiff as a board, though. The arm that isn’t under your head must be tucked tight against his side, and his bare legs are as far from yours as he can get them in the too-small sleeping bag. You want him and his warmth closer.

“You can touch me, Joel.” He stills, and it occurs to you how that must have sounded. “I mean, you’re not going to make me uncomfortable. You can relax.”

“Alright.” His voice is a low rumble in your ear as his hand just barely creeps over your bare waist. He’d be leaving goosebump in his wake if they weren’t already there. “This okay?”

It takes a moment to find your voice.

“Yeah.” It feels funny in your throat. You swallow in an attempt to fix it, “S’ good.”

You feel him finally relax, and try not to jump when he snakes his arm – his very naked arm – around your front, forearm flush against the soft flesh of your stomach and knuckles a little more than a hairs width from the underside of your breast. If you tilted your head just a bit and strained your eyes all the way to the side, you think you could catch a glimpse of his collarbone. You’re too cozy in his hold to move.

“Feelin’ any warmer?” Eyelids fluttering, you hum contentedly. The tip of his nose smushes firm into your shoulder as he murmurs, “Can’t fall asleep yet.”

“Please?” It must come out strangely by the way his breath hitches, “M’ warm enough. Swear.”

“That’s a load a bull if I ever heard it.” He snorts. The vibrations of his voice leave your skin humming, and it coaxes you further into him, “You’re lukewarm at best.”

“Word’s got ‘warm’ in it, doesn’t it?”

He tuts at you. You can hear his smile as he grumbles, “Don’t get smart with me.”

“You love it.”

He chuckles in strange way, “I do.”

Silence. Laying in his arms comes more naturally to you than it probably should. Especially given the fact that the two of you are mostly naked. And warm. So, so warm. Fatigue weighs down your eyelids. You’ve done so much today, you deserve the rest, it whispers.

“You fallin’ asleep over there?”

“Mm-mm.” You grumble, peeling your eyes wide open for a second to wake yourself some before they slide halfway shut again of their own accord, “Some old man keeps yapping in my ear every time I drift off.”

“You watch your mouth.” He growls, joking. Something stirs in your belly. You curse yourself for being too tired and too weak to do anything about it.

You settle for teasing instead. “Or what?”

He scoffs, “Frozen half to death, but still got ‘nough brains to give me lip, huh?”

“Mm-hm.” More silence. The sound of his breathing starts to lull you away into something too far from consciousness, and you drag yourself from it woefully, “F’ you want me to stay awake, you’re gonna have to talk my ear off, cowboy.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Anything.” Everything. Even if you weren’t trying to stay awake for the sake of staying alive, you’d let him ramble about whatever he wanted as long as he’d let you listen.

“Alright.”

He talks about the things he has to do when you get back to Jackson. Apparently, his work room needs a good tidying. When that gets too dull, he tells you about the movie he and Ellie watched last week for movie night. He asks obvious questions throughout explanations to keep you awake. ‘The guy working with the small green... thing, what was his name again? Right, now where was I?’ It feels like a good few hours before he lets you start to drift off. You fall asleep to the sound of his voice, the feel of his warm body tucked in close to your back, and dream of deep space and empires beyond your comprehension.

---

By the time you wake, sunlight is pouring in through the mouth of the cave, and the snow just beyond burns a horizon into your vision when you blink your eyes open. You stretch your legs out a little only to find them tangled between Joel’s. The movement must wake him because he takes a slow, sleepy breath, and squeezes closer.

“Joel?” You breathe. He startles.

“Wh-?” His head lifts and he tightens his hold on you for a split second, head on a swivel. When he realizes there’s no threat, he sighs heavily. You shudder when his arm slides over your bare stomach as he moves to scrub a hand over his face, “Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“S’ fine. My fault for fallin’ asleep.” He drawls, voice gravelly. You shift, and he scoots back just enough to let you turn over, “Time is it?”

“Definitely past dawn.” His eyes dart behind you, and he scowls at the sun. Yours follow the lean tendon in is neck as he lets his head fall back, and you suppress the urge to trace the length of it with your finger.

He curses, and it occurs to you that he hasn’t made much of an effort to disentangle himself from you. Now of sounder mind and warmer body, you notice the hair of his legs prickling against yours. You notice your bare chest pressed close to his, the steady rise and falls of them both as your breaths sync. Eyes trail up his collar, his neck, his face. Russet eyes bore into yours, and your breath hitches. They flick down to your lips. The little space left between you is charged; static electricity that spiders over your skin and lifts the hair on your arms.

“You, uh,” His hand skims over your skin once more; gentle, tentatively affectionate, as if he’s afraid to touch you now that you aren’t in need of his warmth. It settles into the curve of your waist like it’s meant to be there. He’s still staring at your lips. “You feelin’ any better?”

“Yeah.” You breathe. He looks back up at you, then, “Much.”

“Good.” He murmurs just as soft. His eyes dip back down to your lips.

You must be dreaming. Or dead. Or some other state of being beyond reality. Because there is no way he’s leaning in. There’s no way the tip of his nose is brushing yours. There’s no way he’s close enough that you can feel each one of his exhales fanning over your mouth.

“Joel...” It comes out a sigh, barely audible. You’re not even sure you’ve actually said anything aloud until he responds.

“Tell me to stop.” The words leave his lips in a low whisper and settle heavy on yours. You hold your breath as his hand sweeps over your ribs, the length of your collar. It envelops the entire side and back of your neck, igniting your skin as he draws a feather-like line over the edge of your jaw, “Tell me to stop, n’ I will.”

Any minute now, your heart is going to burst through your ribcage. You’re sure of it. Mind blank, you can’t think of anything to say. But you don’t want him to stop. You’ll never want him to stop. A shuddered breath, and you timidly press your the tip of your nose into the apple of his cheek, lips barely a hairs width from his. He turns his face just so, and you almost jump when his cupid’s bow just barely grazes your upper lip.

Your name sounds from somewhere far away, followed by his. The two of you startle, and in an instant, the moment is gone.

“Goddamn it, Tommy.” He huffs under his breath, rolling out of your space as much as he’s able within the confines of the sleeping bag. As glad as you are that someone’s found you, the man’s timing could not be any fucking worse.

“We best get dressed.”

“Yeah.” Your cheeks warm as he begins shimmying out from next to you, gaze catching on his broad chest, the soft muscle of his stomach, the hair trailing from his abdomen down somewhere lower, beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. You close your eyes before you can see anything more.

With him gone, you’re cold again. The frigid air nips at your bare chest, and you snuggle deeper into the sleeping bag until he’s done dressing. His clothes appear to be dry and fit to wear again. Yours are a different story, frozen solid in the shapes they landed in when you tossed them into a pile last night.

“Here.” Something soft plops down in front of your face, and when you open your eyes, there’s a stack of messily folded clothes on the stone floor with a sheepish looking Joel bent over his backpack a little ways away, “You can borrow those.”

Something warm and syrupy fills your chest and squishes between your ribs as you murmur, “Thanks.”

Keeping his gaze on the floor, he only hums in response. You take that as your cue to slide yourself out of the warmth of the sleeping bag. The only thing of yours that doesn’t need to be thawed is your bra, though it’s still cold against your skin as you slide your arms through the straps. Joel’s long sleeve is next. It’s soft, and smells like cedar and something uniquely him. You resist the urge to bury your nose in the fabric, too afraid he’ll decide to look up and catch you doing it.

When you’re done, you make your way to him and catch the quick once over he gives you.

“Like what you see?” You grin. He rolls his eyes.

He jerks his nose in the direction of your belongings, grumbling, “Get your stuff.”

You oblige, slinging your pack over your shoulders and stepping out into the sun after him. It blinds you, and the backs of your eyes ache as you blink to adjust them to the light. Luckily, the weather is significantly better today. No unexpected squalls, blue skies, and just a little warmer than yesterday.

“Tommy?” Joel suddenly calls out into the woods, his volume startling you bad. He grimaces, looking disproportionately apologetic, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” You scoff, grinning playfully and shaking your head, “Nuh-uh, that was totally unforgivable.” You bump his shoulder with yours, “You’re really gonna have to make up for that.”

A dampened smile turns the corners of his mouth up as he bumps you back lightly, breathing a laugh, “Not a chance.”

“Joel?” Tommy calls back, closer than before. “This way!”

He’s brought a search party. A fair sized one, judging by how many voices respond at varying distances. It’s not long until you spot two people on horseback through the trees, one with familiar curls and a newer face with sandy blonde hair.

“Joel!” Tommy sounds utterly relieved as he slides off his gelding and engulfs him in a hug, clapping him over the shoulders before pushing him back, stern, “What the hell happened? We all thought you’d gotten yourselves killed!”

“One of us almost did.” Joel mutters, shooting a look at you. “Twice.”

Tommy gawps, looks like he’s about to ask before sighing in resignation. “You can tell me about it on the way home. Ellie’s been losin’ her mind since last night. Girl hasn’t slept a wink. Had to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t take off to find y’all by herself in the dark.”

Joel tuts and shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face, “You find our horses?”

“Yeah, Maria and Bev found ‘em early this mornin’.” He leads the two of you back towards his horse. “You’ll have ‘ta ride back with us.”

“I’ll ride with Jamie.” Jamie’s sort of new to Jackson, newer to you considering you’ve only been there about a year and he’s got a quarter more on you. He’s friendly, you like him. You have a feeling Joel holds a very different sentiment as he glowers, displeased as the man helps you up.

“Hold on tight.” He grins. Joel looks about one more dazzling smile from murdering him in cold blood.

He’s quiet the whole ride back, broody with his face set in a scowl. Tommy makes conversation here and there, asks what happened again and nearly breaks his neck when he whips his head to look at you in shock. You get similar reactions when you make it back to Jackson and explain.

“Joel!” Ellie flings herself at him and nearly bowls him over in her rush to hug him. You’re next, though with noticeably less force. You must still look a little rough, “What the hell happened?”

“We were passin’ over the lake n’ she fell through the ice.” He omits the part before that where you’d nearly gotten your face eaten by an infected, and for that, you’re thankful.

She pales, looking at you like you’ve grown an extra head, “You what?!”

“I’m fine.” You rush to reassure, glaring at Joel where he’s slipping the reigns off Tommy’s horse out of the corner of your eye, “It’s nothing to worry about now.”

“Like hell it ain’t.” He grumbles under his breath as he carefully slips the bit from the horse’s mouth and gives him a pat on the cheek, muttering a clipped ‘hey’ when you thwack his shoulder as hard as you’re willing. He gives Ellie a short, well meaning lecture that’s met with a very prompt dismissal consisting of some very colourful language as you move to help Jamie with his mare. Maria stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Jamie’s got it, you go home. I don’t want to see you working for the next couple of days, alright?”

“But-?”

She cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Alright.” You sigh, handing Jamie the reigns. As you’re leaving, you barely catch Joel whisper a ‘thank you’ to her and whip around to glower at him. “You’re responsible for my involuntary sick leave?”

“Necessary sick leave. And no, I’m not. You’re just known to be lackin’ in the self preservation department, so we gotta have some for you.” He teases, bumping your shoulder a little in a way you think is supposed to be playful. “C’mon. I’m walkin’ you home.”

“Yeah? Finally done with your brooding?”

He clicks his teeth, “M’ not brooding.”

“Not now, but you were.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Quit it.” He breathes a laugh, shaking his head. You grin, victorious.

“I’m serious, you scowled the whole way back. Between the cold and the time it took to get here, I was a little worried your face would get stuck like that. I’d never get to see that charming smile again.”

He rolls his eyes. “How would you ever survive?”

You both chuckle, before falling into comfortable silence. You pass house after house, before taking a right onto your street. Through their front window, you can see a couple you’ve yet to meet properly stands in their living room, swaying in an embrace, gazing at each other with an appreciation you only come to grasp when you’ve nearly lost someone. The man slides a hand from her waist to her cheek, thumbing the underside of her eye, and you’re reminded of the feel of Joel’s calloused palm holding your frigid cheek.

You frown, pulling your prying eyes from the sweet scene as you near your own home, “Hey, why’d you... hold my face for a second out there?”

He flushes, clears his throat with a frown, “Your pupils were so big, could barely see any colour.”

As you reach your porch, he looks deep in thought and- Worried? Rattled, maybe. Moreso as he softly admits, “You scared the hell outta me, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know.” In a rare act of bravery, you take his warm hand and squeeze, gazing at him earnestly, “I’m really sorry.”

He visibly softens, the perpetual wrinkle in his brow smoothing into something warmer, a little hesitant, dare you say even timid. You watch his gaze flick over your face before he squeezes back cautiously, “S’alright. Was my fault. Knew we shouldn’t a’ crossed that way this time a’ year.”

“Don’t blame yourself. I suggested it, it was my fault, too.” You reply, firm but gentle.

He looks down with a hum, scuffing the toe of a heavy boot over the concrete path that leads to your house. There’s a small silence, and you’re trying to find the words to assure him you were both idiots for trying to pass over that damn lake when he pipes up again.

“I meant it, before,” He smiles cautiously, unsure of himself, “Don’t ever pull shit like that again.”

You laugh, glad the mood has shifted to something lighter, still holding his hand as you shake your head, “I meant it too! I didn’t do it on purpose.”

He chuckles, looking down to your linked hands. You watch his expression carefully, and something bittersweet twists his lips when he gives yours one last squeeze before pulling away.

“See you ‘round, yeah?” Your heart sinks to your stomach and hollows it out, making room for a strange disappointment. Something that feels a little like grief as you watch what could have been as it slips through your fingers and takes half a step back from your porch.

“Yeah.” It soughs out on a breath that leaves your lungs too quick, and you take another, controlled and slow. You nod, smile tight lipped, “See you around, Joel.”

You turn, make it up the wooden steps of your porch and through the threshold of your door. It shuts, and you just stand there, snow melting off of your boots and coat and soaking into the door mat below. It feels wrong, leaving whatever happened between you undiscussed, and the hollow feeling pulses achingly in your throat. There’s something there, something palpable. Something that could be real, if only you would reach for it. You wish he would have reached for it. You wish you would reach for it now. But it’s impulsive. It’s reckless. He knows that, that’s why he left it alone. It needs more thought, you rationalize.

You turn on your heel and reach for the door handle. He’s already standing there with a hand raised to knock when it opens, looking as startled as you are.

“Listen, I-.” He clears his throat, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It’s endearing to see him so bashful, “What happened out there... I couldn’t not say somethin’.”

There’s too much air in your chest. Your vocal cords feel more like wind chimes – unpredictable, and at the mercy of something more so. You don’t trust your breath to sway them the way you want them to.

“Yeah?” You try anyway. It drifts out soft and hangs in the air.

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glances over your shoulder with a sniff, then chuckles nervously, “Hadn’t actually thought about what that somethin’ would be ‘fore I did this.”

You chuckle with him; startled, shy.

“Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?” He asks like it’s easy, but the colour in his cheeks give him away. They’re a bit too pink for it to be just a cold flush.

Your stomach does a strange flip. You’ve waited months for him to ask, too afraid to ask yourself without knowing what his answer might be. You dig your thumbnail into the side of your index finger and rejoice at the pinch. He’s real, and he’s really asking.

The sound you make is halfway between a laugh and a sigh, “This is a little backwards, isn’t it?”

He frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, usually you take a lady out to eat before you sleep with her.” You simper, your teasing tentative. He stares at you, stunned, for a long, unbelievably nerve wracking moment.

“I take it back. I’ll eat by myself.” He laughs, shaking his head. He stays standing on your porch.

“Wha-,” You gape, laughing as you thwack his arm, “Hey, you already offered, you can’t take it back now!”

He smiles so terribly, wonderfully soft. “So I take it you do, then?”

God, it has to be illegal to look at someone like that, you think. It’s got to be some sort of health hazard, the way you feel as though you might just go into cardiac arrest right here on your porch. You smile, giddy and trying your damndest to smother it into something just a little less eager, “I’d love to have dinner with you, Joel.”

“How ‘bout tomorrow night? My place?”

“Yeah.” You can’t help the grin that sneaks up on you, “Yeah, that’d be good.”

He smiles back, soft and warm in a way you have a feeling is reserved for you, “Pick you up a six.”

“You’re right across the street, Joel.” You laugh, gesturing to the house maybe fifty paces from yours if you took long enough strides.

He chuckles along with you, “So?”

“So, I could just come over.”

“You could.” He shrugs a shoulder, grinning something that makes him look years younger; the ghost of a cheeky, twenty-something year old buried under as many years and then some, breathing his first breath in decades with heartbeat restored, “But what kind a’ gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you there?”

“Alright.” You smile soft, committing his expression to memory. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Countin’ the minutes.” He takes your hand again and steps in close, leaning in to press his warm lips to the apple of your cheek, beard prickling ticklishly. Good god, you can’t feel your legs. Your is heart bouncing between your ribs so quick its making you a little lightheaded. You wonder if he’s grinning because he could feel the heat rising off your skin. He squeezes your tingling fingers and lets his slide from them slow like he’s loathe to leave. “See you ‘round.”

“See you around, Joel.”