#and that everyone will move on and forget me

[piastriprincess]

fell  in  love  at  the  orange  show  speedway ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  . word  count  2k author’s  note  wow  wow  wow  we’re  finally  here  !  this  is  the  culmination  of  my  birthday  build - a - fic  event  .  thank  you  so  much  again  for  all  the  love  on  the  event  ,  i  was  so  happy  that  everyone  was  interested  !!  it  still  blows  my  mind  that  so  many  of  you  are  excited  about  my  work  and  i  am  so  so  grateful  .  i  had  so  much  fun  going  on  this  journey  with  yall  and  i  really  really  hope  you  love  the  result  !  depending  on  when  i  hit  my  next  follower  count  milestone  another  event  may  be  coming  very  soon  lol  …  as  always  PLEASE  come  tell  me  what  you  think  and  lmk  if  you  want  more  of  this  reader  and  osc  <3  title  is  from  orange  show  speedway  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

The email shines up at you like a spotlight, the kind that always makes you wince and look away.

F1 Rising Stars promotional photoshoot. Thursday, 12 PM, at the paddock. Hair & makeup will be provided; race attire required. And just below that, in the participants list: Oscar Piastri is attending.

You’ve read it so many times the words have begun to blur together, except for his name, which has remained annoyingly clear in your mind every time you close your eyes. You didn’t know it was possible to have a crush on the shape of someone’s name in your phone, but you suppose when it comes to your feelings for Oscar, you should stop being so surprised. 

The worst part is, it didn’t take much. It started last year, when you were new to the grid, the first woman driver in fifty years. A heavy legacy to carry on your shoulders, and an even worse one to carry alone. You were never much for the spotlight anyway, but when you got to F1 it felt like every eye was on you: not just to watch your performance, but to pass judgment about every single woman in motorsport if you put a foot wrong. The other drivers were polite but distant, like their reps had forced them to memorize the HR handbook before they were allowed to talk to you. Except Oscar, who walked you to the media pen when you got lost with a friendly smile, who gave you a fist bump and an “impressive drive” when you dragged the Racing Bulls tractor to Q3 in your first ever quali. That was it — since then, you’ve been disgustingly down bad, wearing your heart on your sleeve for him like it’s the team’s newest sponsor. 

Everyone can see it. Isack clocked it within five minutes of becoming your teammate. There’s a running bet in your garage about whether you’ll ever say more than six words to him at a time without blushing. Through it all, Oscar’s remained his lovely, friendly self. You don’t know if he knows, and you definitely don’t want to find out. You’re not sure what would be more humiliating: him being completely oblivious, or him knowing and politely pretending not to.

“Hey,” your performance coach says gently as she hands you a water bottle, evidently getting tired of you fidgeting with your phone for the better part of ten minutes during what is supposed to be a training session. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a photoshoot.”

Just a photoshoot. Alone. With Oscar Piastri. The boy who makes you forget how to string sentences together when he smiles at you during driver briefings, all bunny teeth and big brown eyes. The boy you’ve been harboring the world’s most embarrassing crush on for months. With a camera shoved in your face, documenting your every move. 

“Right,” you sigh, shoving your phone into your bag and taking a long swig from the bottle like it will cool your flushed cheeks. “Just a photoshoot.”

You’re early on Thursday, of course. You’re always early when you’re nervous, and over the past few days the anxious buzz in your stomach has transformed into full-on nauseous butterflies. You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time you get to hair and makeup, picturing photos with your hair teased, siren makeup, and suit unzipped in the sultry way you know in your bones you could absolutely never pull off. But thankfully, they let you wear your hair the same way you always do, just smoothing a few flyaways and dabbing a bit of highlighter over your cheeks. “Natural beauty,” the stylist calls it with a proud smile. “Just like you.”

You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, and today is no exception, mumbling a thank you and ducking your head so they can’t see the blush on your cheeks. But you do look pretty, you think — at least, you look like you, just… a more confident version. 

The confidence goes out the window the minute you step onto the set. You’d thought your punctuality might buy you a bit of time, but Oscar’s already there, leaning against the prop car like a teen idol pin-up and talking to the photographer about camera angles, or lighting, or something equally important you should probably be paying attention to. You’re not listening. Instead, you’re cataloguing the way his race suit stretches over his broad shoulders, the way his hair falls in the perfect swoop over his forehead. Drinking in the details of his face so carefully that you forget to look where you’re walking, promptly trip over a lighting cord, and nearly go sprawling to the ground. 

Oscar turns at the noise, smiling at you in a way that makes your chest go tight. “Quite an entrance,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. It’s not unkind, just amused, but your face feels hot enough that someone should probably pull a fire alarm. “You ready to be rising stars?”

You take a deep breath and straighten up, manage what you hope sounds like a normal laugh in return. “A-As ready as I’ll ever be, I think.”

The photographer introduces herself. She’s almost aggressively cheerful, treats you and Oscar both like old friends. It doesn’t put you at ease, exactly, but it soothes some of the anxiety in your stomach. “How about we start with some individual shots, get you both warmed up,” she says kindly, gesturing toward the backdrop. 

Your solo session is… fine. You’re not comfortable, exactly, but you know how to smile on command, how to look confident even when your palms are sweating and your fireproofs feel tight around your neck. Oscar, of course, looks completely calm in front of the cameras when it’s his turn, like he’s done it a thousand times (he probably has — you can hardly forget the Vogue photoshoot you pored over a few months ago). You can’t help but steal glances at him as he laughs with the photographer, at ease in this world in a way you’ve never quite mastered. 

“Let’s get some shots together,” the photographer calls, ushering you back to the car to stand next to Oscar. The first few poses are easy enough — standing side by side, crossing your arms, holding out your helmets to the camera. It’s awkward, though. Your chest feels tight, and you’re hyperaware of your body, of Oscar’s closeness. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours, your heart flutters completely unprofessionally against your ribs.

“Are you okay? You’re standing like you’re being held hostage,” Oscar mutters out of the corner of his mouth as the shutter clicks.

The dry humor takes you so by surprise that you forget to be nervous, giggling lightly. “Stop. I’m trying to be photogenic, Oscar.”

“Maybe just relax a little,” he says softly, eyes bright. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

The sincerity in his voice is evident, and now your heart is doing something indescribably stupid in your chest. You don’t say another word, but he keeps making those dry little observations about the poses, the overzealous assistant with the reflector, the way the wind keeps sweeping at his hair, and despite the camera flashing in your face it somehow makes it a little easier to breathe. 

“Let’s do something a little less formal,” the photographer says. “Oscar, can you sit on the back wheel there? Perfect. And you, darling,” she says, turning to you, “sit next to him, but angle towards him slightly. Like you’re having a conversation.”

You settle beside him, taking slow, deep breaths. You can smell his cologne from here, something clean and comforting that makes it very hard for you to think straight. 

“You really are nervous,” Oscar says quietly, in a voice reserved just for you, as the photographer adjusts her camera. 

You exhale slightly. “Terrified,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

He turns to look at you properly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Never would’ve guessed, honestly. You’re usually so… composed.” 

“They have me well trained,” you say dryly, and he laughs like he wasn’t expecting it — wasn’t expecting you. 

“Well, they did well,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re pretty brilliant at it.”

Your cheeks flush, fingers curling tight around the edge of your sleeve. But you don’t look away. “Thanks,” you say, and mean it. “But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think the spotlight’s really for me. I’ve been here a year and I still always feel a bit out of place.” You wish you could take back the words as soon as you say them. You don’t know why you’re being so honest. Something about the way he’s looking at you, maybe. Like in this photoshoot with what feels like a million people roaming around, you’re the only person he sees. 

“You’re not out of place,” he says quickly. “Not to me.” Then his mouth snaps shut, and he blinks those big brown eyes at you like he hadn’t even expected the words to come out of his mouth. 

You don’t know what to say in response. It’s nicer than you could have imagined, something you wouldn’t have even dared to hope for in the secret moments when you close your eyes at night and picture what it might be like to have Oscar’s lips against yours. 

“Whatever you’re talking about, keep it up!” the photographer calls. “The chemistry is beautiful.”

Oscar flushes, eyes darting to the ground like he's only just realized what he said. You glance down too, pretending to smooth a wrinkle in your sleeve, the edges of your mouth betraying you with the start of a smile. Your hands feel too warm. Everything does.

You don’t look at him, not yet. You’re afraid that if you do, it’ll be written all over your face.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you’re finished, the photographer loudly declaring you two the easiest couple she’s ever worked with. You can’t meet Oscar’s eyes after you hear the word couple, settling for watching him rub at the back of his neck nervously out of the corner of your gaze. The two of you split up after that, heading back to the trailers. You change out of your race suit, and start packing up your things.

As you start walking back down the track towards the garages, you’re expecting that to be the end of it. Until you hear Oscar calling your name from somewhere behind you. 

For a moment, you’re expecting him to be holding something you forgot — your gloves, or a spare helmet, or something. But when you turn to face him, he’s empty-handed, standing a little awkwardly with one toe turned inward, the late afternoon light making his skin glow. 

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost shy, like he’s gone over it in his mind a couple times the way you do when you’re trying really hard to sound nonchalant. “D’you wanna walk back together?”

“Sure,” you say softly, falling into step beside him. The sunset makes the paddock look like something magical, all golden and glittering. Your shadows stretch long across the asphalt, so close together they look like they might fold into one being. 

Neither of you say much, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. He walks you all the way to the Racing Bulls garage, even though you pass McLaren on the way there. 

“Thanks for walking with me,” you say somewhat reluctantly when you arrive. You’re not in any hurry to leave, but surprisingly it doesn’t seem like Oscar is, either. He’s dragging his toe against the gravel like it’ll keep him tethered to the spot. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice. Like he’s on the edge of doing something he’s not quite sure of. You wait for just a moment, heart in your throat, but he doesn’t move. And then, just as you sigh and turn to go, he speaks.

“You know, I meant what I said earlier. You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you.”

You’re only frozen for a moment before you whirl around, but it’s enough. He’s already walking away, but you can see even in the setting sun that he’s pink up to his ears. 

You smile to yourself, pulse thrumming wildly in your ears. All of a sudden, you don’t feel so out of place anymore. 

[biggianteggplant]

The Other Woman.

Miya Atsumu x Reader

You were his manager. Professional, poised, and always in control. Atsumu Miya was your client, a star athlete with a magnetic charm that drew everyone in—including you.

It started innocently: late-night strategy meetings, shared laughter over coffee, and the occasional lingering glance. You knew he was married, that he had a family waiting for him at home. But the lines blurred, and before you knew it, you were entangled in a web of secrecy and desire.

He would come to you after games, his presence filling your apartment like a storm. In those moments, you felt alive, cherished, and wanted. But as dawn approached, reality would set in. He would leave, returning to the life he had built with someone else, leaving you alone with the weight of your choices.

You tried to end it, to reclaim your dignity and peace. But Atsumu had a way of pulling you back in, with sweet words and empty promises. He would say he needed you, that you were the only one who truly understood him. And you believed him, every time.

You ended it.

Or at least, you tried to.

You stood across from Atsumu in the privacy of his hotel room, your hands trembling as you said, “This can’t keep happening. You have a wife. A kid.”

He didn’t flinch.

He leaned back on the bed you’d shared too many times, arms crossed, lips curled into that same boyish smirk he used on the court.

“And? You knew that from the start.”

You swallowed hard.

“I thought I could handle it,” you confessed. “But it’s eating me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t look at myself in the mirror.”

His eyes darkened.

“So what? You’re just gonna walk away?”
“Just like that?”

You nodded slowly, afraid, but firm.

“I have to.”

And that’s when his voice changed. Cold. Calculated.

“Don’t forget whose contract you're under.”
“Don’t forget I can take you down with a single press statement.”

You stared at him. The air in the room turned thick. Suffocating.

“You wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what I’d do. You really think they’ll believe the woman who slept her way into my inner circle? They’ll eat you alive.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

“Because you’re mine,” he said. “You don’t get to walk away from this unless I say so.”

He stood, took your face in his hands.

“You knew the rules, pretty girl,” he murmured. “You knew I was never gonna come home to you. But you let me in anyway.”

And when he kissed you, you let him.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you felt owned.

After that night, you stopped trying to end it.

You went numb.

You smiled in press conferences, clapped during interviews, and handed him water during practice like nothing had happened.

But every time his hand brushed yours,
you remembered how dirty you felt.
How your love had been reduced to a secret.
A threat.

You watched his wife post photos on social media—laughing, glowing, holding their child in matching outfits—and you sat alone in your kitchen, eating nothing, drinking wine, replaying his voice saying,

“You don’t get to leave.”

You stopped wearing bright colors.

Stopped painting your nails. Stopped meeting your friends.
Because the other woman doesn’t get to have a life.

She waits.
She hides.
She folds herself smaller and smaller until she fits inside the silence between someone else’s happiness.

You weren’t living—you were surviving. Moving through days like a ghost, haunted by a love that was never yours to begin with.

You read every comment under his family’s posts.
“Perfect couple!”
“Power duo!”
“Lucky wife, lucky man.”

And you would break down in the shower—biting your hand to muffle the sobs because your neighbors were starting to notice.

You kept a folder in your phone. Screenshots of his texts.

“You’re the only one who understands me.”
“I can’t breathe without you.”
“I’ll fix this. Just… not now.”

You’d read them when the guilt threatened to tear your ribs open. As if those empty words could patch the holes.

One night, he called. You hesitated before answering. You were curled up in bed, mascara streaked, trying to convince yourself to block him.

“Hey,” he said, like everything was normal.
“Are you still there?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Mhm.”

A pause. Then his voice softened—just enough to slice through you.

“Good.”

Because it didn’t matter how broken you were.
As long as you were still his.

Still reachable.

Still there.

That night, you woke up from a dream where he kissed you in public.

And it hurt more than any nightmare.

Because you knew it would never happen.

There’s a unique kind of pain in waiting for someone who never chooses you.

And you—God—you waited.

You told yourself this was temporary. That he just needed time. That he loved you in ways he couldn’t show. That it wasn’t your fault.

“He needs me.”
“He can’t leave his family right now.”
“It’s not just sex. I mean something to him.”

But you were lying.

And slowly, the lies started to taste like blood in your mouth.

You saw him at a charity event with his wife—her hand tucked into his elbow like she belonged there. She smiled up at him with the kind of trust you used to dream about. And he smiled back, like he hadn’t kissed you in the hallway of his hotel room just hours before.

Your legs nearly gave out.

You went home that night and stared into the mirror for so long you forgot who you were looking at. You didn’t see a woman anymore. You saw a ghost. A shell of someone who used to laugh, dream, and believe she was worthy of love.

You started keeping wine in your drawer at work.

You stopped responding to your mother’s messages.

You flinched when his name popped up on your screen.

“You okay, baby?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the message for hours. He never followed up.

Because he never had to.

You were addicted. Not to him—but to the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only behind closed doors.

You wanted to believe you mattered.

But deep down, you knew.

You were just a convenience. A placeholder. A hidden ache in his otherwise polished life.

And now, the ache was yours to carry.

Alone.

You were gone long before they found your body.

The first thing that disappeared was your laugh. Then your appetite. Then your voice during meetings.

Then… you.

You stopped showing up to practice. On Monday, no one noticed. Tuesday, someone muttered a joke: “Guess she finally got sick of Atsumu’s attitude.”

By Wednesday, worry began to ripple through the team.

By Thursday, silence turned heavy.

And by Friday morning, the captain demanded someone check on you. Just in case.

They didn't know the real reason you stopped coming in.

They didn’t see the messages. The threats.

“You think I won't say you came onto me first?”
“I’ll ruin you. You’re nothing without this job.”
“Don’t be stupid. You knew what this was.”

He was scared. You were a liability now. And that made him dangerous.

And you?

You were tired.

You lit a candle that night—your favorite scent, the one that reminded you of soft rain and second chances. But the room still felt like a cage.

The rope had been hidden in your closet for a week.

You chose the scarf instead.

The blue one. The one Atsumu said looked “pretty, but desperate.” You laughed it off back then. But now it seemed fitting.

You moved the chair quietly.

No music. No sound.

You didn’t cry this time.

Not when you tied the knot. Not when you stood on the chair. Not even when your fingers trembled so badly you had to redo the loop twice.

There was only stillness. And the letter on the floor.

You looked around one last time—not because you wanted to stay, but to remember.

The framed photo of you and the team.
The leftover instant noodles.
The dent in the wall from when you threw your phone at it after he said “you’re just a phase.”

You whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

Then you stepped off the chair.

The scarf pulled tight.

Your body twisted. Your toes grazed the floor—but not enough.

And finally, finally, everything went dark.

They found you the next morning.
She was cold. Gone.

There was no blood. No noise. Just a body and a letter, folded in two.

Someone screamed.

Another dropped to their knees.

And Atsumu?

He was in the gym. Laughing at something on his phone. Until someone came in, pale-faced, clutching the crumpled letter.

They didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

THE LETTER

I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to say it in a way that can ever make it okay,

but I am. Truly.

I never meant for any of this to happen.

I never meant to hurt anyone—

especially not you.

You’re kind.

You’re gentle.

You didn’t deserve this.

Neither did your children.

I was selfish.

I let myself believe he loved me.

Maybe he did, in some quiet, hidden way—

but he always went home to you.

That should’ve told me everything.

But I stayed.

I stayed because I wanted to be loved.

Even if it wasn’t mine to have.

And now I can’t look in the mirror.

I can’t sleep at night.

I see your smile in my dreams,

and your kids’ laughter,

and I feel like a monster.

He said I’d ruin him if I told the truth.

But the truth is—

he ruined me by making me live a lie.

I don’t expect you to forgive me.

I wouldn’t either.

But please know I never hated you.

I envied you.

You had the life I prayed for in the dark.

If you ever think of me,

don’t call me names.

Don’t teach your children to hate me.

Just tell them I was someone who made a terrible mistake—

and couldn’t find a way out.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t hate yourself.

It was never your fault.

Goodbye.

That day, practice was canceled.

Your name was never announced publicly.

Atsumu didn’t show up for a week.

When he returned, no one looked him in the eye.

Not because they knew the truth—but because they could feel it.

There was blood on his hands.

And he couldn’t wash it off.

Atsumu had never heard silence like this before.

Not in the locker room. Not on the court. Not even in his own mind.

It was the kind of silence that follows a scream no one heard.

It started slowly.

Fans noticed your absence first.

“Where’s the manager?”
“She used to be in every game day post.”
“Hope she’s okay, she hasn’t posted anything in weeks…”

But when your name vanished from the staff credits, and the team’s social media suddenly went dark, the speculations began.

Reddit threads. TikToks. Anonymous tips.

People guessed you were sick. That maybe you were fired. That maybe—just maybe—something worse happened.

And then the whispers turned to roars.

By the second week, #WhereIsShe was trending on Twitter.

That’s when the team’s PR team knew they couldn’t keep it quiet anymore.

A short, sterile statement was released.

“It is with great sadness that we confirm the passing of one of our staff members.
We ask for privacy during this time. We are mourning alongside her loved ones.”

They didn’t mention your name.

They didn’t say how you died.

They didn’t say what they knew.

They never said it was suicide.
And they sure as hell didn’t say it was because of him.

But the fans… some of them knew.

Screenshots surfaced���Atsumu liking your old photos. A blurry image of the two of you too close behind a gym door. Cryptic tweets that you had posted and deleted weeks before it happened:

“Secrets rot everything.”
“Being someone’s second choice is worse than being no one at all.”
“I hope I was more than just a mistake.”

And still, he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

That he used you?
That he gaslit you?
That he made you beg for affection in private only to treat you like a stranger in public?

There was no press conference for that kind of grief.

He tried to return to the court.

But every time he stood on it, he saw you.

Standing at the sidelines with your clipboard. Grinning when he made a clean serve. Holding back a smile when he winked at you behind his water bottle.

Now he just sees empty space.

And in the locker room, someone had taped a photo of you on the inside of your old locker.

No one knew who put it there.

But no one dared take it down.

He started drinking more. Staying later. Talking less.

The fans noticed.

The team noticed.

But no one said your name.

Even when he had nightmares where you appeared—your feet dangling, that scarf tightening around your throat, your eyes wide with a question that could never be answered—he still couldn’t say your name.

Because saying it meant facing what he did.

Weeks passed.

Months.

Atsumu stood on the balcony of his expensive condo one night, phone in hand, staring at an old photo of you he’d saved secretly. The one where you were laughing at something he said. Candid. Pure.

Real.

He typed:

“I’m sorry.”

Then deleted it.

Because where would he send it?
What inbox would receive an apology from a man like him?

You were gone.
And he was still here.

Living.
Winning.
Rotting.

And still—
your name was never mentioned.

But every time someone asked him,
“Do you ever think about her?”

He’d lie.

Because the truth was unbearable.

The truth was:
He thought about you every single day.

And it never stopped hurting.

hey my loves! i was out of the city for a bit, i stayed with my friend and her aunt, met some new people, partied (with dogs, yes), drank a little, lived a lot. it was amazing. so here’s an atsumu angst i wrote on the ride home, because of course i did. HEHDHAHDHASH

[corpsypher]

Pierced through the heart, but never killed || Ghost x Fat!Reader ||

One shot (9.5k) Moodboard Ao3 link. Simon pays the price of his recklessness in the field, but his reward may be worth the pain. CW: reader described as fat/plus-sized/curvier/chubby, Patient/PT dynamics, Perv!Simon, reader is a nervous talker, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of wounds + violence, rehab shit, military shit, protective!Simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, hand kink, praise kink, slight knife play (blink and you’ll miss it), unprotected piv, degradation, lots of cum, oral (fem!receiving), breeding kink, scar worship(?), body worship, clearly 18+ MDNI.

He really fucking didn’t want to be there.

There was no one else to blame for his current situation than himself. Seating in the sterile waiting room of the health services unit of undisclosed location military base, with his fucked up hand wrapped and immobilized in a splint. Simon was bored out of his mind. 

He was waiting for the medical staff to finish their briefing, they were starting him on physical therapy for the foreseeable future. It turns out that all the ligaments and tissue surrounding the carpometacarpal and metacarpophalangeal joints were more complex to heal than one might think. If only he'd known that before using his hand as a shield against a machete.

At least he could take comfort in remembering said weapon buried in the skull of the big Austrian fucker that thought it was a good idea to wear a dirty rag for a mask and come at him with a blade in close quarters, the imbecile.

“Lieutenant. They’re ready for you.” Finally, He stands up and silently follows the nurse who’d accompanied him since they removed the stitches a couple of hours before. She was an older woman, with a stern face and of few words, who hadn’t tried to chat him up while you worked on him, and at first, he thought it was because of his mask, but after a while he noticed she was short with everyone else.

The facility itself had no natural light, only a bright fluorescent-lighted ceiling with sad white and beige painted walls, it was dull and depressing. As they approached the rehab unit, he noticed you, all warm and soft in contrast with the environment. 

A fat birdie in baby blue scrubs that accentuate all your attractive curves, with a beautiful welcoming smile adorning your round, pretty face. Like a sucker punch, It made his stomach clench, and other parts of him stir in interest. 

Like the nurse, you didn't seem to be phased by his typically intimidating looks; it wasn't that he was actively trying to scare you either, it was just how he came across, plus the black balaclava made him look like a double-edged sword, he was aware of it.

“This is your assigned Physio for the time being, she’ll be in charge of your care from now on… I'll leave you to it.” And with that, the nurse was gone.

You seemed too fucking sweet to be in this place (he’d been in military hospitals that were as hospitable as a Man U pub in East London), and that thought is confirmed the second you open your mouth. 

You welcome him like he’d just landed in a beachside resort, he'd never been to one, nor was he opposed to visiting. But now that he thought about it, he could perfectly picture you in a skimpy bikini, lying under the sun, with those tempting lips sipping on a straw from a coconut, that's suddenly turning into a phallic shape-

“Lieutenant, could you please follow me this way?” Your voice -strangely familiar- cuts off his naughty thoughts. Something itches in the back of his mind, like he knows you, maybe from another base, but surely he would remember. He could never forget a face like yours.

“Just Ghost.” He remarks and follows you. Oh boy, does he follow you, like a Malinois taking orders. The moment he gets a good look at your behind, he's sold; that ass and those thighs moving in front of him are his personal version of being hypnotized. Luring him, drawing him in. 

Perhaps being here won’t be so bad after all.

He’d done PT before, for his leg and lower back. Yet he’d grown accustomed to the constant ache. The shot of electricity that sometimes ran down his legs, the fatigue that bullied his lumbar spine after an adventurous mission with the 141. He certainly didn’t expect that a few sessions hooked to the TENS machine would magically heal all the shit he’d put his body through during his years in active duty. 

Yeah, he’d done PT before…

But it was nothing compared to this, never like this. 

Starting with the pretty thing massaging, rubbing, and pampering him. Talking his ears off about everything that had to do with his injury, what the treatment would consist of, what the next couple of weeks were going to be like, what stage of cicatrization he was on, etc. 

It felt like heaven, having a pretty lass all over him. Until you flexed his wrist and sharp pain shot like fire from his fingers to his elbow. 

You apologize, even though it's not your fault, and try to make light conversation in an attempt to distract him. His answers are short and not as friendly as yours, not because he doesn’t want to be, but because he’s concentrating on blocking out the pain, like he’d been trained to do, like he was used to.

Your breast constantly squeezing against the table the two of you were seating on certainly helped. 

The softness of your hands on his scarred one was fuel for his filthy imagination. Your sweet words of encouragement soothed him every time he grew frustrated, and the delicious scent of your perfume made his mouth water, tickling something nostalgic in his subconscious.

And then he started to forget about the pain.

Two weeks go by faster than Simon expected. He was getting better, it was less painful to close his fist, but his strength and fine motor skills were still fucked. He was no longer bored, though, he was using his free time as an excuse to become ambidextrous. 

The image of your soft, delicate hands holding him. The contrast of his scarred, calloused skin against yours, how you studied every uncovered inch with such attentiveness, it fed the thing inside him that wanted to sink its teeth on your neck and lock the fuck in.

Wanking off twice a day to thoughts of his PT was turning out to be quite the exercise. His brain had also decided it was a good time to let his breeding kink resurface -It hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with- because his muse had the perfect body for it. When he allowed his thoughts to wander down that path, he would come so fast it left him dizzy.

And you were so witty, and smart, and so goddamn sweet it satiated his sweet tooth, so attentive it filled his chest with a feeling he couldn’t name. Yet, you were a feisty little thing, a kitty with its claws sheathed. You would banter with him about football, throw bad jokes in reply to his, and scowl at him when he tried to cheat during his exercises. 

Yeah, he was feeling better than ever.

But then came Soap, giving him shit left and right about wanting to visit Simon at one of his sessions. 

Johnny had shown up -uninvited and unauthorized- just in time to see the plump birdie remove the hardened layers of paraffin wax from his hand and start stretching his strained tendons. The tender touch of your cool hands on his hot one and the sudden presence of the Sergeant in his peripheral view made him flinch slightly. It was a small movement, but enough for Johnny to take notice, the bastard smirked, amused, before locking eyes on you, then he lit up like a dog with a bone. 

The thing was, Johnny was also into bigger women. Johnny was into anything with a hole. They’d shared porn links of BBW getting pounded once or twice before (BBW getting pounded and bred to be more specific), so Simon knew exactly the kind of nasty shit lurking on the Scots mind. Chances were Simon had already thought of it.

The second Soap arrived, Simon knew he had to lay down limits. No looking, no touching. Easily communicated with a grunt and a subtle shake of his head. Turns out Johnny boy read that as an invitation, and not as the warning that it was.

Soap had then proceeded to grab a chair, and sat backward on it while facing them in the small table that had become yours since day one. And then the mutt-with-a-death-wish introduced himself and started to flirt with you. Right in front of Simon.

You were oblivious, laughed at Soap's usual shenanigans and threw cheeky comebacks here and there, keeping the conversation light and as professional as you possibly could while dealing with Johnny. 

“Poor Bonnie, ye probably exhausted after dealing with mean ol’ Lieutenant.”

“You’re wrong there, Sergeant. Ghost is one of the best patients I’ve ever had… You’d be surprised at how rude patients can be sometimes.” That last part was said quietly, and by the expression on your face, you immediately regretted saying it. Simon wanted to delve more into that, but Soap kept talking and changed the subject.

“Bet ya wish it was me in yer care, we’d have a fun time every time…”

When it was over, after the nurse kicked Soap out of the rehab unit for his boisterous behavior, Simon grabbed him by the scruff (with his good hand, he wasn’t going to fuck up your progress) and shoved him into a wall, he made it clear to Soap that he was not to do that again. “A’ight, no messin’ with yer doc, got it, now let off Lt.” He giggled in between forced breaths. Only then did Simon lift his forearm from his throat.

The next day, he decided to go in earlier to apologize for his squad mate's behavior. What he stumbled upon, was an example of your accidental confession. 

“I’ve said it a hundred times already, I can’t fucking do it! What’s the fucking point? I’m just wasting my time.” He heard the pitchy shouts before he saw them. A rookie soldier in crutches, towering over you, face red and nostrils flaring. While you were holding onto the handrail of the parallel bars like a lifeline. 

“Let's just give it a try, this is the last exercise for the day, alright?” Even dealing with the man's tantrum, you kept your polite demeanor. 

“I don’t fucking want to, I’m done.” The soldier started to maneuver his way around the bars, and you followed him, still unaware of Simon's presence. The nurse was arranging some papers on the other side of the room, watching everything unfold silently.

“Sir, we’re not done. I’m here to help you recover, there’s no need to be uncivil.” This time your words were stern, your face frowning in determination. Simon thought it was cute.

“There is no need to be a pain in the ass either, fat bitch!”

And that was enough of that, with a few long steps Simon was in the young man's space, looking down at him and sizing him up, ”Quiet.” One word was enough, the thin veil of anger that disguised the soldiers' fears vanished from his face. “Stop your whingin’. Apologise and sod off.”

“Apologies, ma’am.” the soldier said over his shoulder grudgingly. You acknowledged it with a single nod. 

“Not good enough, look at her and say it like you mean it, boy.” Simon ground his molars and clenched his fist to stop himself from doing the violent things he wanted to.

The soldier turned clumsily on his crutches and muttered another apology, slightly more sincere than the first. Simon took a step aside to let him go, he didn’t give a fuck about pulling rank over the lad, he just wanted him gone and away from you. He would deal with it more thoroughly later. He was sure Johnny would enjoy giving him a hand.

Once the shell shock case walked out, Simon approached you. Even though you didn't seem upset from the confrontation, he noticed that your chest was heaving as you took deep breaths to calm down. You were staring at the floor, eyes a little hazy, with a hand resting on your soft belly, working on controlling your breathing. 

“Y’alright?”  

“No, yeah-” You paused and tilted your head up at him. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Your cheeks seemed flushed. Simon assumed it was anger, yet he found you deliriously hot. 

Raising the hand he was jealous of from your navel, you comically looked at your naked wrist, “Well, look at the time, right on the dot,” He was not, it was still early. “I’ll just… grab a cup of tea, and then we’ll begin our session. I’ll be back in a moment.” You dashed away, leaving him with the nurse, who now looked at him with her arms folded, one brown raised and lips pursed, clearly not amused by the situation.

After that day, things were… different. Since you were usually the one to start most of the conversations, your frequent chats became strained. In fact, you hardly spoke to him anymore (well, not really, he just got used to your constant yapping), only to give him instructions. 

He found that he missed it, your sweet attention talks, what he normally detested in others, he found charming in you. Not having that made him feel uneasy. Not only that, but he desperately wanted to return the gesture. He knew that his usual nonchalant and sarcastic tone wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

You made every effort to avoid meeting his gaze, as it would only become more intense as it sought to meet yours constantly. Because if he couldn’t have your voice, he’d settle for your pretty eyes. He was aware that he was behaving a little insane -like a hunter stalking its prey- but he was unable and unwilling to control himself.

One day, you caught him by surprise and set a gun on the table. A Clock 17, unloaded and  with an empty mag, a cleaning kit laying beside it. You told him to get into it and put those fingers to work, then you pulled a .19 from the pocket of your thigh, sat beside him instead of your usual spot on the other side of the table, and started to disassemble it with an efficiency that rivaled Kyle’s. He wanted to fuck you right then and there.

He grunted while appreciating you with a warm smile hidden by his mask, but still evident in his eyes. You turned at the sound, finally meeting his gaze, you gifted him a bright smile that blinded him and made him feel a little hazy.

He blinked slowly, pulled himself together and started to go through the motions of a deep cleaning for a Clock. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, and hog tied. Only to find he was a sloppy mess that somehow could not even pull the slide from the frame without struggling with the catch levers.

“You got it, Lt. Slowly but surely.” You encourage him. He carried on, watching your soft hands handle the weapon felt like you somehow were touching an extension of him. Another thought to not share with his therapist.

As he got lost in his thoughts, Simon still had that nagging feeling in the back of his mind. You felt so familiar, there was just something nostalgic about the way he felt about you. Like he was longing for something he couldn’t quite remember, a word on the tip of his tongue. Or maybe he was getting too attached, too fast.

A few weeks after the incident with the rookie, he graduated from the rehab center and was back at the gym (still with some limitations) and other duties, but still you insisted on going down to the shooting range with him. You wanted to monitor his improvement during work activities, which in his case meant shooting big guns, reloading them, and throwing sharp knives. He’d not been given the all-clear on hand-to-hand combat yet.

It was a mistake. Simon knew it the second you left the comfort of the indoors behind. You were out of your usual scrubs and instead were dressed up in a pair of cargo pants, tan army boots and a black compression shirt that stretched to sinful limits around your shape. It was torture. All the men watching you parade through the base made his hands itch to pull eyes out of sockets.

And then you were pampering him again, carefully massaging and moving his hand before he started shooting at a target. Standing close to him to better assess his hold on the guns, you called him out when he misplaced a shaky finger to avoid discomfort, reminding him that it was important to practice without any compensatory movements, so he didn’t develop bad habits.

You were all over him again, all your attention was on him, on the way he stood, on how he unloaded and reloaded, on how he shot round after round. Not even Price and Gaz introducing themselves diverted your focus. It was elating, he felt intoxicated.

By the time you were done for the day, Simon escorted you back to the barracks sporting a semi. Then he practically jogged to his room and proceeded to jerk off like a madman with the smell of gunpowder and your scent still on his nose. Fantasizing about coming inside you, filling you so full of him, claiming your little holes and-

He was hanging on to his self-control by the skin of his teeth, one little nudge away from losing it.

It should've been no surprise to him that in the end, it was knives that did it.

Oh, the irony.

You were alone, standing in the small warehouse next to the shooting range. It was poorly lit, equipped with big wooden circles with targets painted on them, a marksman table bolted to the floor and a utility wall full of all sorts of sharp paraphernalia. 

You were closer than the day before, again in your new uniform, looking hot and smelling as tempting as ever. Meanwhile, he was fucking up all his throws. 

You’d been at it for half an hour now, and he was getting more frustrated by the second.

“You are holding them too tightly, you have your full strength back now. The goal is to practice micro-dosing it when it requires gentle movements. Let me show you.” You said while studying his form.

You stand on your tiptoes to reach his injured hand that's been holding the KaBar knife over his shoulder in a throwing stance. Your soft front brushes against his side. Your fingertips lightly touch his tense fingers gripping the handle, and then your voice is right by his shoulder, whispering dirty-sounding words of encouragement.

“Relax a little bit, yes. Just like that.” Your breath caresses his skin, and he suppresses a shudder, “Yes, yes, perfect! Now, do it!” He throws the knife. 

Neither one of you sees it land with a thud in the center of the target. 

He’s on you before he can stop himself. 

With his hands wrapped around your throat, he pulls you impossibly closer to him, you gasp and instinctively grabs his wrists. His thumbs on your soft jaw tilt your head to make you look into his eyes. You moan, an involuntary noise that escapes your throat. The sound travels like high voltage through his blood to his groin. 

“Lieutenant…” you whisper, voice cracking with fear and a hesitated question.

Simon growls, slightly tilting his hips against your belly, wanting you to feel his hard cock, his need.

"Always on top of me, touching me, tempting me."  He turns slowly, keeping you in his grasp, and you move with him. "You have no idea how long I’ve been stopping myself from putting my hands on you," two steps forward, and he traps you against the old marksman table. Left speechless, your hands fall to his hard chest. Not punching him away, he notes.

His hands travel from your throat down to your hip, gentle but heavy petting your curves, He leans close and nudges your cheek with his clothed one. Your breathing becomes more labored by the second. "So sweet, yet so oblivious to the effect you have on me." He whispers next to your ear as he tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging on your softness, "But I can show you."

Simon picks you up, you shriek and throw your arms around his neck as he sits you on the table. He swipes one hand behind you, clearing the table of the clutter that falls loudly to the floor, purposely missing a small knife, he grabs it and brings it up to point at you with the sharp tip, “You’re gonna owe me a mask after this.” 

He lifts the bottom of his balaclava and cuts a piece off to reveal his mouth. Pink and plump lips split by a long scar all the way from his nose, down his cupid's bow, to just above his dimpled chin. 

He doesn’t give you time to appreciate the new exposed piece of him, because Simon leans down to claim your mouth in a passionate, claiming kiss. His eyes flutter close as you share the warmth of his body, and the truth of his confession. Your hands slid to his arms, gripping his biceps as you pulled him closer, your tongue tentatively meeting his in an unspoken invitation for more.

The kiss grows more urgent, his tongue diving into your mouth as he tasted the sweetness of your submission. His hands roaming your body, familiarizing themselves with every curve, fingers tracing circles underneath your breast and on the softness of your waist. Your own hands started to explore him, your nails digging into the skin of his exposed arms as you traced his muscles like you’re memorizing him.

Pulling away from your mouth, he nuzzled his masked nose against the apple of your chubby cheek, "If you don’t want this, now is the time to say so, before I lose myself." He was giving you a way out of his possessive grasp before it was too late, before he sunk his sharp teeth into your juicy peach and decided he was not going to let go.

“I want you!” Your voice was a desperate whimper at the mere notion of stopping. You want it, all he would give you, you’ll take it. Your hands grabbed his shirt and tugged, trying to take it off, you managed to untuck it from his pants before he grunted and grabbed both your wrists in each of his hands to stop you.

He kissed you once more and bit your lower lip, making you gasp, He took the opportunity and licked inside your mouth. “Tongue.” he barked, you obeyed and shyly stuck your tongue out. Simon licked, sucked, and bit again. It was utterly erotic. 

He pulled away from you and made quick work of undressing, took off his shirt, and then undid the button and zipper of his cargo pants. He was so big, all over. Packed with muscles and a layer of fat that made it seem like he was naturally bulletproof, even when you knew that wasn’t the case. The scars he wore were a crude and raw testament of the truth.

He moved close again, reached for your knees, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh behind them, causing your legs to fall apart slightly. You watched, transfixed, as his hands moved closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. The teasing was agonizing, but you didn't want it any other way. Instead, you took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with each stroke of his hand.

With a predatory grace, Simon leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hand traveled up your leg over the thick fabric that separated you from his touch. You felt the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach, a knot of excitement and fear that made your breath hitch. He paused just before he reached your center, his fingers tracing your sensitive inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his body, his scent mingling with sweat and arousal.

"You know," he said, his voice a low growl, "I’ve been dying to know what you taste like." His thumb hovered just above the fabric over your pussy, the pressure of it making you tremble. "Do you want to help me with that, baby?"

Your eyes widened, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through your body. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable while still being clothed. But there was something about the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, that made it feel so sexy. "Yes, Ghost," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I want that."

The Lieutenant's smile grew, his teeth a dangerous sight in contrast with the dark fabric of his mask. "Good," he said, his thumb finally sliding over the seam at your center.

With swift motions, he kneeled down to unbutton and yank your camo pants and panties off, making your hips rise and fall involuntarily, revealing your fuzzy, glistening wet pussy. The coolness of the air made you gasp, and you felt a thrill as his gaze locked on your most sensitive parts. Simon leaned in closer, his nose just inches from your sex. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled your scent, his eyes closing in pleasure.

The sound of his deep inhale made your stomach flip. You felt a strange sense of power, knowing you could elicit such a reaction from him. His eyes snapped open, and you saw the hunger in them, the raw need that was no longer hidden behind the veil of indifference he usually donned. "Mm," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "You smell so good, baby."

Without another word, Simon leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your fat mons, his stubbled cheek brushing against the naked skin of your inner thigh. Your hips jerked upward at the contact, a gasp escaping your lips, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle. He kissed you again, this time a bit closer to your clit, the stubble grazing your skin again, sending sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Your pussy is so perfect," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So soft and plump. Just like a ripe little peach." He placed a hand on your hip, holding you in place as he continued to shower you with wet kisses, each one closer to the center of your desire. It was so bewildering, the way he was rough and gentle with you at the same time.

Your breathing grew ragged, your body trembling with each tender touch. Then, without warning, you felt wetness on your clit as Simon leaned in and let a bead of saliva fall from his mouth onto your sensitive flesh. You gasped at the sensation, the coolness of his spit mixing with the warmth of your slick. His tongue followed the droplet, tracing a wet line up the center of your pussy, and you felt a bolt of electricity shoot through your core.

"Ghost," you whimpered, your hands clutching the edges of the table.

"Shh," Simon soothed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just relax, sweetheart. I got you." He slid his middle finger along your slit, the tip of it teasing your swollen clit before delving into your wetness. Your back arched as he pushed the digit into you, his knuckles grazing your sensitive skin. "So tight," he murmured, his voice filled with fascination. "So perfect."

He began to pump his finger in and out, the motion sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. You felt so full, so overwhelmed, still you craved more. You could feel your body responding in ways you didn't know were possible, so out of control, it was like an outer body experience. He had barely touched you.

“This was all I could think about every time you were holding my hand,” Simon said as he watched, transfixed, at the way his finger moved. “Making me all better just so I could repay you like this.” Your pussy clenched around his finger, begging for more, and you couldn't help but rock your hips in time with his movements.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmured, his voice a firm command that made your body quiver. "Does this pussy like when I play with her?"

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn't lie. "It feels… amazing," you admitted, your voice shaking. "I've never felt like this before." You leaned back on your elbows and let your head drop back.

Simon's eyes lit up with excitement. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want you to feel good, baby. I want you to know just how much I appreciate you." His thumb began to circle your clit as he continued to fuck you with his finger, the dual sensation making you moan even louder. "But we're just getting started. There's so much I want to do to you, so much more I want to do with you."

He stood up and with his free hand grabbed you by the nape of your neck to pull you upright, “Show me your tits sweetheart, take that fucking shirt off.” You hesitated for two heart beats and he amped the pace of his thrusts, “Take. It. All. Off.” 

You swallowed the nervous knot that formed in your throat and started to strip off your shirt. Once you were covered in only your sports bra, you took a deep inhale and straightened your back, reassuring yourself that there was nothing to be self-conscious about.

“You gonna make me repeat myself?” His tone dropped lower, his words a playful threat. You shook your head and off went your bra. As soon as you were bare before him, Simon ceased to move, his fingers still inside you, you even thought he stopped breathing for a moment. A nasty, insecure thought scurried across your mind, but it got squashed by the way Simon was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Then he snapped.

He leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your neck. You felt his hand move from your neck down to your chest, his calloused thumb grazing your nipple before he took it into his mouth. It was overwhelming, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he began to suckle. The sensation of his mouth on you, combined with the new relentless rhythm of his finger inside your pussy, left you on the brink of a form of pleasure you had never experienced before.

With each second that passed, your breathing grew more erratic, your body moving in time with his. The sound of his mouth on your skin blended with your moans and the distant sound of the shooting range. The warm flush on your face was a stark contrast to the coolness of his saliva as it dripped down your chest. His free hand moved to your other breast, kneading and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It was a symphony of sensations, each one building upon the last until you felt like a supernova.

"Do you like that, baby?" he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping your nipple before capturing it between his teeth. "Do you like how I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Simon." you managed to gasp out, your voice tight with need.

Simon's smile grew wider when he finally heard you say his name, and he leaned closer, his face inches from your chest. He took your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tight peak as he began to thrust his finger faster, your pussy clenching around his digits with each vicious stroke. He swapped back and forth, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, never letting the sensation ease.

As he sucked, he let out a low groan, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. His hand moved to your other breast, giving it a playful slap that made you jump. You felt so aroused, so desired, the thought of someone walking in any moment made you forget about any insecurity, and you couldn't deny the thrill of it. It felt like he owned you, and you were his to do with as he pleased.

With a sudden, almost feral growl, Simon pulled away from your breasts, his eyes locking onto yours. He leaned back slightly, taking in the sight of your finger fucked pussy, his hand still working your clit. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned between your legs, his cheek brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement as you watched him, his massive frame casting a shadow over your most intimate parts.

"Fuck." he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. And then he lowered his mouth to your pussy again, his tongue sliding through your folds with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The sensation was overwhelming, the combined feeling of his rough stubble and the warmth of his mouth sending you spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure. You felt the muscles in your stomach tighten, your legs trembling as you tried to hold herself still, and your throat tightened, trying to not let out a sound.

Surprising you with his strength, He lifted one of your legs and placed it over his broad shoulder, his hand wrapping around your thigh to keep you in place. The new angle made you feel even more exposed, your pussy open and vulnerable to his every whim. He took full advantage of the position, his tongue delving deeper, reaching places you didn't even know existed.

Your moans escaped you and grew louder, filling the closed space of the warehouse as the cool air caressed your heated skin. The fabric of his mask kissed your bare thighs as he moved between your legs, it tickled your sensitive flesh as he licked and sucked. You could feel his hot breath against your clit, the sensation making your hips buck involuntarily, nobody had eaten you out like this before, with such desperation.

The Lieutenant's tongue was playing your body like a fine instrument, he knew just how to touch you, just how to make you whimper and beg for more. Each flick of his tongue was a sweet torture, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, without pushing you over just yet. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you tried to hold back the scream building in your chest. You could feel the tension coil tighter and tighter, your body hanging on the precipice of something you had only ever read about in your stash of romance novels.

"Simon," you gasped, voice a needy whisper. "I'm… I'm going to… "

Your words dissolved into a whimper as you felt the heat inside you build. Simon's tongue had become relentless, swirling and flicking against your clit with a skill that seemed to defy his brusque exterior. 

His teeth grazed your sensitive flesh, the slight edge of pain mixed with pleasure, sent you spiraling higher and higher. You could feel your pussy tightening around his finger, the muscles in your soft stomach seizing up, your body shaking with the strain.

Your obscene sounds grew louder, filling the air with the sweet symphony of your impending orgasm. Simon's eyes remained locked on you, the intensity in them unwavering as he felt your body tense beneath his touch. He knew you were close, and the thought of making you come sent a jolt of excitement through his own body. 

"That's it," he murmured in between licks, his voice thick with lust. "Let go for me."

He moved one of his hands to spread your pussy lips apart even farther, using his thumb and forefinger, he kept the speed of his tongue while doing it. You could feel the orgasm growing, a rush of bliss that stole the breath from your lungs. His mouth was a brand of fire on your sensitive flesh, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a keening cry, your body arching off the table as you came, your pussy convulsing around his fingers. The waves of ecstasy crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Simon didn't stop. He continued to lick and suck, your juices coating his lips and chin as he drank in your sweetness, dampening the fabric of his balaclava. The feeling of his tongue on your clit was exquisite torture, each stroke sending another wave of pleasure through you. You could feel the muscles in your pelvis spasm, your legs quivering as you rode out your climax.

When the last tremor of your release faded, Simon pulled back, a smug smile on his face. His cheeks and lips were wet with your cum, a glistening trail of saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. He licked his lips, savoring the taste. "Mmm," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "You taste so delicious, baby."|

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you looked away, your pussy still spasming slightly with aftershocks of pleasure. Reality started to creep in on your lust-addled mind. But the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, it distracted, you felt beautiful, desirable. He was overwhelming. "Si…" you whispered, unsure of what to say.

Simon chuckled, a satisfied sound that resonated in your very bones. "Look at me, baby," he said, his voice a gentle command that you couldn't ignore. You lowered your eyes, meeting his gaze. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his thumb still rubbing lazy circles around your clit. "Your whole body just lights up."

He bent over you, the weight of his massive frame pressing you into the table. You could feel the heat of his chest, the dampness of his skin against your own. His breath tingled your skin as he leaned in, his breath hot on your face. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his eyes searching for approval in yours, his hand still playing with your pussy.

You nodded, unable to find the words to describe the wave of emotions that surged through you. You could feel your heart racing, your chest heaving with each ragged breath you took. He pinched your clit, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure through your body, overstimulating you.

"Good," Simon murmured, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Now, give me that sweet mouth."

He shifted his weight, his powerful muscles flexing as he moved to lie on top of you. His body was like a blanket of warmth and security, his weight pressing you into the table. You felt your heart race even faster, your eyes never leaving his as he lowered his face to yours. The edges of his mask and his scruff brushed against your cheek, the scent of him -musky and manly- surrounding you.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was consuming and possessive. You felt his tongue slip into your mouth, tasting, exploring, as if he couldn't get enough of you. Your body responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, your legs spreading to accommodate his thick thigh between them. The strokes of his tongue slowly became more forceful, and you could feel his hard cock pressing against your soft stomach.

The kiss grew sloppier, wetter, as you both succumbed to the overwhelming passion that had been building for a long time. His spit mingled with yours, the salty taste of flesh mixed with faint remnants of nicotine and the lingering sweetness of your juices. It was messy, raw, and utterly consuming. The stubble on his chin scraped against your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

With one hand on your jaw and the other still buried between your legs, a sudden primal need took over Simon, he pulled back and spit into your mouth without warning. It was an act of dominance, a claim that left no doubt of his intentions. The saliva slipped over your tongue, warm and slightly bitter. Your eyes went wide with shock, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you swallowed, the gesture feeling almost like a declaration of acceptance.

"Mm, such a good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding up your body, over your curves, to rest on your hip. His thumb stroked your skin, his eyes never leaving yours, feeding all the eye contact you had starved him off. "You're so soft, so precious. Yet I could crush you with my bare hands if I wanted to."

You felt said massive hand grab your waist, his fingers spread wide and sinking into your love-handles as flesh spilled out from between them. He was so much larger than you, his body a testament of his strength and power. You felt like a mere slip of a thing in comparison, it sent a thrill of euphoria through you. 

"Nearly became a lefty, and not because of your little exercises, love. I had to jerk off every time I left you." Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks flush. The feeling of being so fervently desired by him was electrifying.

"Do you want to see my cock?" he tilted his head slightly, it was almost comical, but his deep and gravelly voice rumbled over you.

You had seen a few before, nothing bad but nothing memorable either. The thought of seeing Simon Riley's cock was dizzying. "Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a predatory grace that defied his size, Simon stood up, his towering form casting a shadow over you. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his cargos and boxers, and pulled them both down with a swift move, revealing his thick, muscular thighs and the massive cock that jutted out from between them. 

It was huge, the size of which you had only ever read about in books and seen in the most exaggerated of porn, but still so pretty. The sight of it made you gulp, your eyes widening with anticipation and excitement. You could study it and write prose about it if given the time.

"Look at it," he said, his voice filled with pride as he took his cock in his scarred hand and stroked it slowly. The skin was velvety and pink, the veins standing out in stark contrast against his pale flesh. "This is me, baby. This is your man."

You couldn't help but stare, your eyes drawn to the thick, pulsing length of him. His pubic hair was a wild blonde thicket, a stark contrast to the rest of his body, which was mostly hairless. His balls were massive, heavy, and full, hanging low with desire. He cupped them in his other hand, rolling them gently, the motion causing his cock to bob and sway. "See how big they are?" he asked, his voice a low purr. "These are just for you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for a second as you nodded, only to drop back down to his movement, feeling too overwhelmed to find words. He was so imposing, so commanding, and you were at his mercy. "They're huge," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

With a wicked smile, Simon leaned back over you, his cock still in hand. "You make me feel things I thought I never would," he said, his voice a low growl. "Can you believe that?" He began to stroke himself more vigorously, the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft a wet, slick sound that echoed through the air. "Lust, for one. Possessive, for another. Just for you."

Your eyes remained glued to his cock as he spoke, the size of it making you feel intimidated and incredibly turned on. You had never seen anything so brutally masculine. You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling dry as you imagined what it would feel like inside it.

"Tell me, baby," Simon rumbled, his hand moving faster along his shaft. "Do you want to know how it feels to have me inside you?" he asked like he could read your thoughts.

You nodded frantically, the words trapped in your throat. Your pupils were blown wide with desire as you watched him stroke the pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock. You were craving the feeling of being filled by him.

"Good girl," Simon praised, one hand moving to squeeze the base of his shaft and the other grabbing your thigh once more, his cock hovering just above your pussy. "Now, let's put those pretty feet of yours over my shoulder," he said, his tone a gentle command.

You complied, your legs shaking with a mix of excitement and nerves as he lifted your hips off the table and moved you closer to the edge. He positioned you so that your ankles rested on his broad shoulders, your pussy at his mercy, your soft belly and breast offered like a banquet to indulge his appetite. The buzz of anticipation of what was to come making you squirm beneath him, it was almost unbearable.

With a wicked grin, Simon began to drag the tip of his massive cock over your slit, teasing your clit with every pass. It was exquisite, the slickness of his pre-cum combining with your own wetness created a deliciously slippery path. You watched as he worked himself over you, his muscles tensing and releasing with each stroke, his hand moving with the determination of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Your breath caught in your throat as he guided the full length of his shaft over your core, the sheer size of him making you feel small and unbearably empty. It was so different from when he used his hands and mouth, so much more intimate, it had your entire body quivering. You could feel the head of his cock nudge against your opening, the bluntness of it hinting at the pleasure to come.

"Look at that," Simon murmured, his voice low and filled with fascination. "Look how eager you are for my cock." He leaned down, his mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered in your ear. "You're going to be so tight… So tight around me."

Your breath hitched, your eyes still glued to the sight before you. The tip of his cock was now perfectly aligned with your entrance, the head nudging gently against it. You could feel the warmth of him, the pulsing need that seemed to radiate from his very pores. "Simon," you breathed, your voice trembling.

He was going slow, almost agonizingly so. Simon watched the head of his cock finally breaching your slick folds, and he groaned. Your eyes went wide, your body stiffening as you felt the first inch enter you. It was glorious. He was so big, so thick, it felt as though you were being split in two, like there was a “you” before and after this.

"Look at that," he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So tight, so wet for me." He began to move, inch by inch, filling you up with his massive girth. With every push, you felt yourself stretching, accommodating more of him, and you couldn't help the moans that slipped from your lips. "That's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixated on your pussy. "Take it all, baby. Take every last inch of your man's cock."

There was a faint pain despite being prepared to take him, it was laced with something pleasant. Each time he pushed forward, you felt yourself opening up to him, your body reshaping itself just for him, for his cock, every cell of your being responding to his steady thrusts. His breath tickled your neck, hot against your skin, as he whispered sweet taunts that sent shivers down your spine. "You're such a good little slut," he said, his voice a low growl. "Letting me fill you up like this."

Your cheeks flamed with both embarrassment and arousal. The words should have offended you, but instead, they made your pussy clench around his cock. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal making it easier for him to slide deeper into you. His movements grew more deliberate, the slow, torturous pace driving you crazy with need.

"Look how much of me you can take," he said, his voice a sensual purr. "You're such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"

The words were like a brand, searing themselves into your soul and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You liked it, the way his words made you feel both dirty and desired. With a final, agonizingly slow push, he bottomed out, fully buried inside you, his balls resting against your ass. The sensation was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that had you panting and writhing beneath him.

"Atta girl," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with hunger and lust. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips with the same demanding force as his cock had your pussy. The taste of him filled your mouth, mingling with your own sweetness.

As the kiss deepened, Simon began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that had your eyes rolling back in your head. He pushed in to the hilt, filling you completely, before pulling back almost all the way out. The sensation was maddening, the friction of his cock against your inner walls making your toes curl, and your nails dig into his skin.

With each thrust, he grew more aggressive, his grunts growing louder, filling the quiet warehouse with the sounds of your sexual consummation. Your moans grew in tandem, your breath hitching with every stroke. You felt like you were being claimed, owned, and the feeling was intoxicating. The pleasure built inside you, a heat that grew with each stroke of his cock.

Simon held your hip with a tight, possessive grip, his strong hands pinning you in place as he fucked you with a brutal efficiency that defied his gentle touch from before. The look in his eyes was like a storm, swirling with emotions that you couldn't quite decipher. Was it just desire? Lust? Or something else, something far more profound? You didn't know, and you didn't care. All you knew was that you needed more of him, you needed him deeper, harder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, unable to bare the weight of his stare, but he was relentless. Forcing you to meet his gaze, "Look at me," he growled, his voice thick with passion. "Look at me when I fuck you." your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself lost in his gaze once again, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he fucked you.

He went rougher, his balls slapping against your ass with every deep thrust, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouse. It was a primal, carnally satisfying sound that seemed to resonate through your very core, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Each thrust sent a jolt of divine pleasure through you, mixing with the pain of his intrusion to create a cocktail of sensation that was more addictive than any drug.

He lowered his head to your neck and murmured, "I can feel your heartbeat around me. It's driving me fucking crazy, baby." His teeth nipping at your skin. "You make me feel strong when I'm inside you. Like I can conquer the word." More heat bloomed in your core, "You're going to swell up with my cum, love."

Your eyes widened, shock and arousal coursing through your veins, the thought sent a thrill through you. "You like that, don't you?" Simon asked, his voice a low rumble. "The thought of being filled with my cum, growing round and lush with my seed?" He leaned down to nip at your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You're going to be the best little breeding slut, aren't you?"

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn't deny the way your pussy clenched around him, the way your hips began to lift to meet his thrusts. He noticed the change in you immediately, the way you moaned louder, the way you arched your back and pushed your breasts up towards him, like a heavenly offer. "Oh, you do," he said with a smug smile, his strokes becoming more forceful. "You want my cum, don't you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, the word torn from you as he hit a spot deep inside you that sent waves of pleasure through your body. "I want it."

"That's what I thought," Simon said, his grin wicked as he leaned back and began to fuck you with a viciousness that left you gasping. Each thrust was a declaration, a claim, a promise of what was to come. "You're going to be so full of me, baby. So full of my cum." His words were sweet, almost tender, laced with a brutal certainty that had your pussy spasming around his cock.

He placed his scarred palm over your opened mouth like he was trying to suffocate you, his fingers were spread apart and roughly grabbed your face. ”Kiss it,” He demanded, “Lick it, baby.” He gripped you by the waist with the other hand, your soft flesh giving in to his ruthless hold. 

You did as he commanded, making out with the flesh you knew so well, licked and kissed the scar you healed. You got lost in the feeling of worshiping the creased skin of his hand. Worshiping him.

With a roar, Simon plunged two of his fingers into your mouth, thrusted in you one last time and you felt his entire body tensing as he reached his climax. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you as you sucked on his fingers that still tasted like you. It was exhilarating. His hips jerked against you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. 

The feeling of his seed spilling into you was unlike anything Simon had ever experienced before, a primal rush that resonated through his very soul.

Your own orgasm followed quickly, your body shaking with the force of it. Your scream muffled by his digits, your nails digging into the skin of his thighs, you held on as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Simon never took his eyes off of you, watching you fall apart beneath him with a ferocious and possessive stare. 

The sound of your combined release filled the air, a symphony of moans and grunts that echoed off the walls surrounding you. His cock swelled even larger, his spurts of cum painting your inner walls and claiming you as his, you could feel his cock jerk with each one, filling you to the brim, stretching you impossibly wider.

"Ten," he panted, his body finally stilling above you. "Ten spurts of my love, baby." He leaned down, kissing you softly, his tongue slipping into your mouth, sharing the taste of the moment with you.

You felt boneless, the scale of your climax leaving you trembling and overwhelmed. You could feel his cum inside you, a warm, thick presence that filled you completely. The reality of what they'd just done settled over you, a mix of shock and euphoria.

Simon's cock twitched one last time before sliding out of you with a wet pop, leaving your pussy gaping open and exposed. He watched you with smug satisfaction, his chest heaving with exertion. The head of his cock was still coated in your combined juices, a white foamy ring around the base showed how good the sex had been.

You lay there, your chest heaving, your legs trembling as you tried to come to terms with what had just happened. You felt… changed, somehow. Different. The intimate nature of the encounter only served to amplify your afterglow, leaving you feeling both sated and yet insatiably hungry for more.

Simon’s cum was slowly trickling out of you, the sticky warmth of it reminded you of the unhinged way you’d acted. You couldn't believe you had begged for it, begged to be filled with his seed. But you had, and now you felt both ashamed and strangely proud of yourself. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside you, awakening something you didn’t know was there.

Simon stood up, his massive cock still semi-hard and wet with your slick. He looked down at your pussy, a proud smile playing on his lips as he gently removed your legs from his shoulders. "You did so well, sweetheart," he said, his voice still gruff with desire. "Can’t wait to get you on my bed."

You felt a swell of hope at his words, he wanted more too. Despite the anxiety and confusion that fought within you, you had never felt so alive, so desired. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Still standing over you, he offered you a hand up. As you took it, you felt the tremble in his fingers, the residue of his own climax. He helped you to your feet, his gaze lingering on your naked form, committing every detail to memory.

"I could just bend you over right now and fuck that sweet, tempting ass," he said, his voice a gruff purr. "But I've got to get you cleaned up. Somebody is bound to show up, so we’ll leave that for later." He playfully slapped one ass cheek, making you jump and shriek. It stung, leaving a warm imprint off his palm, a clear gesture of ownership. "You stay here while I look for something to clean us up," he ordered, his tone gentle.

You watched as he strutted away, his muscular frame flexing with every step, the wetness on his cock glistening under the dim light. You couldn't help but admire him, the way his cock bobbed slightly with each movement. It was an erotic sight, one you could get used to.

As he looked around, and the afterglow cleared from your foggy brain, you pondered how to tell him the story; about a young soldier you met in the ICU years ago, when you were just an intern. A handsome young man who had a tube down his throat and a wound on his lower back from ricochet shrapnel. How you had been the one assigned to move all his joints and stretch all his muscles, two times a day, every day, while he was unconscious. How you would talk to him about anything and everything, even if he didn’t answer. How you were the one who took care of the man until your rotation ended, and you were sent elsewhere, never knowing what became of him. Never seeing the soldier again. 

Until Simon “Ghost” Riley decided to use his hand as a shield against a machete.

Taglist: @partygetsmewettexxx @staley83 @madokawrites, Happy Birthday! @blacksilks

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 blush, blush, blush, blush.. | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

🍒 — ᥫ᭡ i can be your crush, crush, crush, crush, crush ! what are they like in the crushing phase?

love mail — LAZZY POST STRIKES AGAIN hi guys i needed to get this out 🙆‍♀️ do we fw red or naw or else im goinf back (ノ´ー)ノ im working on the requests everyone :3 pls dont accuse me of witchcraft

anaxagoras is relaxed about it, probably doesn't do much other than make subtle hints here and there. dropping your favorite drink by your desk or a small greeting of 'hello', followed by small talk. in truth, it's a very big step for the professor. he doesn't usually feel the need to make moves for someone, but there's this odd temptation. something exciting about the idea of pursuing you, and aeon forbid there's any kind of excitement in this old professor's life. you're different—it's nice, the kindness you bring to his cold heart.

mydei is a romantic. his mother told him stories of loving courtship, about how the greatest trait of a true, good man would be to care with their hands, not hurt. to love unconditionally and completely, to understand that their emotions are just as important as their strength. so the prince of castum kremnos fostered a fondness to care for others and a partner especially. he then became inherently romantic at heart, knowing he wanted to be a good lover. and so when he discovered his feelings for you, he was straightforward but respectful, pursuing you once you gave a yes to his courtship. honest and ever so ready to dedicate his heart to you.

phainon is a liiiittle bit of the opposite. it isn't that he plays around with feelings, but that he prefers more fun than romance. he won't just steal lovesick glances (he does on every pretty light you're under), he might as well grab your full attention. but the more he chased, the more he realized what he felt was becoming genuine. the intentional brushes of fingertips became lingering kisses on your knuckles, flirting turned into yearning—yearning turned into loving. he wanted it all, greedy as he is. the nameless hero could probably work for everything he could ever want, what stops him from trying to have a little more?

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

god forbid a girl forgets her taglist : @milk-violet for phainon, @madam-herta @sillyseraphie @irisesaregreen @strawbairicake ♡

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The GDA's golden boy isn't so golden anymore. You make a trip into a trap.

REF! REF, *TWEEET TWEEEETTT* THAT'S A RED CARD! REF! NSFW

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [18] [Cum Jar] [Full Piece Here - It's Mine!]

19 * Comeuppance [10.2k]

"I'm on probation for a trillion years,

There's nothin' to do but get drunk and get fucked,

an' start mailin' out the bombs, ya hear?

Hell yeah!"

Eat 5678 - Go Hang

        "Why did you make me do this?"

        He can't scream. Can't move a muscle beyond the involuntary breaths his lungs are forced to take, stuttering and wet but enough to keep him conscious. Burning all the way up and down his crushed windpipe. His throat was open, exposed to the cool, gentle breeze that sent shocks of pain along every pulsing nerve. He felt the icy chill on the nodules of his spine, on his detached vocal cords. He felt his head mostly away from his body, snapped hard to the side. The only thing keeping him alive was the tenuous connection of his exposed spine to his brain, screaming for him to move.

        Above him, Dad was on his haunches. Fists hot with his blood. Gesturing wildly though both his eyes were swollen shut. "You're fighting so you can watch everyone around you die!" If he were a normal human boy, he'd be gratefully dead- still by your side after Dad tore you apart. You were a distraction he let make him weak. He tried proving Dad wrong, to get revenge on your behalf but Dad was right- the fight didn't last long. 

        "Think Grayson, think!" It's a taunt, one that stings as badly as his nonexistent throat. He'd become so well known and trusted within the GDA people called him by his last name- after he'd joked Mr. Grayson was his Dad. It became a second name, only said within the halls of the GDA or by you or through his earpiece by Cecil, who he considered a friend. The whole team treated him well. He liked them all. Liked being a hero, making a difference. 

        "You'll outlast every fragile, insignificant being on this planet!"

        Dad thought it was a hobby. Something he'd drop once he learned their real purpose. He didn't. How could he when he loved this planet and its people so much? Earth was home, Earth had his friends. It had Cecil and Donald who had a cake waiting for him in the command room on his eighteenth birthday after he returned from a hard fought mission- forgetting his own birthday just like Dad had. Then he went to you, vanilla cake on his breath, the rest of it saved in Tupperware. You had your own cake waiting for him, your hands covered in frosting as you hastily tried to write 'Happy Birthday' across the top in a blue gel.

        "You'll live to see this world crumble to dust and blow away!" Nolan didn't care about his reminiscing. Was so lost in his rambling he didn't sense the fleet coming.

        Grayson made love to you on the messy countertop. Your fingers curling blue, sticky icing streaks into his hair. You showered together, laughing at things he couldn't remember. You curled up in his arms, watching the trailer for the animated Seance Dog show coming next spring. A spring you would never see. 

        "Everyone and everything you know will be gone!" Dad made sure of that. Got rid of that 'distraction' that he thought made his son such a wimpy bleeding heart. Got rid of his own distraction, that woman he called his wife- marriage was such a pathetic Earthly concept- with you both out of the way, nothing would stop them. 

        "What will you have after five-hundred years!?" 

        Not you. It was all he could think about half-buried into the side of the mountain- You. The planet's safety didn't matter. You. His father's betrayal didn't matter. You. You. You. Dead. Nothing mattered. You were dead. You. You. You. Dead. Dead. Dead.       

        Cecil watched the fleet from the control room. Drone operated, housing experimental quantum bombs. Grayson willingly gave samples of his DNA for research purposes, anything they could think of or want. His blood, his skin, a mucosal swab, a muscle biopsy. He never considered saying no, thinking the GDA would use it to come up with new armor or as a control to test against viruses. He didn't think they would use it to make defenses against Viltrumites, when there were only two of them on the planet, when they didn't know about the invasion plans. But Cecil had known Nolan a long time. Long enough to not trust him. 

        He knew Nolan was hiding something after the Guardians were murdered. They both did, but Grayson was so adamant Nolan wasn't in the wrong. He thought his Father was scared of a greater threat, something he was afraid to share, and he just had to figure it out. Cecil knew otherwise and that's why he was prepared.

        Nolan wasn't slow. He shot up, throwing the first few drones into the atmosphere. They were dummies anyways. Used so medical could teleport to Grayson, get him off the mountain and into GDA care. Only when he was safe did the bombs rain.

        Cecil would come to feel bad for Grayson in the weeks after the attack. Kid lost his girlfriend and his mom in one fell swoop. Lost the dad he thought he had, a hero and thought to be a mild, stoic man. Now he was kept hundreds of miles underground, limbs trapped in individual cuffs, each double the size of his body. Nolan had plenty of visitors in his new prison. Cecil and his interrogation team mostly. Grayson never came. Didn't even blink when Cecil told him Nolan was still alive. Not even when he divulged that the only reason they could contain him was because of Grayson's cooperation, all of the DNA and data he gave in good faith. 

        Grayson was never cold or callous, not a killer the way his father wanted him to be. But something changed in Grayson. Maybe it was getting nearly decapitated, breaking every bone in his body. Maybe it was all the people that died as collateral. Maybe it was his mom's death, you. 

        He hated knowing Dad would be proud when he said to Cecil with his new, broken, entirely wrong voice, "Kill him."

        Cecil expected anger. Expected Mark to choke him out or do something stupidly rash, but he stayed eerily calm. "You know I can't do that, kid."

        Grayson leveled him with a cold, blue-eyed stare. Cecil had never seen that look on his face, never wanted to again. "Do it or I will."

        ***

        After the attack, Phantom's neck was in a thick metal brace for weeks. He couldn't move most of his body, couldn't speak. Despite their extensive testing of Viltrumite DNA and its healing compounds, the doctors were unsure his vocal cords would ever re-string. They did their best putting him back together, but it wasn't right. His voice was forever stretched and scratchy after the incident, much like his mind. 

        The muscles in his neck stiffly groaned as he lifted his head to look at you, you, you, alive, alive, alive. Framed in what little light curved into his tomb. You were heaving with anger at the very sight of him- but you were breathing. Eyes shining beadily with malice- but you were blinking. Teeth grinding in your snarl- but you were moving. Alive. You were still alive. He'd been so worried. 

        Gray had brought him water, scraps of food. Never enough to satisfy, but enough for his body to work with the accelerator. If there had been enough water in his system, he'd be crying at the sight of you. But there wasn't, so he dryly heaved with cracked, wobbly lips. Words tumbled out his throat, feeling and sounding like broken glass, "You're okay."

        "Okay?" You said, brain still catching up like the past few minutes hadn't happened. "Okay!?"

        The isolation, the paranoia, the broken leg, the death, the dick sucked out of desperation and need just to be in front of Phantom. Here he was, served up on a silver platter. Smiling up at you despite his bloodless face and missing limbs. Woozy with pain and acute dehydration, but somehow his eyes gleamed like he'd won. Like he had also wanted to be in front of you- no matter the situation.

        You kicked him in the stomach, doing nothing but send a jolt of pain up your once broken leg. You reeled back, hissing.

        "Called Invincible for a reason." Mohawk said unhelpfully behind you. Truthfully, you'd forgotten he was there. When you saw Phantom the whole world fell away, the same for him. 

        But he could ignore Mohawk even if he was talking. He'd been blocking out Scars and Lensless's presence for weeks. Only really aware of them when they pulled the meat off his bones. Your kick felt like nothing, but the brief contact, even through your boot was precious. He replayed the moment over and over, hoped for another because it was better than weeks of nothing- worrying that mentally unstable freak had hurt you.

        "It's okay, I understand." He said because something, he didn't know what, had hurt you, because, "I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry."

        You kicked him with your other foot and got the same reaction. A smile because you touched him. He'd prefer a hug, a few sobbing kisses but he could take this for now- it was better than you dead.

        "He almost killed me!" Your brain rewound the tape and played it at hyper-speed. When it was done and you were freshly re-traumatized, the tape played again. "He went crazy! You knew he would!" Mark was right. You had told him to stop talking about Phantom, how he'd betrayed you both but you could feel it in your gut, Mark was right. "You fucking knew!"

        You kicked him again because you wanted him to hurt and you wanted it to be from you, but the only person you were hurting was yourself. 

        A hand came to your shoulder. Gray. "Stop. You'll hurt yourself."

        You shoved at him. "Don't fucking touch me!"

        He hovered back, a notch in his brow. He thought this was what you wanted, so why were you crying? Why were you so angry?

        Phantom needed your attention back on him. He'd gone longer without water than he had without you, but he needed more of your attention than he needed to breathe.

        "You shouldn't of had to deal with that." His words are slow, labored. Some part of him knew he shouldn't say it, that it'd ruin his chances with you, but the part of him that thought about such things had shriveled with torture and food deprivation. "I would've-" His throat spasmed, he swallowed the pain, "I would've done it for you before things got that bad."

        You called Mark crazy. You couldn't believe you called Mark crazy when Phantom existed. 

        You balled your fists, feel acid in your stomach. You wanted him dead as badly as you needed to breathe. You could only give him an appropriate death if you knew the full scope of things, if your fears, his fears, were confirmed. "What was your plan?"

        The rambling began in broken, shambling sentences. Unrelated at first, but slowly inching together as his voice started to blip and crack out. His twisted ideas just kept going and going like tied rags out of a magician's mouth. He wanted Mark to go crazy. Wanted Mark to ruin things. Was going to listen in and swoop in like Seance Dog in the nick of time. Let you lean on his shoulder to cry on. Be your one and only rock. Live in the dark together forever, where he could always keep you safe. Where nobody could ever hurt you again. Not like Dad had. Not like Scars and Lensless had.

        Then you made him tell you what went wrong. Everything that could've backfired did. It should've been more satisfying hearing his comeuppance, but you weren't there to enact it. To see it. To order it. To watch his eyes glaze over with agony, whereas now they were riverbed stones. If he died right now, he'd die happy.

        "You're fucking crazy." Not Mark. But he was Mark. They were all Mark. "It wouldn't have worked. He was onto you. I would've known. I would've hated you." You played out the fantasy. You and Mark killing him. You eating his body instead of your precious bug family that was now all gone. He would've felt less paranoid, would've let you dig a way into the sun so he could heal. But it hadn't happened that way. "I would've never loved you." You said it like it'd ward it away. Like it'd erase the fact that could have been your reality if he played his cards right. You hadn't suspected him at all, defended him, now look at you.

        Phantom had the audacity to shake his head, "We would've been happy."

        He didn't say it, but he knew how much trauma could remold a person. In the wake of Mark's death, he would've remolded you. Pressed in his thumbs and left the indent of his fingerprints forever on your soul. His version of the story would solidify with every passing moment. You would have loved him.

        You turned to Mohawk who'd been watching your back with baited breath. "Hit him." 

        Your control was more a gentle push to his back than anything. You hadn't needed to tell him, he already wanted the rat dead.        

        He lunged forward, grabbed him by the beard, yanked him forward and slammed his head back into the wall. Crack. Again. Crack. Again. Crack! Despite everything, Phantom was still smiling. This was nothing compared to the torture he'd gone through. Mohawk needed to go harder, break him through the wall, rip him in half, skull to taint. 

        It wasn't that Mohawk didn't want to protect you in a similar way. Or that Phantom wanted you to himself, because Mohawk did too. It was that the weakest in the pack thought he had any claim on you. That he almost got you killed again and left you with that other freak. That he led you into his arms and not Mohawk's instead.

        He reeled his foot back to punt him through the rock. Gray grabbed his shin. "We're being too loud."

        Mohawk turned to bark at him but you beat him to it. "Fuck being too loud! They're weak! Let them find us."

        You were out for blood. Scars and Lensless initiated the cave collapse. They weren't as much to blame but you needed more blood on your hands than Phantom had in his body.

        God, Mohawk could drool at how hot you were right now. 

        "I agree," Gray said, "They are likely weakened by now, but don't you want to savor killing him? They'll get in the way."

        Viltrumites killed efficiently, without feeling, though plenty of them, like his mentor, enjoyed it very much. Gray enjoyed a hard fought battle, didn't mind blood on his hands. He understood blood lust. Though he didn't feel it, he wanted you to feel that passion his mentor had to the fullest. Isn't that what you'd want?

        Mohawk yanked his leg from Gray's grip. "I'll kill 'em before they can."

        Gray kept his annoyance in check. How on Earth was Mohawk Emperor of anything with such little decorum?

        "Noted." He turned to you, "I need answers first."

        You frowned at him, tone dangerous, "What could you possibly need from him?"

        Gray stepped forward, standing by your side now instead of some guard dog goon. He looked down at Phantom, who only had puppy eyes for you. He honestly thought Phantom's plan wasn't a bad one. It was smart to expose an enemy's weakness, smart to get you away from danger, to use both of those things to his advantage. He could almost respect him, but he wouldn't tell you that. 

        Since obtaining Phantom, Gray had returned to Scars and Lensless residence. Maybe to kill them, maybe just to see what they were up to- he didn't know. He found rubble. Couldn't find them in the wastes. 

        "Where did they go during the day?" He asked both Phantom and Mohawk. Both of them didn't know, only one of them would answer. You had to use your powers on Phantom, which in his weak, blissed out state was easy. Phantom was unconscious most of the time. Mohawk was scared to not have something to hide behind. 

        "Did they ever speak of any other hideouts?"

        Again you had to step in. Control going around his soft brain like a fist holding jello. Phantom didn't know. They were gone in the wind. Gray doesn't like not knowing where they are. 

        Gray is pulled out of his thoughts by your voice, "You done?" 

        He stepped back in quiet confirmation. 

        He watched the way you stared at Phantom. Could almost hear your gears turning, wondering what would be the best punishment for his crimes. 

        He stared back. Lips moving but no sound came out. You knew you shouldn't help him, but a morbid part of you wanted to hear what he had to say.

        "Gray." It's all you have to say for the man to move in, hold Phantom's jaw, and pour water from a basin down his throat. Most of it dribbled wasted down his chin. 

        Gray settled behind you as you watched Phantom's throat work. You waited, waited. Until.

        "I accept whatever comes next, and I forgive you." He says, not meaning it. He wanted to live, to be with you, he didn't want to die here, but the only way to live was to appeal to your human nature. The one he knew you had because his version of you did.

        In his haze, he forgot how different you were. 

        Wasn't expecting red rage to cross your face. "Mohawk. Kill him."

        Mohawk was in front of him. Fist pumped back, ready to piston forward and put a hole in his head. It'd be quicker than he deserved. That's why Gray stopped him. Stood in front of Phantom, Mohawk's fist in his hands. Muscles straining to keep Mohawk from landing the blow.

       "What are you doing?" You snarled, head pulsing as Mohawk tried to push through Gray's grip. 

        "You'll regret doing it this way," Gray said. 

        Seconds ago, you were thinking torture, now you just wanted him dead. For all of this to be over. No more Jesus-y 'I forgive thee, Judas' bullshit.

        "No, I won't. Move." Your focus is like a shove to the brain, teeters him off balance. His heels gave, sliding back and pressing into Phantom's leg.

        "Mark suffered for years in prison, correct?"

        "I don't care. Move." Another shove. You were stronger when you were mad. He tucked that information under 'problems for another day'.

        "He effectively put Mark in prison again. Don't you want him to suffer the same?" Gray did not revel in pain but he knew you did to an extent. You needed Phantom's pain like you needed codeine to feel better. Good for awhile, then best if it was gone.

         Gray was right. He should-

        "I should suffer." Phantom's voice scratched out, "It's my fault you got hurt. I'm so sorry, (Y/n)."

        Hearing those words was like a fist to the chest, grabbing at your heart. You just wanted this to be over. Just wanted him dead so there'd be no more genuine platitudes from him. His sympathy burned like acid.

        "Kill him." You said hoarsely, "Just kill him."

        "Sorry dude," Mohawk jerked his head back to deliver a blow to Gray, intending to knock him out. Gray regretted having to use such desperate actions, but he believed this was for the best. His knee came up to Mohawk's crotch. Mohawk crumpled, groaning before a blow to both his ears knocked him out entirely. Gray caught him before he hit the ground. 

        You bared your teeth. "What are you doing!?"

        "Helping." Gray lifted a limp Mohawk onto his shoulder. 

        "No you're-" You were off the ground, held to Gray's chest with his free arm. One of his legs kicked back, delivering a heel to Phantom's jaw and sending him easy into unconsciousness. "Hey!" 

        Gray floated out of the makeshift prison. "You need time to think."

        "Put me down!" The strongest shove yet, his grip loosened before he came back to himself. Seeing the flash of terror on your face at the idea of being dropped mid-flight again. Still, you fought. Beat useless fists against his chest, "I don't need to think, he needs to die!" But the more you fought him, the more your anger and wrath flared, the more he knew he was right. 

        ***

        "It's cold, come sit." Markus lifted his cape for you to perch under. You didn't look at him. Don't look at anybody as you paced in circles, feeling like a caged lion. The bitter night bit at your skin but you didn't care. You couldn't look at any of their faces without seeing Phantom, Mark, Gray. Feeling sad and angry all over again.

        Gray shifted up from his seat. Far from a very awake, very pissed off Mohawk, who was considering if he should fuck this whole alliance bullshit and take you for himself.

        "I'll go." Gray said.

        You spun on your heels, catching the back of his stupid skirt before he left through one of the many exits. "Don't pull that kicked puppy shit!"

        He paused. "Kicked puppy what?" He was still very unused to human turns of phrase. 

        "Shut up and get back in here." You snapped. He hovered back inside, confused. "Said it yourself big guy, desert's too dangerous to violently kill a guy in, gotta be waaay too dangerous to be flying around at night- right?"

        "I thought this was what you wanted." He said it softly, meaning more than just him leaving. Wondering where he went wrong, why you hadn't kissed him with those pretty lips in thanks when you had asked him for this.

        Your jaw flexed, unflexed. Because you did want this, but now that Phantom was within reach, weak, killable, it was a whole other story. The worst part was you didn't even get the satisfaction of him being scared to see you again, to see him crying while he confessed. He wasn't sorry, not really, he was sorry he got caught, sorry he was an amputee. You don't know how to feel or what to say and the longer Gray looked at you with those sad puppy dog eyes the more muddled your feelings got.

        So you leaned into instinct, snapping, "Whatever."

        You let go of him and went to the darkest, most isolated corner of the camp. The corner Gray had shoved the bag of Mark. Now two-thirds full, he'd been rationed well. You sat against the sack, not feeling any of Mark's warmth. Feeling only a stiff hardness poking into you in pieces where you were used to a solid mass. It wasn't enough to sit beside it. Soon you were half sitting on it, hugging it, sniffing it, crying quietly into the rough fabric. It felt and smelled nothing like Mark but it was him.

        "Are you alright?" Markus.

        "Go away."

        You heard his boots come down behind you. His suit groaned as he sat, one shoulder pressed to your back. You clutched the bag tighter, finding a stick of dead meat to hold onto through it. Not a hand pulsing warm with blood. You pressed your face into it, let the tears soak through. Markus said nothing as you worked through a knee-deep muck of emotions. He just silently rubbed your lower back in slow circles. The touch real, living, grounding through your tank top.

        He was there for you, even if you didn't want him to be. Had been the whole time you were stuck here. Just waiting for you to reach out, offering comfort you needed but wouldn't take.

        You say it without thinking, "I don't know why I'm always so mean to you."

        Because he'd been kind, charitable, annoyingly uptight, and dad-ish, but not a bad guy. You'd pushed him away at every turn or pulled him in just to try and use him. He knew it, let it happen, and kept crawling back to you anyway. The way you wished Mark had after Machine Head. The gentle comfortableness he represented scared you, threw you and your assassin persona off balance. You always felt like the other shoe was going to drop. Waiting for him to accept you weren't his darling wife and finally leave you alone. But he never did.

        Arms snaked around your middle. Gently goading you off the meat sack, turning you away from it and its garish body. You let him, turning into his chest as he pulled you onto his lap.

        "I know." His voice rumbled in his chest. "It's okay." There was no resentment in his voice. No Mark-ish disdain for what a shitty person you were. You fisted the material of his suit, pressing your face into him, listening to his heartbeat, breathing in the smell of stale sweat. Gross but alive. 

        Why were you holding onto Mark when he hurt you? When Markus was alive and right here and had only been kind of a douchebag who never apologized for being a douchebag. You had been worse, had never apologized for being such a flippant ass. "I'm sorry." 

        The circling hand came again to your back. "I just want you to be okay." His other hand came up to cradle your head, rubbing his thumb into your (hair/scalp).

        You gritted your teeth, trying not to sob like a baby into him. Nobody had cared for you like this in so long. No expectations, no paranoia. You shuddered at the smokey smell still in your nose, "I don't think I can ever be okay out here." 

        "I know." He says again, slowly rocking you both back and forth now. Lulling you into calm with his husky voice and warm touch. "I'm sorry I can't make it better."

        You laugh, because it was such an odd thing to say, "You do." Your walls completely crumbled around you.

        Markus smiled into your forehead as he kissed it. 

        ***

        You slept in his arms for the first time in over a week. You were an unmoving rock while he stayed awake. Hyper aware of your breathing, your weight on his legs. Markus didn't sleep much before the desert, slept less now. Exhaustion always nipping at his heels but it didn't matter how tired he was. As long as you were safe.

        Eventually, the dream was over. You woke up, dazed and confused, slow and sweet with lingering sleep. He savored the unguarded look on your face before the shield fell back down. You excused yourself off his lap, muttering an apology for falling asleep.

        "No apology necessary." He said as he watched you walk away. Feeling airy with affection.

        Crying and sleep had shaken off some of the anger. You knew you needed to fix things before it returned in a violent wave, the way it always did. You walked up to Gray who was silently assessing the damage of the storage box that'd collapsed in the night again. He could've fixed it by now but he always waited for you to help- even if, "I was an asshole yesterday."

        He said nothing but kneeled down to hold up two of the sides at a corner. You bent down and found the spike of metal you'd used to slot one side in with the other. You picked it up, continuing, "I appreciate what you did." You slide the piece in. "A lot. I uhm-" God, why was being accountable for your emotions so hard? Oh yeah, you repressed them so you wouldn't speak out of turn and be murdered by Machine Head! "I get why you brought him instead of bringing me to the crazy person jailhouse."

        The metal slid home. Gray moved his hands, testing to see if the sides would hold. They did but bowed out awkwardly. He plucked a piece of aluminum from the storage and worked it around the corner as a reinforcement.

        "You gonna talk to me?"

        Gray blinked. "I didn't want to speak over you." 

        "Oh." You laugh awkwardly. "Right, yeah." You grabbed some slips of metal and held the aluminum to the wall while Gray hammered the spikes in to keep it there. 

        He didn't speak while he worked. Trying hard to gather up his emotions. He was severely disappointed by your reaction last night, but it should've been par for the course. Mother was always surprising Father with her strange human outbursts and social customs. Still, despite being raised by a human, he understood little of their emotions. In truth, he'd always spent more time with Father. Was always off training or on a mission around other Viltrumites, too long to truly understand his mother's human tendencies.

        He didn't know what would be the right thing to say so he could only hope what came out of his mouth wouldn't push you away. "I want him dead, but I think if it's too fast, you'll regret it."

        You frowned as the wall stood sturdier.

        "The more he talks, the worse things get for me." You said quietly, hoping the others wouldn't hear as they went about their morning business, but they do. There was no real privacy in here, not that it mattered but it was still embarrassing. Bearing your heart to everyone at once.

        "Gag him." Together you move to the next corner and repeat the process.

        "Won't he bite through it? Strong jaw?"

        "Tell him not to. He's weak, he'll obey." 

        You punch the side of his knee, which confused him greatly. "I get it, you're super strong and hard to control, he's not." You smiled but your eyes were misty. Gray was even more confused. "I just don't get why he did it. I didn't have a problem with him. We could've been friends, ya'know?"

        Gray doesn't 'ya'know'. Gray always thought there was something off-kilter about Phantom. He'd made this mistake of ignoring him in lieu of paying attention to Scars and Lensless. 

        "But what I really don't understand is why Mark? Like, if you were going to make me hate someone else, why Mark? He was so sweet and fucked up yeah but-" You looked at the wall, blinking back tears. Remembering the snap inside your leg. The pain, the terror. "Out of all the people he had to ruin for me, it had to be him." Nowhere near innocent, but the closest to it. You'd burn the fucking world down too if you went though shit like that.

        "You didn't trust him." Gray used the flat of his hand to sink metal into the wall. "He chose someone you trusted to get close to you." And now Mark's dead and dinner.

        You bit your cheek. "I want to hurt him so bad but I don't know how." The tears are heavy on your lids now. "I want to kill him so bad it hurts, but you're right." You turn back to him as they fall, "If I don't make him suffer, I'm failing Mark."

        Gray didn't think. Just reached forward and cupped your cheek, thumb wiping the tear away. The others watched, shoulders locked and loaded. On one hand, there was jealousy. On the other, they knew if they ruined this moment, you'd be angry, their standing with you would wither.

        "More amputation is possible." Gray said soft, caressing your face, "I've enough agent fourteen to keep him going awhile."

        "No." You reach up and grab his wrist, needing to feel a body, "Don't waste anymore on him." 

        Gray smiled, hoping you'd say that. He had many more options, "Viltrumites can withstand partial gutting."

        "Really?" Your eyes gleamed, your hand tightening around his wrist and he felt a stir in his cock. He really needed to get that reaction under control. 

        "Are you serious?" His voice made you both stiffen. Maskless didn't move from his seat on a low rock. Eyeing you both like you were garbage. 

        "Got a suggestion?" You snapped as Gray shifted next to you, looking like a puma about to pounce. 

        Maskless's face twitched. "He loves you." He hissed, "No matter what you do to him, he's going to love you." The words come out like a curse. "Just kill him already. He'd gone through enough."

        "Enough?" You barked out a laugh. "He ruined-"

        "His plan backfired, sure, but he did it for you. Can't you see that? Or are you too self-centered to realize everything he's done out here was for your own good?" 

        Seb lifted his head from the hammock hung in the corner. "Whoa dude, that's like a crazy fucking thing to say."

        "It's not!" Maskless lifted his arms, "I would've done the same thing!" For William. Anything, everything for William. Who he didn't even get to see again. This was all for nothing.

        "You'd die for it too," Gray said.

        Maskless's muscles tighten but he stayed put. "I'm just saying. Guy's suffered enough with how much you fuck around."

        Seb's jaw dropped, "Jesus Dude! That's not cool!" He felt a little hurt, considering how he'd told Maskless extensively about his laundry list of flings. Had his friend been judging him the whole time?

        Markus crossed the room, "You're being childish."

        "Me childish?" Maskless huffed. "Look at yourself." Markus was unbothered. Anything Maskless could say about him, he'd already gone through a thousand times worse. "I can't stand you people."

        Yet he made no move to leave. If he left now, he'd be out. Easy pickings. The next meal.

        You stood, the storage box mostly fixed. Gray immediately grieves the loss of your touch.

        "You know what? Just cuz you said that?" You turn to, "Mohawk, wanna hit something?"

        Mohawk was already up and on his feet. Long since stewing in angst seeing you snuggle up with Markus and get all close with Gray. Plans tumbling around his head on how to be the last one standing. All that fell to the wayside with your attention. "Yes, ma'am."

        You locked eyes with Maskless as Mohawk hauled you into his arms. 

        ***

        You didn't let Mohawk get the first lick. You knew you couldn't hurt Phantom but seeing him light up when you walked in made you sick. You stooped down, hovering where his left leg would be if he had it anymore. "I fucking hate you."

        "I understand." Phantom could live with you thinking that. As long as he lived, he had time to prove you wrong. To prove he was right in doing what he did. Those people were animals. 

        You scowled before your fist cracked into his cheek. Pain shot electric up your forearm. You pulled your fist back, finding blood on his cheek that wasn't his. Your knuckles had busted open.

        "Fuck's-" You reeled your head back, knowing it was a bad idea but needing to get across to Phantom you'd hurt yourself just for the chance to hurt him, "-sake!" Foreheads collided. You saw stars as you fell back on your ass. Violently dizzy, head throbbing, warmth trickling down your forehead and around your nose. 

        "Shit!" Mohawk steadied you before you fell further back. "You okay, babe?"

        You didn't look at him. Just at Phantom who brought his hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of your blood under his remaining fingers. Fingers that could still move. "Break his hand."

        Mohawk smiled and lifted his brows, "No powers on me? Ya think I'm that whipped?"

        "Do you want me to tell you what to do?" 

        He pretended to weigh the idea. "Ehhh."

        You raise a brow, "Do I need to get someone else or-" He moved so fast he nearly sent you sideways. A sickening crack-ack-ack-ack-ack filled the room followed by Phantom's broken gasping. 

        Mohawk grinned as Phantom's face contorted. "Good enough for you?"

        You watched as Phantom tried to move his hand. Now a too-squished together mess of red and purpling bruises, fingers twisted in all the wrong ways. The sight made you happy.

        "You seem awfully proud of yourself for only doing that one lil thing. Why not hit himmmmm-" You pointed, finger circling until you decided, "there." Right where his kidney would be.

        "Yes, ma'am!" His fist landed in the same spot. Causing Phantom to double over, groaning.

        It became a game from there. You spinning your finger, seeing where it landed, Mohawk hitting or breaking something like a good guard dog should. Together, you were splatter artists. Canvas Phantom's pale exposed skin, painted with green and purple bruises. Blood dribbling out of his lips to add a little more color.

        The more he hurt. The happier you were. Almost electrified by Mohawk's cruelty. You shared jokes at Phantom's expense back and forth. Getting meaner and louder the longer it went on. 

        Eventually, Phantom stopped groaning. "Shit, is he dead?" You rocked forward on your heels.

        "Nah," Mohawk cracked his bloodied knuckles, "I can still hear 'im breathing, he's just knocked out."

        You huffed as your high started to wane. You were having so much fun, now it was over. "I thought he'd last longer."

        Mohawk flopped next to you, "He'll be fine."

        You were quiet awhile, watching Phantom's bruised chest slowly rise and fall. Getting some lingering thrill out of seeing the pain you'd helped cause. 

        It was Mohawk who broke the silence. "You know... You're pretty hot when you're mad."

        You take it as a joke. Unable to image yourself as sexy, not with the sweat and the half-congealed blood that'd run from your forehead to your chin. "Yeah right."

        His hand came to your chin, pulling you to face him and his hard-set expression. "I mean it." His eyes dropped as his thumb spread the blood across your skin. "Fuuuuck." He didn't think, just leaned forward and dragged his tongue from your jaw to your cheek. Sending shivers as his hot mouth passed your lips. 

        "That's nasty." You hissed at him as he pulled back, not far, just enough to admire the look on your face. Flushed but not angry, not hating it. You must feel it to, the pull that started in his gut and went straight to his cock. 

        His gloved fingers gently squeeze your jaw, "Could tell me to stop." 

        "Your stupid ass wouldn't listen."

        "Not unless you made me, which you totally aren't right now."

        You glared. "You're annoying as fuck you know that?"

        He grins. "You like it. You like when I push.” He could feel himself getting harder the longer you looked at him like that. Could feel his blood boil, body start to coil. He could hear your heart racing, apexing from its earlier plateau. You wanted it but played so coy.

       “If you keep pushing, I’ll hurt you.”

        “Yeah baby?” His voice was low, gloved finger swiping along your bottom lip. He was right, you could push him away, say the word and have him across the cave. 

       You shivered, “I’m serious.” 

        He hums, distracted by the way you were leaning into him, the way your voice shook. 

        "If you ever do what he did to me, I'll make you hurt yourself so bad you'll shit blood." You hissed, breath on his lips, getting closer now.

        "God, you're hot."

        Heated lips rushed forward, overcoming yours in a fast flash of spitty kissing and lip biting. Piercings shove into your chin, coolly scrape against your lips as you both move, growling into the kiss. He climbed on top of you, holding your jaw in place while you tugged hard at his mohawk. Less kissing more trying to eat each other alive at the mouth. Violence's pull overtook you again. You needed more blood, more pain, so you bit the inside of his lip as hard as you could trying to make him bleed.

        He groaned, "God you're such a-" You shut him up by shoving your tongue into his mouth. He accepted it greedily. His hands left your chin, you expected them to go to your pants but instead he's zipping his suit down. Exposing sweat-slicked muscle, pierced nipples and collarbones. He grabbed your wrist and forced it to a peck. Fingers splayed around a nipple.

        "Come on," he murmured into your mouth when your fingers didn't move, "touch me."

        That move was... unexpectedly desperate. You thought he'd be a little more Seb-y, confident and cocky, but the little jerk just wanted some attention. Fine. You could do something for the work he'd done on Phantom. 

        Your knuckles pinched around his peaked nipple. Rolling and twisting the flesh, making him pant into your mouth.

        "Fuck," his hips bucked into the air, "yes," he shuddered when you started toying with the bar, "yes."

       Mohawk shuffled around your kiss and tangled bodies. Hastily shucking off his suit from the shoulders down. Exposing more of his skin. Nude from the waist up, hard-on trapped in the blue of his suit.

        "More." He growled into your lips. "Fuck, I need you." He pressed your head down, kissing you, pressing the back of your skull to the ground like he was trying to eat your face.

        You let it happen. Lost yourself in the heat. Hands full of his pecs, twisting and squeezing. His hands were everywhere. Groping your sides and hips. Recalling the memory of your body under him. You still felt the same. He needed more.

        You didn't feel a chill as he ripped the tank top up and over your head, falling to the wayside. Desert heat pressed into your skin, but not as hot as his lathed tongue over your nipple. Sucking and nipping before you could object. You were gasping before a single word of protest could pass your lips. He knew just how to pull those sounds he missed out of you. He'd waited long enough. Had endless wet dreams about touching you again. He needed to hear everything, feel everything.

        You were arching into him. Hands gripping his shoulders the way you used to before you fucking betrayed him. You squeaked as he bit your nipple, drew blood in his flash of anger. He made it better, sucking it up as he held your hips. Grinding your clothed heats together. Needing that pre-fuck friction. Watching how your mouth fell open and eyes rolled back so slutty before he'd even gotten to the real thing.

        "Fuck," his mouth came away from your breast, connected by a trail of spit, "fuck, I missed you." Your lips met again. He was in a better position to grind into you, so he did, rough, fingers bruising your sides. But that was fine, you needed some pain after inflicting so much.        

        You felt the heat of his hand slip under your pants, under your boxers. Thick fingers slipped down your slick. He shook, coating his fingertips. "God." He sounded close to tears. 

        You weren't one for emotional intelligence during sex but you had to ask, "Are you-"

        His mouth moved to your neck, pressing lips and teeth to your skin, "Can I finger you? Please say I can finger you."

        You weren't going to turn that down. "Go right ah-hhhhheeeeeeeeeehd." 

        You melted, as two fingers were forced into your slippery cunt. No foreplay preamble, just all the way to the knuckles. Pumping in and out, slapping his palm against you from the get go. He watched you writhe like you were a live art show. Watching you moan and gasp made him want to cry. He couldn't believe he killed you. Couldn't believe he'd missed this for so long.

        He was so in his head he didn't realize you were close until you were cumming on his fingers. Moan echoing rough in the cavern. He snaps back to himself, muttering a, "Good job, good girl, yes baby," as he milks your cunt into submission. You go slack and soft against the floor but he's not done. Nowhere near. Your pants and boots are thrown away before you can blink. He's over you watching your face, moaning as he sucks your taste off his fingers. You can't say anything before he's spreading your thighs, his lips coming down on your cunt with a muffled, "Need this."

         His fingers are back inside you, his tongue pressing harshly into your clit. He nearly cums when you pull at his hair, shrieking, kicking at his back like the nasty bitch you were. 

        You cum again, heels dug into his shoulder blades. His fingers leave purple-ish impressions on the insides of your thighs, he wanted to bite them, to make them a permanent part of your body. Instead he lunged forward as soon as orgasm subsided, kissing you, mixing your spit and juices with his like you always used to. Your hands scratch at his back, make him mewl much less domineeringly into you than he'd like, "Can I fuck you? Please, please can I fuck you?"

        "Just do it alr-" A gust of wind slaps your heated skin as he throws off the rest of his suit. Jumping back on you, cock sprung free. Piercings glinting up and down the bottom of his head and shaft as he started to desperately rub himself against the outside of your core, murmuring praises. Tiny balls of metal catch and roll past your entrance, making you gasp. It's too much, too hot, he can't do this foreplay bullshit anymore. Without warning, he realigns and fills you to the hilt. You go stiff, suddenly achingly, deliciously full, eyes rolled all the way back, a slut possessed. 

        Mohawk doesn't think of your body needing to adjust, he just moves. Not slow, not steady, but snapping. Making your skin harshly slap together, making your tits bounce. Forcing himself in and out of the tight, twitching hole made just for him. Thumb rubbing rough circles on your clit as he pounded into you. Battering your g-spot, bruising your walls.

        Beneath him you are wild. Nearly shrieking and drooling. Whatever you can grab onto him, you do, nails digging in. Gasping, "Fuck- yes-" in the few moments he allowed you to breathe before punching the air out of your lungs. It wasn't enough that his balls were slapped against your ass, he needed to be deeper. 

        Mohawk forced your hips up, shoved your thighs close to your shoulders. Growling as he forced that extra inch of himself inside that much deeper. Cockhead kissing your cervix.

        He growled, rough and uneven as he sped up, "Fuck you used to love this, tell me you love it."

        You can't tell him anything, because with three thrusts in this position you were cumming again. Massaging his cock, coaxing it to fill with cum but he withholds, needing this moment to go on forever. He swallows and slows a few seconds just to last a little longer.

      Phantom isn't aware he's awake. For awhile he thinks he's in a dream. That same one he always had, dad beating him into the side of that mountain. Feeling the cold air on the insides of his throat. Except he's hot and dad's not yelling about what's going to happen in five hundred years. Someone is yelling- screaming. 

        His eyes are swollen mostly shut but he can see- even if it's blurry with his fractured cornea. He isn't sure what he's seeing first. Two jerking blobs. One lean atop the other that is oddly shaped like you. A memory, stirring and distant, tells him that's something you tried together one time. But it was so intense he couldn't handle it long. Ended up cumming inside you and dealing with a pregnancy scare.

        But that's not- No- You wouldn't be doing that here?

        "Mmm-mmmphh-mm!" It sounded so real, your moans.

        "Come on, baby- you can still talk, can't you? Say it." And that wasn't his voice- but it was- whole and unbroken, raspy with sex.

        "Mmm-mm-Mark!"

        He blinked, once, twice. Mind coming to him all at once. This wasn't a dream or a hallucination or a delusion because in his world, in throws of passion you called him Grayson. He only ever imagined it as such. 

        "Fuuuck!" That growling voice, he recognized it at the one that taunted him as he cracked his ribs with a kick. That slap, slap, slap was real. Along with your cried, "I'm gonna-"

        "That's it- Good girl cum on my cock- come on- yeeaahhh- good fucking job." 

        Phantom watched as your bodies moved. Mohawk so much faster and stronger, using yours while you let him. Taking it all with a sick, fucked-out grin. He remembers every snap of bone and peel of flesh from his body. Remembers what it felt like to lose his arm then leg, pieces of him gone forever. But this was worse.         

        "Oh fuck- fuck!" Mohawk threw his head back, announcing to the world, "I'm gonna fucking-!"

        Phantom watched as his body stuttered. As Mohawk forced himself into you two more times before stopping, crying out, filling you with seed that wouldn't take. You both lay there a moment, panting, glowing with sweat. The scent of sex burned Phantom's nose. Worse than the smell of his body as his wounds festered for days. 

        "Holy shit," Mohawk said. "I can't believe I get to cum in you. That's fucking awesome."

        He was joking but his eyes are full of tears because you don't just feel the same- you felt better than he remembered. He was trying not to think about the feeling of your guts bursting in between his fingers, how it was the last time he felt you before this. 

        You scoffed, hitting his arm as you moved out from under him. Hands searching for your clothes. "Don't be gross."

        "Me gross?" Mohawk took your hand, stopping you from grabbing your shirt, he wanted to revel in this, to make up for what he did to you. "You just came like a gazillion times, babe, don't you wanna chill out a bit maybbeee cuddle?"

        You stare up at him slack-jawed, his cum leaking between your legs. "You wanna cuddle?"

        Mohawk dove down to lay his head between your breasts. "Yeah." He nuzzled his growing-out side shave into your chest.

        Phantom felt sick. He had never wanted to kill somebody more than his father, but there Mohawk was. Happy and content and having just fucked you into agreeing to cuddle. He was broken in every way but he wouldn't accept this. He moves slow, choppy but eventually he is hovering centimeters above the ground. Broken fist twitching.

        You catch the movement, look at him horrified like you hadn't just done what you did. "Holy shit?"

        Mohawk looked lazily up. Eyes going wide.

        "Fuck!" He moved faster than Phantom could process. Shoved a fist into his chest, shoved him back to sitting. He didn't have the strength to get back up, even as Mohawk stood over him. Victorious with your juices still wet on his dick. "You scared the shit outta me, dude."

        Phantom's muscles contracted useless under his torn suit. Mohawk needed to die, now. But he couldn't move again. Body broken. Defeated like he'd been all those years ago. 

        You scrambled to get dressed. Unbelieving that you forgot that he was there, forgot where you were. Mohawk turned to you, watching your ass bounce as you hopped into the pants.

        "Aw, come on babe, don't be embarrassed, you're hot." He turned to Phantom, grinning sly as a fox, "You see any of that shit, bro? Hot as fuck, am I right?"

        He hated him. He needed to die.

        "Stop taunting him and get dressed," Mohawk caught his suit as you threw it at him, "you dickhead." Your words have no venom, it'd been fucked out of you. 

        "Yes, ma'am."

        You catch Phantom's bleary eye then. Shining purple with bruise and something deeper. Darker. A chasm that opened in the blue of his pupil and the blood staining his white. There was a promise there, burning quietly into your naked skin you rushed to cover up. Still, you felt the sear. A promise, a brand painful as it was for him to see you fucking Mohawk so happily. 

        Your grin is shaky with exhaust and unease. You don't know why you have such a hollow pit in your stomach when you should be feeling on top of the world, because you finally found a way for him to hate you. That's what you think that look is- hate- defeat. It's not but you don't know that so you regather yourself. Spit at him, "Still forgive me now?"

        His voice is far outside himself when he says in a haze, "Yes." 

        You don't believe him. 

        You leave with Mohawk. Glowing with orgasm, hand lazily squeezing Mohawk's ass as he picks you up. You are embarrassed but gleeful because you think you finally found a way to make Phantom hate you. And you were going to let him stew it in for days before you visit him again. It was fucked up yeah, but just the cruelty he deserved.

        Phantom thinks you need to be restrained. Thinks you need to be away from Mohawk and put under control. His anger is a swirling mess in his chest but no darling, he didn't love you any less. Because he was still alive to fix things and he would. In the end, you wouldn't miss the others, you'd weep into his arms about how sorry you were for how you acted today. He'd kiss the tears away and make you feel so good you forgot what it was to fuck another man. You wouldn't even remember what you were sorry for. Wouldn't remember the rest after he killed them all.

        ***

        They all heard. Gray almost left to save you but Seb and Markus stopped him. Having to regrettably explain you were getting fucked within an inch of your life. Both wishing it was them. Both jealous. Markus was pissed beyond belief. Gray was very confused why you were doing it near the prisoner- some human disrespect custom perhaps? Either way- he wished it was him.

        You were both in the doghouse when you returned. Everyone was mad- more so at Mohawk who Markus thought of pummeling on sight. Markus pointedly had nothing to say to you.

        You forced away guilt by taunting Maskless, "Well, he definitely doesn't love me anymore."

        Maskless bristled. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He doesn't care about who goes in and out of your legs, not really. He just saw William in your place- sees himself in Phantom in how far he'd go. It's not fair that you're playing the others like this. Not fair that you're not William and he jsut gets to watch as everyone fights tooth and nail over some numb bitch.

        "A little of this, a little of that, a little of he fucking ruined everything, remember?" 

        Maskless rose from his chair, "So he could keep you safe!"

        "I don't think he wants to do that anymore." You looked so smug, he needed to wipe that grin off your face.

        Mohawk was glued to your side, arm perpetually slung around your waist to the chagrin of the others. "Aww, babe, you're so cute when you act like an evil mastermind." He affectionately flicked your nose, "We both know you totally forgot he was there."

        You flushed, "Shut up!"

        Seb couldn't believe the messy shit he was hearing today. "For real, bro!?" He caught up to himself when Markus's glare, "Wait. You should like- stop talking."

        Mohawk nodded, uncaring, "She didn't remember he existed till after we were done. Wait, babe, how many times did you cum? Three? Four?"

        "Holy shit." Seb wishes he could talk to Mohawk about how good it felt to fuck you except he was pretty sure Mohawk would rip his head off. Maybe one day. But for now, he says, "Don't fuckin' say that right now dude." He watched Markus uneasily. Sure he's about to witness a murder.

        Maskless sneered, coming closer, fists twitching. "You're both disgusting."

        Markus only cared if, "Did she cry after?" Said to Mohawk because you needed to know how upset he was right now.

        "Plenty of whimpering while I fucked 'er but no tears. We'll get 'em next time." Mohawk squeezed your side. Markus looked murderous but part of him was relieved. No crying post sex meant you were healing. Soon you'd be ready to make real love to him again, untied to your rebellious phase. He'd make you forget Mohawk. Make you cry on his cock and kiss away your tears that tasted of victroy. 

        You whack Mohawk's side, "Shut up!"

        Mohawk snickered, "You love it."

        Maskless was ready to pummel you both. "Are you fucking-"

        Gray moved into the space between you two, crackling with tension. "We're almost out of water."

        Maskless paused, thrown off, "What does that have to do with anything?"

        Gray looked at him evenly, "As punishment for reckless behavior which could've gotten them both killed-"

        Mohawk scoffed, "His freak ass could barely move."

        Gray ignored him, "-I say you both, with me as chaperone," he added, eyeing, Markus who looked very unhappy at the idea of you being anywhere near Mohawk, "are in charge of getting more." He needed to make sure there were no more dalliances. No more pleasure of yours without him involved. Maybe if he went along and watched you and Mohawk flirt, he could get a better idea how to come onto you.

        It was agreed. 

        Markus and Maskless needed time to cool off without you two around anyway. Water was also important.

        You three leave as a party. Gray made a case to hold you as punishment for Mohawk, but Mohawk was too fast, flying ahead of him saying, "Last one to the cave dies a virgin!" He also 'forgot' the vases so Gray had to carry all of them.

        Mohawk annoyingly felt you up mid-flight while Gray cast chiding warnings about the dangers of distracted flying. All the while taking in how Mohawk pulled squeaks and gasps out your lips. Gray was certain he had room to be distracted. None of you had heard Scars or Lensless for some time now. Honestly, Gray thought they must have killed each other by now, with no trace of them in the desert for days. He half expected to see their bodies in the sand as they flew. 

        You reached the cave, now just a wide uneven hole in the middle of the desert. As you descended, you felt the air shift, going from hot to cool, dry to humid. Mohawk watched your face change from relaxed to tight. His feet touched down on the sand, the sun a spotlight on you both. "Don't worry, I got you."

        Gray hovered beside him, opening his mouth to provide his most human-friendly consolation, when he heard it- the snap of a cape on the move. He turned just in time to block Scars first punch.

[thoughtfulfiction]

Slippery Slopes

Author’s Note: I’m back?

Memorial Day weekend wasn’t usually something you ever had circled on your calendar.

But in recent years, it has become something special. It was one of the rare times you and Justin could actually get away together without work pulling you in opposite directions. You had time off for the holiday, and he had a few days free before starting OTAs, so the timing (and the stars) aligned perfectly for a long weekend in Aspen, Colorado. Just the two of you…plus a house full of your favorite people.

You’d even convinced Simi and his wife, Bailee, to join, knowing full well Justin had been missing him since their brutal separation when the Fehokos moved to Arizona.

“Uh oh,” Justin called from across the room, phone in hand. “Charlie, Tate, and Bree just got to the house. Bree made them take the early flight so she could scope out the best room. After ours, obviously.” You laughed softly to yourself because of course she did, the girl barely stayed in hotels with less than four stars.

He walked into the master and tossed his bag over his shoulder while reaching for your suitcase, following you down the stairs. “You do realize we’re only going for four days, right? Why does this feel like you packed for a two-week expedition?”

“I didn’t want to forget anything,” you said, grinning. “Besides, snow gear takes up more room. You know that.”

He rolled his eyes and started loading the car, stacking the bags like a life-sized game of Tetris.

Three hours later, you were standing in the giant rental kitchen with Bree, stirring spiked hot chocolate while the guys yelled obscenities at each other over some chaotic video game. The cabin smelled like pine, chocolate, and whatever cologne Justin had worn on the plane that still lingered on your sweater.

Simi and Bailee arrived about forty-five minutes before dinner, just as the sun started to dip behind the mountains. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed them until they walked through the door.

But more than anything, it was nice seeing Justin like this: relaxed, recharged, and free from the constant weight that came with being the face of the franchise. A little breather before the season came roaring back and tried to eat him alive again.

Over Spanish rice and chicken enchiladas, everyone started debating the weekend plans. You, Charlie, Tate and Bree really wanted to ski. It had been a while since you'd gone but after a few lessons back in LA you felt comfortable getting back on the slopes. Besides, what was an Aspen trip without it?

“Simi and I can’t ski,” Justin said, patting your leg like he knew exactly where your brain was going—which he did. You’d been talking about skiing pretty much nonstop since he first suggested the mountains. “And neither can Bailee. But you guys are free to do your thing. We should have a family dinner one night though, somewhere nice.”

"I love that idea," Bree pipes up. "I'll start looking at places, especially if...you're buying?"

“Yes Bree, it’s on me,” Justin said with a laugh as you shook your head. The second she got the green light, she took off for her room to start planning like it was her Olympic sport.

Simi mentioned wanting to walk around town and do some shopping while Bailee offered to head to the slopes as the group's designated photographer. Just because she couldn't ski, didn't mean she wanted to miss the views. Charlie and Tate started tossing around ideas for yard games and a chill pizza night at the house after skiing, texting Bree to make Sunday night the fancier dinner since they knew they'd be too tired to dress up any earlier.

Once the plans were semi-hashed out, everyone slowly began trickling upstairs. You stood too, stretching a little, ready to follow the natural flow of the night, until Justin gently grabbed your hand.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

You looked at him, slightly confused. “Everyone headed off to bed. So, I was gonna do the same?”

He shook his head, already standing up and grabbing his keys, still holding your hand. “It's not time to sleep yet. We’re going for a little drive.”

Justin’s idea of a little drive took almost an hour, winding up a snowy road with no clue where you were headed. You kept throwing questions at him, all of which he expertly dodged, until he finally pulled in somewhere and parked.

You squinted out the window.

“Iron Mountain? How did you even get this booked after hours?”

He grinned and climbed out of the car, grabbing a backpack you hadn’t noticed he packed. “Let’s just say, I pulled some things together.”

Inside were both of your swimsuits.

The place was completely empty except for one hotel employee standing by with a platter, two glasses of champagne and a tower of chocolate-covered strawberries.

“Mr. Herbert and guest,” the employee said with a smile, “welcome to our hot springs. Please enjoy all 32 pools. The entire place is yours for the next three hours. If you need anything, just press the service button to your right, and I’ll assist. Enjoy your stay.”

You turned to Justin, stunned. “Oh my god, when did you even have time to plan all of this?”

“I just wanted to have some time to ourselves for a bit, couldn’t think of a better way to get you alone,” he smirked, grabbing your hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Let’s get changed. It’s freezing out here.”

The changing rooms were heated and quiet, tucked away behind a wall of glass that looked out onto the steaming pools. You slipped into your swimsuit quickly, heart thudding as the reality of the moment sank in. You and Justin. Alone. In a private hot spring resort under a blanket of stars. No cameras. No schedules. Just time. Precious, uninterrupted time.

When you stepped out, Justin was already waiting, shirtless, barefoot, his swim trunks slung low on his hips and his hair looked extra dark with the haircut. His eyes scanned over you once, slowly, and then again with a quiet sort of reverence.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do I officially win boyfriend of the year?”

“Absolutely.” You smiled at him, pulling your robe tighter as you followed him down the steps into the pools. The water was warm, mineral-rich, almost too hot at first, but within seconds it melted the chill right out of your bones.

The two of you found a quieter pool tucked in the corner, surrounded by rocks and pine trees. Justin leaned back against the edge, arms sprawled out on either side like he owned the place. You swam over and settled beside him, the steam curling around your shoulders as the silence settled in.

Not awkward silence, the good kind. The kind that feels full and safe.

“This is absolutely insane,” you whispered, your head resting on his shoulder. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, turning slightly to press his lips to your temple. “Just be here with me.”

You let your fingers trail under the water, skimming across his thigh. He inhaled sharply, the kind of inhale that made you smirk.

“So,” you said, not-so-innocently. “All 32 pools, huh?”

“Mmhm,” he nodded, eyes closed like he was definitely not thinking about the way your hand was still touching him. “Not saying we have to hit every single one, but…I’d say we try a few.”

You could feel the heat of the water rising between you, mixing with the adrenaline humming low in your belly. His skin was slick beneath your fingertips, the scent of pine and champagne hanging in the air. You weren’t sure if the shiver running through you came from the chill in the air or the way Justin’s eyes kept dropping to your mouth.

You shifted to face him, your legs brushing against his beneath the surface. “I feel like you’re trying to behave right now.”

“I am trying to behave,” he said, eyes opening, meeting yours. “You think I planned a surprise like this just to act like some guy trying to hook up in public?”

“I don’t know, Justin. You’re looking at me like that and your hand is definitely on my waist.”

He sighed dramatically, pulling you closer until you were nearly sitting in his lap.

“It’s not my fault you look like that,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “You know I love spending time with you. Real time. Not phone calls between practice or rushed dinners or quick weekends. This. I needed this.”

You brushed his wet hair back from his face, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. “Me too.”

The first kiss was gentle, but there was nothing casual about the way his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there like he didn’t want the moment to end. It deepened with a hunger you hadn’t felt in weeks—months, maybe. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been starving for it. For you.

His other hand was at your waist, then your hip, then lower, pulling you flush against him with a low groan that vibrated in your chest. It wasn’t rushed, but there was urgency. Heat. A need he was no longer trying to hide.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, his breath ragged. “I swear, I’m trying to be good.”

You didn’t answer—just kissed him harder, hands exploring the cut of his shoulders, the dip of his back, the way his body tensed beneath yours like he was walking a tightrope.

“You think this is behaving?” you whispered when you finally came up for air, your voice wrecked and uneven.

His hands were everywhere—your ribs, your thighs, up your spine like he couldn’t decide where to settle. “No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got about ten percent of my self-control left, and I’m trying to use it wisely.”

"Then don’t waste it,” you said, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Save it for later. When there’s no water. No time limit. No clothes.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he might lose it completely.

“You are dangerous,” he said, his voice low and ruined. “You know that?”

“Only for you.”

He kissed you again—deeper, slower, more deliberate. A promise. A prelude.

You laughed, tangling your fingers in his hair. “This might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He tilted his head to meet your eyes again. “You deserve it. Every bit of it.”

You didn’t say another word. You just kissed him again, and let the night stretch endlessly ahead.

17 pools and a warm midnight swim took it out of you. And you didn't actually open your eyes until 11am when Justin walked in with breakfast. The expansive room with an impeccable view of the snowy scenery was something you'd never get used to. The room had it's own tub and fireplace in the corner and the bed felt like it stretched from one end of the room to the other. You happily sat up as he laid out the food before you, several plates filled with eggs, fruit, fresh bread and orange juice. "You're really pulling out all the stops this week aren't you? One more fancy surprise I might actually get down on a knee and propose."

Justin looked up from the bowl of kiwi he was sticking his fork in to give you a serious look, "you'd rather mop the ocean than propose. So we can probably leave the knee bending to me, you just eat and get ready to ski your heart out today. Are you guys heading out soon?"

"Yeah we're probably gonna get there around 1, hang out for a few hours and let you guys explore and then meet back here for pizza tonight? Maybe around 7:30?"

"That sounds good," he sighs, standing up to clear some of the empty plates, "don't have too much fun without me."

One by one, the ski crew brought their stuff out to Charlie's car and got situated. Simi and Justin saw everyone off, the quarterback reminding you to be safe and to call if you need anything. Bailee kissed Simi goodbye and told him to stay within his self appointed budget, which they both knew he definitely wasn't going to do.

Charlie drove up to the mountain and everyone got checked in. You and Bree had matching goggles and Bailee proudly took a group picture before everyone headed up to get their skis on. One of the employees ushered Bailee where to stand to take pictures and gave her a guide guy to ride around with so she didn't freeze waiting for everyone to head up and down the mountain.

The slopes were absolutely perfect. It was everything you wanted and you picked it back up with ease. Charlie and Tate tried to race you, losing badly. You and your crew took several selfies and got prime GoPro footage of Tate wiping out. You were absolutely in your element, being out there was the adrenaline rush you needed, it made you feel so powerful. So, in control. Bailee was there every second taking candid shots and visiting the gift shop to get her son something the toddler would think is fun.

Right before you all called it a day, you just wanted to go one more time. The day had been too good to end. You just needed one more ride down the mountain.

"I'll go with you!" Bree says excitedly, "this might be our best ski day ever. Let's go again."

You held hands with her as you went up on the ski lift, noses getting a little runny and starting to lose feeling in your fingers and toes but also feeling like you were on top of the world, which you technically were. The clouds were rolling in just slightly, soft flakes starting to drift again, making visibility a little fuzzier than it had been earlier.

Admittedly, you started a little faster than you should have. Bree was just ahead of you, laughing and calling your name over her shoulder, her voice carried by the wind. The cold stung your fingertips, but your face was flushed with heat—the rush, the altitude, the high of being alive.

You could’ve done this forever.

And then—

A sharp jolt. A sickening tug at your foot.

A rock.

You didn’t see it—you felt it, like the earth itself pulled out from under you. Your left ski caught, your body pitched forward, and suddenly gravity betrayed you.

“Oh fuck-”

You barely heard Bree’s voice before the white blur of snow turned into the stark, unmoving brown of a tree trunk. You twisted, trying to slow your momentum, poles digging into the powder—

Too late.

The impact cracked through your body like lightning.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

A void.

Noise, like the world was underwater. Your heartbeat pounded in your skull, your ears ringing as consciousness came creeping back.

You were facedown in the snow. You couldn’t move. Cold seeped into your bones. Everything felt heavy and far away.

Then...hands.

“No, no, no—” Bree’s voice cracked as she gently turned you over, breathless and terrified. Her goggles were on top of her head, hair wild, cheeks flushed with panic as she dropped to her knees. “Hey. Hey, babe—look at me. Come on, open your eyes—”

You blinked slowly. The world shimmered. The sky above you spun.

“Oh my god. You’re bleeding—” She was ripping off her glove and using it to apply pressure to the area. “Charlie!” she screamed, voice splitting through the air. “Call ski patrol! Right now!”

“I’m doing it!” Charlie shouted from somewhere behind her, already fumbling with his phone. “I’ve got ‘em—just hang on—”

Your mouth tasted metallic. Blood from your nose? Your lips? You didn’t know. You tried to speak, but it came out as a choked breath.

“She’s trying to talk,” Bree said, crouching lower, her hands cupping your face as she scanned for more injuries. “Don’t move, okay? Don’t try to move.”

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind her. Tate, pale as a ghost, his expression stricken. “They’re sending someone now. Ski patrol’s on the way. Five minutes.”

"Shit,” Bree whispered, staring at the cut on your forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just keep looking at me, alright?”

Your chest ached. Your side throbbed like something inside you had torn. You couldn’t feel your fingers anymore.

Then Bailee was there, sliding into the snow beside you, her camera tossed somewhere behind her, long forgotten. Her hand gently pressed to your chest, grounding you.

“Stay with us,” she said softly, trying to sound calm even as her eyes welled with tears. “Help’s almost here.”

Bree didn’t move. She gripped your hand tight in hers, whispering your name like a prayer, like if she just said it enough times, she could will you back to being fine.

Ski patrol arrived in record time, assessing your injuries. Everything was hurting but your head was swimming and your hair was wet?

"Definite head trauma. She may need a few stitches. Possible concussion too, we gotta move. Is someone riding down with her?"

Bree didn't even say anything, she just climbed in, grabbing your hand.

"Where are you taking her, so we can meet you?" Charlie says, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Aspen Valley. About 20 minutes away from here."

That was all they needed before rushing off to the car.

Charlie puts the keys in the ignition. “So... which one of you two is calling Justin?”

Tate stares at him like he’s just suggested amputating a limb. “What do you mean you two? I don’t remember your phone being broken.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotta focus on driving. Can’t exactly give him all the info while navigating the goddamn mountains.”

Bailee groans. “You’re all pathetic.” She pulls out her phone and dials without another word. Her hand shakes slightly as she lifts it to her ear, like she knows exactly how this call is going to go.

Meanwhile, Justin had just spent twenty minutes listening to Simi argue with a sales associate about the difference between two shades of off-white. The boutique reeked of cologne and money, and his patience was wearing thin.

“This is the worst store on earth,” Justin muttered. “No way in hell I’m buying $900 sneakers so you can say drip in your caption.”

Simi snorted. “Yes you are. You’re gonna miss me and my fashion wisdom in a few months when we’re both back in grind mode.”

Justin laughed. He would. He already did, in some ways. These were the last quiet months before training camp swallowed them whole again. It wasn't often that the starting quarterback befriended a fifth round pick with one career receiving touchdown on his resume. But Justin knew that he had a brother in Simi for life and he was going to really miss having him around. They had been talking about how sad it was that their teams wouldn't face each other this season, making way too early bye week plans to try to see each other.

Then Justin's phone buzzed. Bailee.

He froze.

“That’s weird,” he said slowly. “Why’s Bailee calling me? Did you miss a call from her?”

Simi checked. “That is weird. She hasn’t called me today.”

Justin’s stomach dropped.

He hadn’t even hit the answer button yet, but he already knew. Something was wrong.

“Hey, Bailee, what’s going on?”

No small talk. His voice was low, taut, sharp with unspoken urgency.

“Something happened when we were on the slopes,” Bailee began. Her voice cracked. Not a lot, but enough for him to notice.

Justin’s entire body tensed. His fingers gripped the phone tighter, knuckles going white.

“She fell. It was pretty bad. Bree is with her now and they’re in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

No. No, no, no.

His mind reeled. What does ‘bad’ mean?

Broken leg? Broken spine? Is she bleeding? Is she okay?

“Which hospital?” he demanded, already striding toward the door.

“Aspen Valley. About twenty minutes from the slope. She—she hit a tree, Justin.”

He stopped short. His heart punched against his ribs. Hit a tree. That wasn’t just a fall. That was a crash.

“Was she awake?” he asked, voice tight. “Was she talking?”

Bailee hesitated. That pause felt like it lasted hours.

“She was conscious, yeah. But...out of it. She couldn’t really talk. She was bleeding. Her face—” She cut herself off.

Justin squeezed his eyes shut. He could see her face in his mind—laughing, teasing him over morning coffee—and now it was smeared with blood in Bailee’s voice.

“We’re on our way,” she said quickly. “We’ll meet you there.”

“No. I’ll meet you there,” Justin said. “We're leaving right now.”

He hung up. Stood still for a beat, phone shaking in his hand.

“She hit a tree,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Simi grabbed the car keys off the counter. “Let’s go.”

Justin didn’t say anything after that. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every cell in his body was screaming to do something, but there was nothing to do except wait. Get in the car. Pray the roads were clear. Pray she was still awake when he walked through those hospital doors.

She’d just been fine this morning. He’d kissed her before she left, teased her about bundling up like a little marshmallow. He’d offered to go skiing just to be with her. And now he was completely powerless.

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Simi looked over from the passenger seat and said quietly, “She’s tough, bro. She’s gonna be okay.”

Justin couldn't answer.

He didn’t know if he could believe that until he saw her himself. Alive, talking, moving.

Until then, he would hold on by a thread.

A grade two concussion and five stitches on your forehead. By all accounts you were incredibly lucky. Other than the fact that you were nauseous and exhausted and your vision was still a little blurry and you were cold, yeah everything was great. Bree held your hand while they stitched you up and promptly grabbed you some water when everything was done and you had a bandage on your head. The plastic surgeon said that the scar wouldn’t be noticeable, which helped. But you were still dizzy. And tired. Too tired to even think about the fact that you haven’t talked to Justin since your fall.

And then suddenly—he’s there.

The door bursts open with a force that startles even the nurse. Justin strides in like he owns the damn building, eyes scanning your body like he’s expecting to see blood. His hair’s a little messy, probably from dragging his hand through it too many times. His eyes—stormy, wild, terrified.

Bree takes that as her cue to head out and give you some privacy. She gives your hand a squeeze and whispers that she’ll be right outside giving everyone an update. All you can do is nod. Her hand is quickly replaced by Justin’s much larger one, kissing your knuckles and letting out a deep breath he’d been holding since he got Bailee’s call.

“Hi baby,” he says, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard, “how are you feeling?”

“Pretty good honestly, all things considered.”

“What happened?”

“Um…memory is a little fuzzy but I was going and I think I hit a rock or something and I couldn’t regain control of my skis and I hit a tree. And then everything after that is a little gone. So you’d have to ask Bree, she saw the whole thing.”

He looks visibly uncomfortable at the retelling of events, trying not to physically flinch when you mention hitting the tree. Bree’s description is even worse and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever let you out of his sight again. The doctors recommend you stay in the hospital for the night just because of the head injury and they give you the all clear the next morning.

You wake slowly.

Not from pain this time, though it’s still there, a dull throb behind your eyes and the itchy tightness of the bandage on your forehead, but from something gentler.

Warmth.

A hand wrapped around yours.

Justin.

He’s slumped in the plastic recliner next to your bed, head tilted back, lips parted slightly, fast asleep. His legs are too long for the chair, one is kicked out, the other folded awkwardly under him. His hoodie is bunched up around his shoulders as a makeshift blanket, his hands still loosely tangled with yours.

And there’s a paper coffee cup, half-crushed, resting precariously on the window ledge. Definitely hospital coffee. Probably cold. You stifle a laugh.

He didn’t leave.

You squeeze his hand lightly and he stirs immediately, jerking upright with a soft grunt. His eyes are still hazy with sleep, but the second they land on you, he’s wide awake.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice rough from sleep. “You’re awake.”

“I’m awake.”

“You okay?” His hand comes up to brush the hair from your cheek. His fingers linger at your temple, tracing the edge of the bandage with infinite care. “Does your head still hurt?”

“A little. Everything hurts a little.”

His face falls.

“But,” you add, “waking up to you helps.”

That earns a small smile. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Even if you look like you fought a vending machine in your sleep.”

He glances down at himself, groaning at the way his limbs are tangled. “That chair’s definitely not regulation size for someone who is six-foot-six.”

“Your dedication is noted.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere.” His voice drops, steady and certain. “Not after yesterday.”

You watch him for a second. The bruised look under his eyes, the worry still faintly clinging to his expression even now. You realize he probably didn’t sleep more than a few hours.

“Did you stay here all night?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t deserve you.”

He lifts your hand again, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says quietly. “But you’re here. And I’m here. That’s all I care about.”

A soft knock sounds at the door before the nurse peeks in to check your vitals. Justin stands aside but doesn’t let go of your hand. You think he might never again, and honestly? You’re okay with that.

When the nurse leaves, Justin looks around.

“Alright,” he says, stretching. “Let’s talk about priorities. You need food, pain meds, and something to cheer you up. What’s first?”

“Honestly? Real coffee. Not that crime scene on the windowsill.”

He grins. “That’s fair.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead, right beside the bandage.

“Back in five,” he promises.

And somehow, even with a pounding head and half your memory still scrambled, you feel… safe.

Like you’re already healing.

Because Justin showed up.

Because he stayed.

Because he loves you in a way that feels like peace.

That peace was a little disturbed when you got back to the house. The first day Justin barely sat down. After reading that green tea helped with concussion recovery, there was a fresh mug of it waiting for you every two hours. Pillows were fluffed, blankets were on standby, snacks were provided before you could even ask. Everything was done so you didn’t have to lift a finger.

It progressively got worse.

He was always in the room but he wasn’t with you. Not mentally anyway.

Tea was made—not because you asked, but because it’s been a while since your last cup and you might want another. He sets it down, perfectly aligned with the coaster, and murmurs, “Careful, it’s hot,” without even looking at you.

He’s sleeping on the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly when you’d usually be talking or cuddling. He kisses your forehead but pulls away fast. He sits next to you but stares at the wall or out the window like he’s somewhere else entirely.

When you reach out and link your fingers. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t squeeze back either. Just let your hands rest there, like he’s too tired to pretend to be relaxed.

He quickly changes the subject when you bring up the accident, downplays his feelings, or deflects anything too real.

“You okay?” You ask gently, watching him set another bottle of water on the nightstand.

“Yeah. Just trying to keep you comfortable.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He pauses, hand still on the bottle cap. “Do you need anything else?”

And just like that, he’s gone again, in the room, but nowhere near you.

You feel the difference but can’t name it. He’s there, but you miss him.

He hasn’t left your side in days. But you’ve never felt so alone.

He keeps touching you, a warm hand on your back, rubbing your ankle under the blanket—but every touch feels like he’s checking for signs of life, not giving love.

It’s uncomfortable and makes you feel like a problem to be solved. At this point you can’t wait to be back in Oregon.

The flight home is quiet.

Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind where your fingers are laced and your heads rest against each other, but the stiff, brittle kind that makes your skin crawl and makes you want to scream.

Justin’s beside you, his knee just brushing yours, but it feels like he’s in another row entirely. He only speaks to ask if your seat’s okay. If you need water. If you’re cold. You nod. Say thank you. He nods back. And then it’s quiet again.

He scrolls through his phone without really looking at it. The window reflects his profile, jaw tight, eyes shadowed and you wonder if he even knows he’s clenching his fists in his lap.

The ache in your side pulses dully. You shift in your seat and catch him glancing over. He sees it, the wince, and immediately reaches for your bag.

“You want the meds? I can get them,” he says, already unzipping the pouch.

You put your hand over his. “Justin. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t relax either. His fingers tighten around the zipper and stay there, like he needs to do something to keep from saying what’s really on his mind.

You both fall silent again.

The house is still when you return. Everyone’s gone. The bags are dropped inside the front door and Justin helps you to the couch like you’re made of glass.

He gets you a blanket. Water. Your phone charger. He asks if the temperature’s okay. If your head hurts. If you’re hungry. If you want to watch a movie.

“Justin,” you say, before he can rattle off another question.

He freezes. Slowly turns back to face you.

You stare at him—really stare—and it hits you how present he’s been physically, but how far away he’s really felt for the last few days.

“You’re mad at me,” you say. Quiet. Certain. “You haven’t looked me in the eye since we left the hospital, and every time I ask how you’re doing, you change the subject or ask if I need more water.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it again.

“I need you, Justin,” you say, voice cracking just a little. “Not more Advil. Not another blanket. I need you to talk to me. So if you’re upset, say it. Tell me what's going on.”

His chest rises sharply and runs a hand down his face and paces to the window like he needs to physically walk off the anger radiating from his body. “I just can’t help thinking about it. You could’ve broken your neck. Did you even think about that? I mean, I know you were excited about skiing but we talked about it and you promised—you promised me you wouldn’t be reckless. And you still went out there with no regard for your safety. I mean god, you hit a fucking tree. Do you know how horrible that could’ve been?”

You let him speak.

All of it.

The pacing. The hand in his hair. The cracks in his voice. You let him pour every ounce of fear and guilt and helplessness onto the floor between you, watching as it piles higher than either of you knows what to do with.

And when he finally stops—when he finally lets silence settle back into the room, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot—you nod once. Calm. Even. Too even.

“Are you done yelling at me like I’m a child?” you ask softly.

Justin’s head jerks back like you slapped him. “I’m not yelling at you.”

“You kind of are,” you say. “You’ve been holding that in for days and now it’s all just…” You gesture between you. “Coming out.”

His face hardens in an instant.

“If you don’t want to be treated like a child,” he snaps, “maybe don’t act like one.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t stop.

“You could’ve died. And I’m sorry if it pisses you off that I care enough to be upset, but you had no regard for your safety. You pushed too hard, went too fast, and now look where we are.”

You nod slowly. A tight, bitter smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.

“Right. Well,” you say, standing before he can see your hands shake, “I hope you feel better after that. I’m gonna sleep in the guest room.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you, but you take a step back.

“I get that you’re scared, Justin,” you say, voice calm and cracking all at once. “But you don’t get to punish me for getting hurt. You don’t get to scold me like I’m some irresponsible kid who did this on purpose. I fell. It was an accident. And if you can’t talk to me without making me feel like a burden, then I don’t really want to hear it.”

His expression breaks—shame flickering under the frustration—but you’re already walking away.

And the silence that follows is the loudest it’s been all trip.

Justin didn’t sleep.

Not for lack of trying—he headed upstairs to lay down when you walked away, stared up at the ceiling for hours, counted the shadows stretching across the walls as the moon shifted outside the window. But his chest wouldn’t stop aching. His jaw stayed tight. And his mind replayed every word he’d said like a highlight reel of regret.

He’d meant it when he said he was scared. He just hadn’t realized how much of that fear had turned into anger, misplaced and sharp and aimed at the only person who didn’t deserve it.

Even Nova left him.

She curled up at his feet at first, her warm little body some quiet comfort in the dark, but by 2 a.m., she got up and padded out of the room. He didn’t need to ask where she went.

He pictured her curled next to you on the guest bed, protective, loyal, knowing instinctively where she was needed.

He wanted to do the same. Wanted to check on you. See if your head still hurt, if the nausea had passed. If you’d stopped replaying that fall in your recovering mind.

But he didn’t go.

Because after everything he’d said, after treating your fear like an inconvenience and your accident like a mistake, he wasn’t sure he had the right to be in your space. Not yet. Not when you needed distance, peace, safety. And he had been the opposite of all three.

So he stayed in bed, silent in the dark, and tried to understand the ache behind his ribs.

And it hit him.

This is what she feels every time I go down.

Every time he limped to the sideline. Every time you had to grab him an ice pack or sit beside him in silence while he pretended the loss didn’t gut him. Every hit, every stumble, every late night icing his shoulder while the world slept.

You’d been here. Quietly. Strong. Present.

And you’d never once made him feel like a child for it.

He rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow that still smelled like you, and shut his eyes against the sting.

He’d say something in the morning.

He had to.

Because if you could show up for him—again and again and again—the least he could do was find the words to say I’m sorry.

And thank you.

And I get it now.

The house was still dark when Justin finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His chest felt too tight, the silence too loud. He couldn’t take another minute lying there and pretending he didn’t want to be somewhere else.

With you.

He padded down the hallway in his sweats, pausing outside the guest room door. Light flickered faintly under the crack, the TV was on. He raised a hand to knock, then stopped. What was he even going to say?

But before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the door open.

You were awake. Sitting up in bed with a blanket pulled to your waist, one arm loosely draped around Nova, who immediately perked up at the sound of the door. Your eyes were tired, but not surprised. Like maybe you'd been waiting for him too.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like if he was too loud the moment might vanish. “Can I come in?”

You looked at him for a beat, then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Justin crossed the room slowly and stood at the edge of the bed, hands in his pockets. Nova hopped down with a soft huff and found a new spot on the rug, curling into a ball like she understood her work was done for the moment.

Justin sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress and looked at you. Not your bandage, not the bruises or the shadows under your eyes. Just you. Safe. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost before you could brace for it. “The way I talked to you was unacceptable. I—I lost it. And that’s on me.”

You didn’t say anything, just blinked at him, waiting.

“That call was…” He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his hair. “It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had in my life. Not knowing how bad it was. Or if you were even conscious or—if it was your spine or your head or if you could still talk or walk or—just, not knowing if you were okay. If you could even talk. I was sick with it. I kept thinking about everything that could’ve happened—almost happened—and I couldn’t do anything to fix it. I just had to sit there and wait and hope someone would call back and say you were alive.”

He paused, voice thick. “I think I carried that fear around with me all week. I didn’t know what to do with it. And I just…exploded. I’m so sorry for putting that on you. For lashing out when all you did was survive something terrifying.”

Your eyes softened, but you still said nothing. Just listened, taking in every syllable like it meant something. Because it did.

Justin glanced down at his hands. “I think I finally get it now. All those times you were the one sitting in the stands or the hotel room or the locker room waiting for me to walk out okay? I get it. I hate that I do. But I do.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you whispered, “It sucked.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“While I do appreciate you being honest and saying what you feel, you need to understand something. Just because you’re scared doesn’t give you permission to control me.”

“You know I’m not stupid. You know I don’t take risks lightly. You’ve seen me wrap your ankle, ice your shoulder, sit with you through weeks of bruises and headlines. I’ve been terrified every single time someone blitzed and you didn’t get up as fast as you usually would. But I never made that fear your fault.”

Justin reaches for your hand. This time, you let him hold it.

“I never want to make you feel like I did tonight. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You deserve someone who supports you when you’re hurt, not someone who kicks you while you’re already down.”

You let out a breath and lift both of your hands so you can kiss his knuckles.

“We both scare each other sometimes. That’s part of loving someone, isn’t it? But we’ve gotta learn how to handle that fear without turning it into something ugly.”

You shifted under the blanket, just a little. “You can sit closer if you want.”

So he did. He leaned in, slowly, giving you time to stop him, but you didn’t. Your legs brushed under the covers, and he reached for your hand, hesitated—then finally wrapped his fingers gently around yours.

“I missed you,” you murmured.

“I never stopped being with you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I was being an asshole about it.”

A pause. Then, “can I stay here tonight?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

So he did. He crawled under the blanket next to you, pulling you close without putting pressure on your bandaged head or bruised ribs. You curled into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, and for the first time in days, Justin felt his heartbeat finally start to slow.

Neither one of you said much else. You didn’t need to.

Because you were here.

And so was he.

Finally.

You woke up tangled together, limbs looped, faces close, your cheek pressed into the curve of his chest. The kind of closeness that only came from surviving something. Nova jumped up on the bed like she hadn’t spent half the night there already, tail thumping against the comforter as she nuzzled between them like a proud little guard cat on duty.

Justin blinked against the morning light spilling through the windows, golden and forgiving. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was holding his breath.

He looked down at you, still tucked safely against him, and smiled. A genuine one from the depths of his being.

“Hey,” he murmured, caressing your face.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice gravelly from sleep.

“You want coffee?”

You nodded, still half-asleep. “With that cinnamon oat milk you hate.”

He smirked. “Only the best for you, babe.”

He kissed your lips and climbed out of bed, grabbing one of his oversized hoodies and helping you into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. You winced a little when you stretched, and his hands instinctively steadied you.

“Sore?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” you deadpanned.

He snorted. “Too soon.”

“In my defense, it hit me.”

Justin shook his head but kissed the top of your head before heading to the kitchen. You followed slowly, Nova glued to your side. By the time you made it to the living room, he had your coffee ready in your favorite mug—the obnoxiously large one with the handle shaped like a football.

“Ski trips are officially banned,” he said, handing you the mug.

You blew on the steam and took a careful sip. “I’m going to petition the NFL to ban you from throwing into double coverage.”

“Wow,” he said, feigning offense. “You’re really going to bring up the playoffs right now? You know some of those picks weren’t my fault.”

“Just keeping you humble.”

He laughed, the sound warm and easy. It felt like normal again.

You sat down together on the couch, Nova curling up between your legs. Justin slipped his hand into yours, fingers laced, firm.

“I love you, you know,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Even when you’re bossy?”

“Especially then.”

You smirked. “Good. Because I’m never letting you get away with treating me like glass again.”

He nodded, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “And I’m never going to stop protecting you. Even from myself.”

The mug was warm in your hands. His fingers were warmer.

And for the first time since the mountain, it didn’t hurt to breathe.

[cameronsbabydoll]

hear me out.. pope x creepy!reader..? not like weird psychopath behavior but reader who just has creepy looking features that runs everyone the wrong way ☹️ creepy!reader who just doesn't understand why everyone but Pope is terrified to be near her cause she's literally a sweetheart?? creepy!reader whos confused when JJ pushes her head away when she looks at him for like 5 seconds 🫩 (she has a staring problem and has been staring for 3 minutes alr..

creepy!reader with pope heyward ft: jj maybank

warnings: unsettling behavior, mentions of death / dead animals, light horror imagery

a/n: hopefully this is somewhat good!

creepy!reader who moves too quietly, always just… there. like someone turns around and she’s standing two feet behind them with wide, unblinking eyes and a soft little “hi.”

creepy!reader who loves little creatures—like worms and dead bees and frogs—and keeps dried flowers and bones in jars, but not in a serial killer way. in a whimsical, overly-attached-to-dead-things way.

she’s not trying to freak anyone out, but her vibe is so offbeat that people assume she’s trying to curse them.

jj: “she’s literally hexing me, pope. she hasn’t blinked in 4 minutes.”

creepy!reader, blinking slowly: “you have pretty eyes.”

jj: screaming internally.

she definitely has a staring problem. not because she’s a menace, just because she forgets it’s weird. she’s not even thinking anything threatening. her brain is all soft thoughts like i wonder if jj’s hair is that soft in real life or if it’s just the sunlight and pope’s hands look like they’d feel nice if i held them.

except she says it exactly like that. with zero awareness that it sounds deranged.

everyone: visibly unsettled

pope: confused why no one else sees how kind she is

and he starts to notice things. like how she always gives people her extra snacks even though they avoid her, or how she hums when she’s nervous and tries to fix her posture when people seem scared. she doesn’t want to be creepy. she just doesn’t know how to be not weird.

creepy!reader: quietly holding a pigeon skull she found on the beach “do you want this?”

pope: smiles “yeah. thanks.”

creepy!reader: blinks “you’re the only one who ever says yes.”

and you know she’d be insanely loyal. pope helps her one time, and now she’s following him around like a haunted little duckling. doesn’t speak much, but if anyone messes with him she’s there. glaring. like some kind of unsettling shadow.

pope gets used to it. gets fond of it, even.

the others are still like “bro why is she watching us sleep” and pope’s like “she’s making sure the demons don’t get us.”

and honestly? she probably is.

[blahblahwritings]

Collateral Souls - 3

Hello! Two chapters in one day. I'm busy the next couple days but I'll be no doubt fixating on how to progress.

I'm trying to stay two chapters ahead to at least give myself breathing room.

PART ONE

PART TWO

Warnings: Flashbacks and medical stuff with needles.

Word Count: 2642

Chapter Three - A Second Chance

Valentina gathered everyone in the briefing room above the residential floor. From the moment everyone sat down, it was chaos. Words were hurled viciously from one end of the room to the other like knives. 

Six guards surrounded you, a security measure in case you tried anything, but you were drained. Stasis did that. Waking up in a panic only to then use your powers on a large scale so soon after was bound to have its effects. Even if you wanted to run, to escape, you doubted you would get far. Instead, you stood outside the meeting room, peering in through the glass walls. You couldn’t hear a thing through the soundproofing. 

Your eyes scanned the strangers in front of you, arguing amongst themselves, too busy to notice the inky shadow creeping in and under the table, eavesdropping. An extension of you. Their voices reverberated off your pounding skull, metallic and distorted, like listening through a tin can.

“HYDRA has a known history of exploiting people like her and she is too valuable an asset to lose. She will undergo deconditioning and training to be a part of this team.” Valentina’s voice cut through them like a blade as she stood suddenly, chair wheeling backwards. Her hands were poised on the table, her navy blue pantsuit a little ruffled. She cleared her throat, hands moving to pat out any wrinkles in her blazer as she stood to her full height. “She will be given a trial period. We will watch her closely, monitoring her abilities and whereabouts. I am not saying she can be trusted, I am simply saying we take the risk.”

Bucky couldn’t argue with her, his history with HYDRA was awfully similar. He was just lucky Steve was there to defend him. He sat, head in hands, wishing he was anywhere else. 

“Are you forgetting that she almost killed me?” John raised his voice, his neck bruised where your shadows had coiled. He was furious at the mere thought of you being allowed a free pass onto the team after what happened. His hands clenched at his sides.

“Part of me wishes she did while she had the chance.” Ava muttered, arms crossed, expression drawn. “She’s dangerous,” Ava said quietly. “We should track her—at least until we know we can trust her. House arrest?”

“We were all given second chances, why not her? We’ve all pulled some bad shit at some point.” Yelena defends, shrugging, cutting in before John has a chance to react to Ava’s comment.

“Yes, but she is very powerful, very scary. We need to think about this.” Alexei chimed in, nodding as he paced up and down the room.

Bob sits quietly, listening to everyone talk about you. He remembered how scared and confused he had been when he came out of his pod months ago now. How they had all pointed their guns at him and how he was shaking and almost paralysed with fear. He could barely get his name out of his mouth when they had all first met. He sympathised with you.

“She was scared.” He spoke, barely above a whisper but they all heard him. “S-She was surrounded by strangers and machines in a place she didn’t know. How else do you expect her to react when everyone immediately treats her like a-a threat?” He says a little louder, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. 

The team pauses for a moment as if listening, then goes back to arguing. 

Bob’s head falls forward with a sigh, looking down at his hands in his lap. He hated arguing. It always made his heart drum against his ribcage and his hands tremble. He fiddles with the hem of his jumper as he spots a shadow, swirling under the table. He frowns, then looks up, directly into your eyes which glowed softly through the glass.

You retract the shadow instantly, blinking as your eyes return to normal.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears. Head pounding. You stumble. A guard steadies you.

Bob doesn’t say anything.

--

It's another half an hour before they all come to some form of agreement. You are placed on house arrest. Free roam of the main floors of the tower accessed by a keycard, but if you want to leave then you need one of the team to accompany you. Training every other day with Bucky and Yelena. You don’t protest. If anything you were just relieved you weren’t being caged in another cell. Or terminated.

You are quickly taken to the medical bay which makes your anxiety spike. Places like this never meant anything good for you. Bucky stands nearby, watching you and noticing your fear.

“They’re going to fit a temporary subdermal tracking device and conduct a routine health check.” The supersoldier explains, his body language communicates tension, distrust. But, he understood what you were going through. It does nothing to ease your nerves. 

The clean sterile smell and the soulless white walls remind you only of the experiments you’d been forced to endure. You were ushered onto a table. The cold metal surface brings sharp fragments of memory cutting to the forefront of your mind. You shake it off, focussing on the doctor who appears through a doorway with a kind smile.

“Okay, Y/N..” She says, looking over some papers before looking up at you. “I’m just going to give you a once over, make sure you’re healthy, nothing out of the ordinary. That means I will need to take a blood sample and a few other things. Does that sound alright with you?” She asks sweetly, eyes warm. 

The whole situation was strangely terrifying. Her tone, the question of consent, is completely foreign, sending your brain into a meltdown. All you could do was look at Bucky, then back at her and nod. 

She smiles and talks you through everything as she works. Her hands hold a syringe and you swallow thickly, mouth dry, sweat forming on your brow despite your body being cold. Your eyes glow a little and Bucky tenses. The doctor gently takes your arm in her other hand and presses the needle to the crook of your elbow. 

The sting is familiar. Too familiar. The moment the needle breaks skin, your vision tunnels.

Metal straps. Bright lights. A voice saying, “Increase the dose.”

Your heartbeat spikes, thudding in your throat. The air grows thick.

Lights flicker. A glass explodes behind the doctor. You didn’t mean to. You never mean to.

She jumps, scared. Bucky flinches, watching your every move but you don’t look at either of them. Eyes squeezed shut as she continues to draw blood. Something flickers behind your eyelids, the face of your handler, brows drawn and angry. Once finished, she removes the needle and places a cotton ball on the scratch.

“Hold this, please.” She says softly. You do, eyes opening. “Do you suffer from headaches? Aches and pains? Anything like that?” She asks, tone a little shaky but professional. You nod despite the fear rushing through you.

“When I’m drained I get headaches. Nosebleeds too.” You answer tensely, voice tired. She notes it down, offering a bottle of painkillers. 

“Okay, we can monitor that. The likelihood is that the more you train, the more you can push yourself. Start small and try not to go to breaking point every time.” She advises, and continues with the examination before finally pulling back, finished. “Alright, that should be everything for the health check. The only thing left is the tracker. It's another needle I’m afraid, so calm yourself with some deep breaths.” This needle was bigger, thicker. 

Your breathing speeds up as she moves to your upper arm this time. She places it against your skin, then presses gently.

You’re not in control.

Not again. Please not again.

Breathe.

The lights pop. The shadows flinch.

She leaps away with a frightened squeak and you twitch. You swear you hear the sound of restraints rattling against your skull. 

“S-sorry” You whisper. Bucky’s jaw clenches and you look down. “I’m not doing it on purpose.” 

“I know.” He speaks, voice gentle. A flicker of something softer in his eyes, understanding.

The doctor shakes as she approaches again. You felt guilty for scaring her. She was younger than you by a year or two. Hopeful. Kind. She quickly finishes putting the tracker in your arm and gets you to sign the paperwork before leaving.

Bucky brings you to the elevator and then up to the residential floor. You take in the space carefully, mapping out the exits. The rest of the team stand bickering in the common area before turning to look at you. You are introduced to everyone individually, they are relaxed, but none of them step too close. 

You’re coiled like a spring, eyes flicking to the cameras around the area. Every muscle is tense as Bucky tells you their names.

Alexei is the only one who offers his hand to shake and you take it gently, your hand dwarfed in his as he smiles, his moustache curling upwards in kind. John doesn’t move. Just watches. Coiled. Waiting. Yelena offers a small smile as she is introduced and Ava gives a curt nod. Bob gives you a little wave from behind the others. It’s awkward. Gentle. You hold onto that for a second longer than you should.

You don’t say anything as Bucky guides you to the spare room between his and Ava’s and opposite Bob’s. “I’ll let you take some time to settle in, get used to the place..” He says, eyes trained on your face as he opens the door for you. You shift past him carefully and into the room. 

Sterile grey walls and floors. A floor to ceiling window. A double bed pushed against the left wall perpendicular to the glass opposite you. A desk and lamp stand next to the bed. Shelves hung empty above the desk. A door to an ensuite bathroom was opposite the entrance to the room. A closet and dresser lining the wall between the doors. It was cold. A camera had been installed in the corner of the room. Surveillance. It felt a lot like another cage, even if it was nicer than the last.

Bucky goes to close the door but you swing around and grab it before he can, a panic in your eyes. Shadows whisper. Cage. Cage. Cage. Bucky holds up his hands gently. 

“You can leave it open if it helps,” Bucky says softly. “I just figured you might want some space. Time to breathe.” He explains, voice softer than before, knowing that look all too well. “The door only locks from the inside.” He adds, gesturing to the small locking mechanism. You swallow and nod, eyes darting away again before he leaves. He pauses a few steps away. 

“I know what you’re going through. The fear. The panic. The distrust of everything. But you are safe here.” He whispers, eyes finding yours. Then he turns the corner, gone.

You stay still for a moment, watching as Bob briefly appears walking down the corridor and opening his door to go inside. He looks back at you over his shoulder, his eyes soft. He goes to say something. You close your door.

--

You had been sitting for hours on the bed, legs crossed in front of you. You didn’t have any possessions, so you just waited. For orders. For tests. For something. But nothing came. You were exhausted, but your body was still on high alert so you couldn’t sleep. 

You had listened quietly, hearing footsteps moving around outside your room as people came and went. You heard dishes clattering as people ate dinner, but you didn’t emerge from your room, even when the smell of it drifted into your nostrils and your stomach growled in hunger. It wasn’t until you had the safety of the dark that you finally decided to move. 

You closed your eyes, enveloping yourself in shadow. There was a brief moment of feeling like you were falling as you apparate from the bedroom and into the dark corner of the common area. 

Alexei was snoring on the sofa, an open pack of cookies on his chest. The darkness in the tower whispered softly to you, communicating the whereabouts of everyone nearby. John is on the phone with someone in the kitchen to the left, the light spilling out of the room. He was complaining to someone, explaining that you were just a ticking time-bomb. His voice was echoey and distorted due to the exhaustion of your abilities, but you got the gist. 

The more you used your power, the more you felt the shadows twitch, agitated. Careful. Careful. Careful. They hiss. Yet you continued to listen. 

Bucky and Yelena appear, exiting the elevator from a late night training session. They talked quietly about you, discussing what could help you settle in. Bucky insisted that establishing a routine could help but Yelena wanted to take you to get some clothes since you had nothing. 

The shadows itch — no, crawl. Like barbed wire under your skin. You should stop. You know you should stop.

“She’s dangerous.” John's voice echoes through the darkness. But it’s warped. Twisted. He didn’t say it like that. Did he?

The whispering shadows won’t quiet. They pull at your limbs like anchors. Your nose bleeds again. You wipe it away without looking. You slowly move from the shadows as Yelena and Bucky both pass and enter their separate rooms. You might as well take a look around the floors you had access to.

The floor above, the briefing room. Dim glass office cubicles surrounded the outskirts of the level, the main meeting room standing in the center. Valentina stood, talking to Mel, spotlighted by the bulbs above them. The phone lay in the middle of the table on speaker as they negotiated how to spin your addition to the team to the public, and to the higher-ups. From their tense body language and drawn expressions, it wasn’t going well. 

You stay hidden in the shadows, backing slowly into the elevator again and this time to the level below the residential floor. They continue to hiss.

“Isolate her.” Your handler’s voice echoes from the shadows as you exhaust yourself further.

The elevator slid open. A long corridor stretched ahead, flanked by changing rooms. The air reeked of sweat and chlorine. The doors after that opened up to reveal a gym on the left fitted with treadmills and various different fitness and weighted machines. On the right, there was a room filled with sparring mats, melee weapons lined the walls for training purposes. Then, at the end of the corridor, a door to a pool. 

You moved around the space, looking at the array of weapons and taking note of the cameras. You tried to stay in the shadows, where you were safe, but you were drained. They flickered around you but you were undoubtedly able to be seen by whoever was watching now. You move back to the elevator and back to the residential floor. 

You dragged your legs achingly back to your room. Each movement brought with it a deep aching throb ricocheting through your whole being. You were on the brink of collapse as you placed a hand on your doorknob, twisting it and stepping inside. 

There were a few moments where you shuffled tiredly towards your bed before you noticed it. A small plate sat on your bedside table, a hastily made sandwich in the middle, cut in half. It looked as if it had been made in a rush, as if the person making it wanted to finish it before they changed their mind. A note was messily scrawled and left under the plate to weigh it down.

“Thought you could use something to eat. - Bob”

--

Taglist:

@eywas-heir @qardasngan

[chaoticcreative14]

Hey everyone! I have been obsessed with Manny since watching The Last of Us and had to get my horny thoughts out. Anyways, if you too are horny for Manny Alvarez, this fic is for you!

Manny Alvarez x F! Doctor Reader

DESCRIPTION: You’ve had a really shitty day and your boyfriend Manny helps you relax.

WARNINGS/TAGS: Smut 18+, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Sweet Manny, Fluff

WORD COUNT: 2528

You slammed the door to your room behind you, frustration coursing through your whole body. Isaac had been a royal asshole today and you were beyond done. You got he was stressed about everything that had been happening with the scars but it didn’t give him an excuse to take it out on you.

You were one of very few doctors that the WLF had which meant that you were very valuable. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that Isaac didn’t like to take his issues out on you. What set him off this time was your failure to save a patient.

You had treated quite a number of patients since this war with the scars had begun, more than you and your limited staff could handle really. This patient wasn’t the first you had lost, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Today, Issac had brought you a soldier that had been shot by several arrows. As soon as you looked at him you knew the arrows had pierced several vital organs. There was very little you could have done for him. Still, you had tried to save him. You had spent several hours in surgery trying to fix all the damage but it was too much.

Maybe back when the world was normal you could’ve done something about it, but with the resources you had here there was no way. Unfortunately Isaac didn’t see that way. He had spent almost an hour after surgery berating you and questioning why you were even here if you couldn’t save lives. Suffice it to say, you were more than pissed off, Isaac apparently expecting you to work miracles.

You were actually a very good doctor. You were able to save a lot of people, ones most people wouldn’t be. Of course Isaac never appreciated that though. He only ever focused on your failures. When he had finally let you leave after his little rant you had made a beeline for your room. All this to say, you felt that you had a perfectly good reason to slam your door.

You let yourself lean against said door for a moment and closed your eyes. After you had gathered yourself, you kicked off your boots and flopped down face first on your bed. All you wanted to do was go to sleep and forget everything that had happened today. You had just about fallen asleep when you heard the door open and then shut again.

You didn’t lift your head, already knowing who it was. Your suspicions were confirmed when you felt the bed sink beside you and a strong hand rubbing your back. “Hey baby,” Manny said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the back of your head. You let out an incoherent greeting, still refusing to lift your head from where it was pressed into the bed.

“Damn, your day was that bad?” he asked, noting the signs of your stress. You finally lifted your head slightly, turning it to make eye contact with him.

“Isaac is a fucking dick,” you said before plopping your head back down. Manny continued to rub your back as he answered you with a simple “When is he not?” and honestly, you couldn’t argue with that.

“I know this is nothing new for him but I swear to god the man was on a tear today,” you complained, Manny humming in acknowledgement.

“I heard, I’m sorry,” he said, sympathy clear in his voice. “How are you doing?” he asked me. “I know losing a patient is always hard for you.” You finally turned your body so your back was on your bed and you were facing him.

“I’m okay,” you promised him. “Or as okay as I can be considering,” you added. You always felt horrible when you lost a patient, but you had learned to accept there was only so much you could do and you tried to move on. Isaac yelling at you, however, hadn’t done you any favours.

“Have you eaten?” Manny asked you. You shook your head no. You had come right back to your room after talking with Isaac, food being the furthest thing from your mind and you told him as much.

“I’ll eat later,” you promised, which seemed to placate him for now. “What about you? Have you eaten anything?”

“Yeah,” he assented. “I ate with my dad a little while ago,” he explained. You smiled at that. Manny’s father wasn’t able to eat by himself anymore so Manny always made sure to help him. His dad was the sweetest, even when he made fun of his son’s facial hair. “You know, he was asking about you,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” you questioned with a slight laugh.

“Yeah,” Manny confirmed, laughing along with you. “He noticed you hadn’t eaten with us in a while and he accused me of screwing up in his words ‘the best thing that could’ve possibly happened to me.’”

“Well, your father always was my favourite Alvarez man,” you said, smiling at him. He raised an eyebrow and placed a hand over his heart when he heard this, acting like your words physically hurt him.

“You wound me,” he said. You fell into a comfortable silence after that, smiling at each other as Manny rubbed his hand over your ankle, anchoring you to the moment. Eventually, looking at you wasn’t enough for Manny and he grabbed your hand to get you to sit up. “Come here,” he said softly.

You went willingly, standing up so he could take your place leaning against the headboard and then settling yourself on his lap, pressing a quick peck to his lips before resting your head in the crook of his neck. “A man can only go so long without holding the woman he loves,” Manny said, explaining why he felt the need to move you both into your current position.

You lifted your head and raised an eyebrow, shaking your head slightly at him. “Wow, you’ve reached new levels of cheesy,” you exclaimed. He gave as much of a shrug as he could with his arms around you.

“What can I say, you bring it out in me,” he defended himself. You gave him another smile at that before leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. You let out a deep sigh and sank into him, feeling the stress of the day start to leave your body. Manny hummed in contentment as his mouth met yours and when you pulled back slightly he used it to his advantage. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss and you let out a slight moan at the feeling. You felt Manny move his hands to your hips and pull you closer to him, pressing your bodies together so that there was no space left between you. “I missed you today,” he whispered against your lips when you both broke away for air.

“I missed you too,” you replied, connecting your lips to his once more. You felt heat course through you as the hands on your hips settled you in his lap, your core brushing over the outline of his cock. You let out another moan at the feeling and Manny groaned in response.

“What do you need?” Manny asked softly, his forehead pressed into yours. He wanted you but he also knew how exhausted you were. You knew that if you said you wanted to stop now and go to bed he would do it, no questions asked. Despite your exhaustion, however, you were burning with arousal and you needed something to make the heat low in your belly dissipate.

“I don’t want to stop,” you said immediately, your need evident in your voice. “But maybe,” you started, looking into his eyes, “maybe we could just do this,” you finished, grinding yourself down onto his cock. Manny tilted his head back slightly at the feeling before letting a grin spread across his face.

“Yeah, yeah baby, we can do that,” he said with a husky voice, kissing you again with renewed vigour. Your tongues tangled with each other, moving in an intricate dance you’ve both done many times before. One of Manny’s hands tangled in your hair, angling your head where he wanted it. The other stayed on your hip and he used his grip to grind you down onto him. You broke from the kiss to gasp, throwing your head back in the process and Manny took the opportunity to begin pressing kisses to your neck.

He started right under your year, sending a shiver down your spine. He moved further and further down your neck until he hit a spot that made you cry out. “Sensitive cariño?” he asked teasingly.

“You know I am,” you said, giving a particularly hard thrust against Manny’s hips as he sucked a mark into your neck. You were silent for a few moments save your breaths and Manny’s humming as he continued his assault on your neck. You basked in the attention he was giving you, feeling the stress from your day begin to fade away. You sank further into him, the movement of your hips creating a delicious friction that caused the heat in your stomach to flare.

Manny felt it as you began to relax into him and grinned, pulling away for a brief moment to speak. “That’s it baby, I’ve got you,” he said, moving his hips to rub harder against you. The movement caused the tip of his cock to press into your clit, driving you even more insane.

“Manny,” you cried out as he brushed against your sensitive bundle. “You feel so fucking good baby,’ you whined, chasing the feeling growing inside you.

“Fuck cariño, just like that,” he said, resting his forehead against your own. Both hands were now on your hips, dragging you harshly against him, his own release building inside him. Your hips began to lose their rhythm slightly, the pressure on your clit sending sparks through your whole body. Manny recognized it as a sign that you were getting close and he doubled his efforts, grinding you into him while grinding his own hips up into you at the same time.

You were unbelievably wet at this point, your arousal had soaked right through your pants and was now creating a damp spot in Manny’s lap. He loved how messy you got for him. The more wet you got, the closer it meant you were so Manny knew you were right on the edge. He wasn’t gonna be able to hold on much longer himself, the way you looked with pleasure coursing through your veins above him threatening to make him lose control. “Are you gonna cum for me baby?” he asked, mouth pressed to yours but not kissing you.

You wanted to, more than anything, but you couldn’t quite get there yet. “Fuck, I’m so close,” you said breathless, trying to chase the high that has been evading you. “I just need — I don’t know, just something.”

Manny knew exactly what to do to send you over the edge for him, knowing you liked a little bit of pain with your pleasure. He moved a hand back to your hair to give it a sharp tug just as he gave an especially hard grind against your clit and you felt the cord inside you snap. You let out a sob of his name as euphoria rushed over you, clinging onto Manny and digging your nails into his back.

“Fuck,” he moaned, still moving against you as he helped you ride out your orgasm.

“Manny,” you whimpered as you moved through the aftershocks of your release.

“It’s okay,” he said, still trying to stave off his own pleasure and closing his eyes. “I’ve got you cariño, I’ve got you,” he promised. As you came down from your high you felt a pleasant fog take over your brain. You still noticed, however, that Manny hadn’t let go yet.

“Hey Manny,” you whispered, pressing a hand against his cheek and getting him to look at you. He opened his eyes which at this point were completely glazed over, Manny lost in his lust. “You can let go now baby,” you said to him. He didn’t seem to hear you at first so you brushed back the hair that had stuck to his forehead in the time you had been tangled up in each other. “Manny, baby, cum for me,” you said and this time he listened.

“Oh fuck,” he said as he let out a groan that could only be described as wrecked, attaching his lips to yours in an all consuming kiss as he finally found his release. His hips stuttered against yours, eyes closing again as he worked through his pleasure. Finally, Manny relaxed pulling you close to him, pressing your face into his neck and a kiss to the top of your head.

You were both silent, the only sounds filling the room that of your heavy breathing. Manny had one hand on the back of your head cradling it and the other on your back rubbing soothing circles into it. After a while, you lifted your head to look at him, seeing a tired smile on his face. “Hey,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Hey,” you said grinning back at him, contentment and affection filling your body.

“Are you okay?” he asked, brushing your hair out of your eyes, always concerned for your wellbeing, especially after an intense orgasm like you had just had.

“I’m okay,” you promised him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Are you okay?” you checked.

“I’m great,” he replied, stroking your hair. After another few moments of silent contentment you started to fall asleep when, suddenly, Manny moved forward and shifted you off his lap, causing you to let out a groan of protest. “I know, cariño, I’m sorry, but we have to get cleaned up before we fall asleep.

You hated to admit it but he was right so you both stripped yourselves, wiped yourselves off, and changed into fresh clothes. Well, you did at least, Manny preferring to sleep naked because in his words ‘there’s no need to dirty our limited clothes just to sleep in.’

On your part, you had thrown on a fresh pair of panties and Manny’s shirt. After you were dressed you turned off the light before crawling into bed beside him and throwing a leg over his, resting your head against his chest. Manny wrapped an arm around you as you settled against his side and pressed another kiss to the top of your head.

Laying here in Manny’s arms, you managed to forget all about the horrible day behind you, his presence always making everything better. You could tell he was almost asleep so you whispered softly so as not to startle him, “Hey Manny?”

He hummed softly in acknowledgement before replying. “Yeah baby?”

“Thanks for taking care of me,” you said softly.

“Always,” he promised. “I love you, cariño,” he said.

“I love you too,” you echoed before finally drifting off to sleep, feeling at peace in Manny’s arms.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

What if Stan was cursed to be his shadow?

Like, his own shadow? Is his body still there? Or is he just a shadow himself, lost and bodyless?

This got Long. Whoops?

For the first one I'm thinking his soul got shunted into the Shadow Realm somehow and now he's possessing his own shadow. He's stuck, can't get too far from his own lifeless body and no one can hear him. Probably gets picked up and taken to a hospital, and then ID'd or someone finds Fords number on him and Ford shows up, totally in denial of it either being Stan or Stan's faking it for attention. Then Shadow!Stan is frozen, both wanting to try and get Fords attention and also 'oh no, Fords here, seeing me like this.'

Ford gets Stan moved closer, or even finds a way to get him care at his house (not sure how that works, as I've not had a relative in a coma, but knowing Ford he might straight up 'kidnap' (its not kidnapping! I'm taking him home! He's my brother!) Stan if the hospital doesn't let him take Stan. Very fakely goes 'oh no Stan's missing :/ dang and everyone Knows but no one cares about one vagrent enough to really push it.) Gets Stan's car (if possible) then tries to Fix Stan.

Ford can Fix him, he's a genius! How hard can a medical degree be, really? He'll just get one, take a look at Stan, fix him, and then yell at him for getting himself into this kind of trouble. In the meantime he'll just use some magic remides and-

Ah. Stan's soul is missing. Hmm. Thats a Problem.

Meanwhile Stan's just. Chillin. He can't really go a certain distance from his body and he's a little scared to test that connection. He's got a shape right now, but what if he pushes it and disconects from his body? Will he fall apart? Will he get lost? He got cursed for maybe being a 'shadow of society' or some nonsense or maybe touched something he really shouldn't have and now he's stuck in a room in his estranged brothers house. All he gets is whirlwind moments of Ford bursting in, waving a bunch of machines or sticks over Stan, writing things down, then right back out again. He has no idea what Fords doing but he's so focused on it he hasn't realized the shadow guy trying to get his attention.

I imagine this ends the moment Ford does his first Questionable ritual and gets interrupted by a shadow guy silently yelling/trying to disrupt the ritual the best he can with his shadow hands (which does nothing really, he can't touch things after all.) Stan has no idea what Fords doing but he doesn't like this weird blood(?) ritual or that his body's in the middle of it.

Then its a game of charades/threaten the shadow guy until Ford understand that the shadow is Stan and he's stuck/trapped/cursed in some way and has been there the whole time. Does some magic to get his soul back out and into his body where Stan immediately bursts into tears because he can touch things again and has an actual body that makes noise. Both pretend its just a side affect while Fords lecture gets sidetracked with comforting his poor bro who's been a shadow for potentially months.

Now if he doesn't have a body?

Then he's in shadow limbo. No one can hear him, people wave him away as the light playing tricks on them. his body is starting to forget what it looks like the longer he's a shadow, becoming more and more formless the longer he's like this, and he's jumping from shadow to shadow to try and prevent it as long as possible.

Makes his way to Gravity Falls following his car that got picked up by Carla? what? He's chilling in the cars shadow, or Carla's, then gets the surprise of a lifetime when she drops his car off at Fords and moves in.

Then the enemy of a lifetime in Bill, who they can't see each other in the same plane, but Stan can see Bill's shadow and interact with it, while Bill's seeing this shadow thing (demon?) burst into his scene and is starting fights with him. Funniest option Stan can touch Bill through his shadow, but Bill can't do the same, so he has to be careful with what he's doing or else this annoying shadow will jump him and throw him like a frisbe.

So now he's sort of haunting Fords house, somewhat formless and beating up this other creepy shadow thats lurking around. At some point someones(fiddleford) gonna notice the shadows moving around, and Fiddlefords gonna freak, especially as Stan uses his time to torment the poor guy with his shadowy form from pure boredom, then because its funny when he makes Fiddleford look crazy for a while until someone else sees him and the games up.

Through a series of shenanigans they concinve themselves Stan's some kind of shadow demon, get a whole defense thing set up, Fords chanting some anti-demon thing, the shadows grow darker, hands creep into the light, they pass the barrier! Fiddlefords screaming, Fords yelling about how he doesn't understand how its not working! The shadows get closer! They reach out and-!

Do nothing. Stan can't touch people, but he can twist the shadows into a visible mockery of them all freaking out about him. He's laughing his ass off about it, pointing his blurry arm and doing shadow puppets of them screaming. Its the most fun he's had in months, and Fiddleford is trying to strangle a shadow while it sticks its tongue out at him then jumps into Fords shadow and reinacts Fords freakout.

For max angst this happens post Shifty, so Fords somewhat aware that something Might (MIGHT!) be up with Stan, but is still in denial. This is important, because when they start grilling the shadow on how long its been lurking around Stan will pantomime that he came with Carla and has been hanging around for months, trying to get someones attention. I'm thinking Stan couldn't manipulate shadows as well at the start, and messing with Fiddleford has also helped him improve. Well now he has their attention, but he doesn't know how to say he's Stan and also he's over heard Fords whole thing.

So now that the funs ended he just sorta, disappears. To them at least, he's still lurking around, but not really sure what to do with himself or how to ask for help or what.

I think the funniest option is that Stan gets that choice taken out of his hands when Ford, local magic and anomoly expert, realizes the annoying shadow still here and figures out a way to interact with it to make it go away. He's trying to work! Gets the gang together to sort of lull it into a false sense of security, get it to reveal itself, then uses some magic spell or artifact to pull Stan out of the shadows. For a normal shadow anomaly Ford would just be holding physical shadows, but because Stan's actually a guy trapped he just pulls Stan straight out of the darkness.

Lots of surprise all around, especially when Stan starts hyperventilating from his senses being assaulted and actually making noise and breathing and all that. He hasn't touched anything in months and he's melting into Fords grip and the floor and oh god he has permanent arms again and isn't becoming a blob. Meanwhile Fords staring at Stan in shock, trying to comprehend that Stan's been in his house the whole time and chose to mess with Fiddleford? Actually that sounds right, but is also extremely annoying.

For extra angst Ford can't let go or Stan goes back into the Shadow realm, so now he has to fix Stan while holding his hand the whole time.

Anyway thats what I got :)

[ppyopulii]

🎓 as i thought | ft. yoon jeonghan

PREVIEW. It’s not like you entirely lied during your speech; everyone graduating today has impacted you in some way, whether it was intentional or not. Including Jeonghan.

FEATURING. yoon jeonghan x gn!reader GENRE(S). academic rivals, open-ended LENGTH | WC. <12min | 1.3k EXPLICITS. crazy banter, crazy tension, do they want to kill each other or kiss each other?? the world will never know

JAY’S MUSINGS. academic rivals, a classic trope; combine that with yoon jeonghan, the epitome of timelessness, and what spits out is a story that can be told again, and again, and again. cheers—here’s to you, hannie. come back just as lively, if not even more, as you were before; and more importantly, come back safe. <3

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE. saved to library: seventeen // don’t wanna cry by seventeen // magnets by niki // take me as I am by lyn lapid // do i wanna know? by arctic monkeys // that’s so true by gracie abrams // pretty boy by the neighbourhood

“...To my friends and family, thank you for your continued support. Your encouragement meant the world to me throughout my two years of learning here, and always kept me going in rough moments.”

The ceremony lights—they’re a little too bright for your liking. You squint and smile as the flashes of cameras pick up, no doubt your parents in the crowd itching to get a good frame of your face.

It’s way too early in the morning for a graduation ceremony, but here you are, standing proud and tall as the valedictorian of this year’s graduating class. Your tassel swivels about, just barely in your peripheral vision, and you brush it out of your eyes as your gaze rises to the crowd once more.

“And of course, thank you to every single person I have encountered here at this university. Whether it was a fleeting hello or hours spent perfecting our theses, the motivation all of these interactions gave me was truly what spurred me on. You should all be proud of yourselves; through hard work, we are now here, and through hard work, we will continue to thrive.”

Out of the corner of your eye, a flash of blonde moves. You turn your head slightly to meet Yoon Jeonghan’s lazy smirk, one leg tossed over the other as if he were at a mere get-together rather than onstage as salutatorian.

“I sincerely wish you all the best.” You match his expression with a lackadaisical curl of your mouth. “And that you all achieve what you deserve most. Thank you.”

The crowd explodes into a plethora of applause. You shake hands once more with the Chairman of the university’s Business Department, before your shoes are clinking against the stage to return to your seat—right next to Jeonghan, of course.

As the Chairman begins to speak, you catch a whiff of expensive-smelling vanilla extract. You don’t even bother looking in Jeonghan’s direction, making a point to stare straight ahead, hoping that if you do the man will leave you alone.

To your dismay, Jeonghan speaks right into your ear. It's sweet and sultry—a whole bakery’s worth of baked goods packed into just a few words.

“That was a good speech up there,” he’s whispering to you while the Chairman drones on about ceremony closing statements. “Almost had me fooled that you were proud of those losers.”

If a camera weren’t pointed at you, broadcasting your face to thousands of people both in the ceremony room and at home, you one hundred percent would have rolled your eyes and smacked him.

Instead, you fake a tiny giggle for the audience, leaning in close with a smile.

“Don’t forget, Yoon Jeonghan, that you’re a part of those I was talking about. Little leech.”

He has the audacity to click his tongue; it’s lost amongst the cheers from the crowd as names begin to be called for graduates to receive their diploma. You clutch your own, already given before your speech, in your hands with whitening knuckles.

“You’re so mean, even as we walk across the stage together.” He’s frowning in mock offense. “Weren’t you just saying a few minutes ago that everyone you crossed paths with here motivated you?”

You close your eyes as another name is called, auto-pilot kicking in to indicate that you should be clapping your hands together like the rest of the audience. Yoon Jeonghan, regrettably, takes this as a sign that he’s won this argument and finally moves his attention elsewhere. A soft sigh escapes you.

It’s not like you entirely lied during your speech; everyone graduating today has impacted you in some way, whether it was intentional or not. Including Jeonghan.

Memories flip through your brain like a stop-motion book, taking you back to hours spent in study rooms with Yoon Jeonghan hovering right over your shoulder. The smell of chalk fills your senses and you can feel the grit on your hands from countless equations performed on the board, along with an oncoming headache that you were all too familiar with.

“Can’t keep up, valedictorian?” Jeonghan would raise an eyebrow.

You’d always wave him off but never denied it. Yoon Jeonghan was, in short, brilliant. Natural talent accompanied by a passionate drive for learning, it was no wonder you were taking leaps just to see your name top his every time reports were put out.

Because while Jeonghan had dedication, you had stubbornness.

Stubbornness to not be bested by a guy who came into lectures fifteen minutes late with a coffee in hand and a stroll that suggested he was there just to kill time. Stubbornness to not be bested by a guy who, after being paired up with you for a group project, took one scan of you and smirked before leaving. And above all, you had more than enough stubbornness in you to not be bested by a guy who packed extra snacks for you during study sessions, who gave you good luck pencils before exams, and who made your heart pound louder than any other situation beforehand had.

Someone is whispering your name. You jump, startled, and Jeonghan nudges you with his foot.

Tassels, he mouths.

Graduation always felt like some big grand finale to you. As you stand, readying your hand that will deem yourself no longer a student but a full-fledged adult going into adult life, you realize something.

You don’t want this to end.

“You may move your tassels,” the Chairman says, loud and clear into the mic.

The audience roars with commotion. Graduation caps are thrown into the air, showcasing colorful works of art that students—no, people—put hours into just for this very moment. You’re struck with awe from the sheer amount of passion, joy, and love that are within these walls.

There is a tap on your shoulder.

“I wanted to be the first one to officially congratulate you on graduating,” Yoon Jeonghan grins. “So congrats, my valedictorian. You’ve done well to deserve a good break and a bright future.”

His words strike a chord within you. You suddenly do not care about the camera still broadcasting your feelings out to the world, nor do you care about what would happen afterwards.

What you care about, as always, is beating the man right in front of you to do something.

Jeonghan catches you effortlessly, as if having already calculated your pounce of a hug. He laughs, resounding and glittering with an emotion you aren’t ready to face yet, as you bury your face in his chest. Your tears are no doubt staining his gown with your mascara as you let out a sigh.

It is over.

“You’re crying for no reason,” Jeonghan teases as he leads you down the aisle; there are shouts of praise from the crowd while you two make your way to the exit with the rest of the graduates. “It’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again.”

Sniffling, you shove his arms away with an excruciatingly warm face. “Shut up. Before I make you.”

“Make me?” He asks, incredulous. “What are we, highschoolers?”

“You might as well be, with your lack of facial hair,” you retort; Jeonghan only snorts.

Pictures are taken, bouquets are given, and plans are made for lunch. You bid goodbye to former classmates and accept words of wisdom from past professors before being whisked away by your parents, trudging behind them towards the car.

“Hey! Valedictorian!”

Your head whips up, and the roll of your eyes that’s been waiting to be let out finally takes its chance to escape. Yoon Jeonghan grins, his arms wide and open and tormenting for your embrace, his own parents peeking out from behind him with kind smiles.

“What? Gonna leave without saying goodbye to your dear salutatorian?” He yells over the buzz of people.

“God, he is so annoying,” you huff, passing your bouquet to your mother.

And with that, you leap.

back to your library.

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 3)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | follow @arranupdates for notifs! | AO3 summary: it's been four weeks since your patrol with joel. and while you try to forget about him and settle into your new life in Jackson, there's an inside voice screaming at you. one that you can't ignore and, thankfully, you don't. author's note: i, uh... well. part 3 is here! this is the scene i envisioned when i first thought of this series. not gonna lie, i'm nervous about posting this one. i hope you guys enjoy it (as much as angst can be enjoyed, that is). as always, please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post or come yap at me! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. ANGST. ellie makes an apperance and she's ruthless with joel (i'm sorry). joel breaks. suicide attempt. vomitting. tiny mention of blood. wound tending. a load of angst yes, but this time there's some angsty comfort too! dual pov. quotes from "a hundread years of solitude" on joel's pov; quotes from "chronicle of a death foretold" on reader's pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader is 46. wordcount: ~8.6k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Hurt wouldn’t even cover it. Disappointed was more like it—not with Joel, but with yourself. For allowing yourself to care too much about a stranger, for worrying over those who didn’t bother to at least be nice in return.

Should have learnt this was not how the world worked anymore, decades ago. The apocalypse had changed humanity, brought out the worst of people. And yet again, every time you encountered someone in need, you’d lend a hand. Only to have it bitten off by the harsh crudeness of this new reality that had been haunting you since the beginning of it all.

Time and time again, you had stumbled with the same stone—the stone of hope. When the virus took hold of what little remained of societal decency, you told yourself people were only scared, that was why they were cruelly acting out. When your partner became bitter and erratic, you again told yourself it was only because of desperation. When havoc caused division within your group, you tried to assuage them.

You’d always tried—it was in your nature, part of who you were. And if there was something you were proud of, was that you never let go of the values your parents taught you. Perhaps you were too kind-hearted for this vicious world. But you refused to allow the circumstances to change who you were at your core.

Despite the conviction, it was terribly hard to constantly extend a hand to others. You were drained. Not of purpose, but because of rejection. Having lost everyone who had accompanied you since the beginning, finding yourself alone now in this decrepit world… It was taking a big mental toll on you. And when you saw the pain disguised as bluntness in Joel, a piece of you reached out to him—the fixer in you had clung to the last dregs of him. Perhaps you didn’t know him but knew his harrowing agony. Knew what being the outcast felt like, what loneliness was. Knew the torment of what if, the misery of why didn’t I.

You were drowning in your own thoughts, overthinking the situation until you worried yourself to sleep. And in a moment of weakness right after your patrol with Joel, you had asked Tommy if you could move to a different house. Not your proudest moment.

“Anything wrong with the one you are in now? Pipes all good?” Tommy had asked you when you approached him in the community hall after ensuring Joel was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, no. Yeah, pipes are good now, thanks,” you had lied, still feeling guilty about having to block one to match the excuse you’d given him. “It’s just, uh… It’s too big of a house for just me, I’m sure a family would make good use of it. I’m happy to live somewhere smaller.”

And somehow, he’d seen through your lie this time around. The way his brows had furrowed as the inner working of his brain put the pieces together was eerily familiar—a shared mannerism between the Millers.

“Has Joel done or said something stupid?” When you didn’t reply, trying to hide your betraying expression, he had huffed. “Such a fucking prick. Is that why you’ve asked Maria to change your patrol shifts too? I swear, when I catch him!”

You reassured Tommy over and over again that neither of those two asks had anything to do with his older brother. Theatrics was never your forte, so whether he bought it or not, you didn’t know.

Now you just felt silly for letting Joel doubt yourself, what you stood for. His rejection shouldn’t set you back.

He doesn’t want my help? Fine then. I’ll help someone else.

But as that thought formed, your mind drifted away to that fateful patrol day. How you found him, frozen in front of that clicker. How the despair and regret flickered in the brown bark of his eyes. How the knife slipped from his hand—Wait, or did he drop it? Did he mean not to put up any fight? Did he mean to give up? Did he mean to let the infected kill him?

Did he mean to commit suicide?

No. He wouldn’t. He’s got a family, you thought, your mind jarring and struggling with the daunting idea of someone ending their life.

But did having a family really mean anything? Did having a family mean you didn’t feel alone? You knew it didn’t.

Perhaps I didn’t see it right, perhaps the knife did slip.

But if it did, why would you find him crying? Looking down at your hands, you rubbed your fingers together—you could still feel the dampness of his tears, the wetness of his desperation, from when you cradled his weathered face and brushed the tears away.

Your mind drifted back to your conversation with Tommy three weeks ago, the unsettling feeling returning to your belly.

“Have you checked in on him lately?” The question had slipped before you could refrain yourself from asking. Because despite how rude he’d been, you still worried about him, especially after what you thought you saw with the clicker in the outbuilding.

“Who? Joel? He’s fine. He’s always been this grumpy, don’t worry about him,” Tommy had said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Why you ask?”

You did really consider mentioning what you had witnessed on patrol, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble between the brothers if you were wrong. Besides, it was obvious Joel wasn’t seeking any help.

Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be?

Your muscles stiffened suddenly, the disrespect of his words rummaging in the fresh gaping wound in your chest. How some simple sentence almost had you folded—a slap in the face would have hurt less. The despise in his eyes, how he backed up like a cornered animal when you reached for him again—as if the mere thought of you was disgusting, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you putting your hands on him again.

Your heart stirred uncomfortable in your chest, a heavy, surrendered sigh escaping from your lips. How could a stranger’s rejection have such a big impact on you?

Just let it go. He doesn’t want your help. Move on.

A knock on your door startled you. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you untucked your legs from underneath you before throwing the blanket aside and standing up off the couch. It was almost midnight, the deadly quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the wind rustling leaves nearby, and you were not expecting any visitors.

Leaving the book—the one where you had gotten stuck reading the same paragraph repeatedly while your mind drifted away—on the side table, you tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, your blood froze.

Right there, standing on your porch in the dead of night, was the personification of your hurt. Joel Miller. In the darkness, he still looked tired and restless. When was the last time he slept? you wondered. Joel Miller looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

Your fingers curled around the handle, but you hesitated—what could he possibly want at this ungodly hour? He’d probably seen the orange shadow your lamp casted on the living room’s window, so there was no point in pretending you weren’t awake. But still, you stalled.

Joel raised his fist to knock again but thought better of it. You saw the doubt dancing in the whisky hue of his irises, all resolution abandoning him. His lips fell into a flat line and then nodded to himself before turning around.

Your heart raced and before he could walk away, you swung the door open.

“Joel?” you whispered, switching on the porchlight and hugging yourself when the cold breeze hit you.

Joel’s bowed head snapped up, his shoulders squaring instantly. For a brief second, he paused—as if he considered playing deaf and running away. Slowly Joel veered around and faced you.

His worn expression took you aback. Perhaps the cast of the porchlight magnified the dark circles under his orbs, the yellowish tint of the bruise kissing the exposed skin of his neck, the deep creasing lines around his eyes and mouth.

Joel Miller was a man who looked… defeated? Torn? Exhausted? Purposeless?

“Uh, hi,” he muttered in return, his eyes taking in the sight of you after your name rolled easily off his tongue.

You felt more self-conscious now—you were barefoot, hadn’t taken care of your hair today, and you had the worst pyjamas on, holes and old stains included. So unwittingly, you hugged yourself harder.

“Hi, Joel,” you repeated. “What do you want?”

You didn’t intend for your question to have a resentful hint, but it did. It just slipped, like the knife off his hand.

“Uhm,” his hand flew to the back of his neck, his lips flattening even more. “I, uh… Well…”

He hadn’t said much yet, but you sensed what this late-night visit could be about. Was he about to ask for your forgiveness? An actual, heart-felt apology for the crudeness of his actions and words. In all honesty, that was all you needed to acquit his behaviour. Everyone deserved a second chance, deserved to right a wrong.

You watched him struggle for words as your heart raced expectantly, fighting back the tiny smile that threatened to curl your lips a tad too early.

“I… Yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow that book you recommended on our last day of patrol?” Joel stumbled over his own words, his jaw locking. “Chronicle of a Death Foretold?”

The warm feeling swarming your belly soon turned cold. Heavy, churning, your disappointment so thick you had to swallow to untie the knot in your throat. Why should you expect something different? An apology from him? You almost scoffed at your risible occurrence.

“Is that it?” you mumbled in a vain attempt to hide your frustration.

Joel paused, mouth opening and closing fast as thunder. His Adam’s apple bobbed, words hitching at the back of his throat. You could see the pulleys of his mind at work in the windows of his eyes, the only tell he couldn’t govern.

And yet again, disillusionment followed.

“Yeah,” another uncomfortable silence. Joel’s posture shifted, his fists clenching. “I just finished my book, so I have nothing to read.”

“No, sorry,” you gritted, sensing your own annoyance building up. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

If your retort took him aback, you couldn’t tell. Joel just gave you a stern nod instead, his determination deflating behind his brown eyes. Was he so proud he wouldn’t admit he’d treated you wrong?

“Right, sorry to disturb. Night,” and as fast as he came, Joel was gone.

You saw him crossing the thick blanket of snow, head buried between his shoulders, before he disappeared through his front door.

Every day for the next week, you warred with yourself. Perhaps it was your people-pleasing tendencies, but more than once you caught yourself before walking up the steps of Joel’s porch and offering him Gabo’s book.

It was a losing battle though. Eventually you’d wave a white flag, stick it in the middle of the street between Joel’s and your house. Claim that it was his fault that you hadn’t given in for not opening up, for not being brave enough to say what he came to say—or what you thought he came to say.

But upon reflection, forcing someone to acknowledge their grief, their solitude, their struggles, was not the best approach. Trust required time, and it was obvious Joel Miller needed more than that. You were now convinced that he truly was at the end of his wits. The knife hadn’t slipped, he’d dropped it—it was as clear as the sun would rise tomorrow over his roof.

You wondered if his family knew, if he had at least confided in someone. Because if he hadn’t, then this secret you were keeping was eating away at the confines of your contrition. It would tear you apart, being complicit in his pain.

Sat on the bay window of your living room, you read again the last paragraph of the book.

“Santiago, my son,” she shouted to him, “what has happened to you?” “They've killed me, Wene child,” he said. He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

The last word echoed in your mind, so loud you had to whisper it. Kitchen. You said it again with a trembling sigh, wearing it out, flushing it out of your brain.

Why did you suddenly have this déjà vu, anxiety-like feeling sinking in the pit of your stomach?

As you’d done at least a dozen times in the last two hours, your eyes moved away from the yellowed pages across the street. In his porch, Joel was still in the same position as you last checked on him. Impassive like a statue, you wondered if he’d frozen up with the chilling temperatures. He’d been sitting on that bench for over two hours now, staring into the distance as his only pastime. Waiting. For something to happen. Or someone to show up.

It worried you how he hadn’t moved an inch, what was in his mind that had him under such a numbing spell. Perhaps you should intervene now, talk to him, ask him why he was out there alone wrapped in the blanket of such misty night.

But before you could make up your mind, someone did appear. Getting closer to the window glass, you watched from behind the curtains how the girl approached the porch. Her stance was rigid, her features young. She was clearly a teenager, then it hit you. Did Joel have a daughter?

The moment Joel saw her, he jumped up to his feet instantly, his posture as stiff as hers. The girl huffed, her shoulders slouching, as she walked past the steps where Joel was standing. He must have shouted back, because her head sank between her shoulders—a gesture you had seen Joel do just a week ago.

The teenager turned around, her face fierce as she replied something you didn’t quite catch. By the way her hands moved as she spoke, and how Joel’s demeanour soured even from the distance, you knew a heated argument had ensued between the two. It only lasted a minute or two before the girl stormed off, walking around the house and heading towards the garage at the back.

Your attention drifted back to Joel, who was still at the top of the stairs. You couldn’t fully see his face, only his profile—but whatever had just happened, had affected him. His right hand curled around the banister while his eyes tracked his daughter walking away and his left clutched at his chest, his stance shifting as if he was in unbearable pain. Joel remained still for another minute, and you wished you knew what was crossing his mind at that precise moment.

He looked so lonely. So broken. So… lifeless. The stillness of his posture spoke of something deeper, a sorrow so heavy it would compete with Atlas carrying the weight of the world. As if he tiptoed on the edge of life—staring into the abyss, pondering, weighing his worth.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him alone on that porch. Only if you could reach out, tell him whatever it was, it would be okay.

Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh?

But as you saw him steeling himself and walking back inside, your insides churned. You knelt on the window bay, watching the ajar door Joel had left behind.

An impending sense of doom flushed through you, your heart racing wildly, your breathing quickening.

“The truth is I didn’t know what to do,” he told me. “My first thought was that it wasn’t any business of mine but something for the civil authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Placida Linero.” Yet when he crossed the square, he’d forgotten completely. “You have to understand,” he told me, “that the bishop was coming that day.”

But did you? Did you know what to do? Would you intervene, even if there was only a very thin possibility you were right, when your mind, your soul, was screaming at you right now?

Your heart jolted in your chest, mind fuzzy with doubt. While the Vicario brothers had been the ones to skew Santiago Nasar’s life, Joel’s Grim Reaper could be someone scarier—himself.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, reading into it far too much, you tried to convince yourself.

But as minutes went by, eyes glued to his front door, not doing anything wasn’t an option. Not when your heart and mind knew there was something wrong. You couldn’t explain why or what it was, just that it was.

Getting up, you grabbed an old cardigan, slipped your feet into the winter boots laying on the floor by your front door, and sprinted outside with the book tucked under your elbow.

You sprinted across the blizzard, reaching Joel’s porch within seconds. And even though the door was clearly not shut, you still knocked.

“Joel?” you called out, controlling the tremor in your voice. “I finished the book. I was wondering if you wanted to borrow it now?”

No reply, silence followed your feeble attempt at reconciliation.

With your heart climbing up your throat, you knocked again, the door cracking open a bit more.

“Joel?”

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and walked inside, putting your guard up to whatever you would find. The hallway was dark and cold, the wintery breeze whistling past you. Softly closing the door behind you, you put down the book on the console table and peeked inside the living room.

The decoration was rustic, some dark woods contrasting with the soft blue on the walls. Every piece of furniture looked crafted, curated, not like the mustard couch you had falling apart in the middle of your living room. The fireplace was still crackling, the embers glowing under the soft light of a standing lamp in the corner. But it was empty.

Your instinct told you to move further down the house, and you did in silence. It was so quiet, you were sure your heartbeat could be heard from a mile away. Trudging past the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

“There had never been a death so foretold.”

Your breath hitched; your heart stilled. Under the doorframe you froze, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Only you were no prey—Joel was.

Prey to the drowning solitude of his home, of his own loneliness, of life itself.

Prey to the forgetfulness of death—an omen that now made sense, a subtle hint you hadn’t first fully comprehended when he recited those words to you three weeks ago.

Prey to a desperation so thick, it was literally killing him.

Prey to masquerading his pain, deceitful in his actions, in his rude, careless demeanour.

“He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.”

Perhaps you couldn’t hear the bubbling of his heart, but you could definitely see the foam pooling at the corners of his mouth as his legs twitched on the floor of his poorly-lit kitchen.

The ephemeral moment stretched for a second too long as your mind tried to grasp what your heart already knew.

Joel was ending it—his life. The suffering. The heartache. The desolation. The guilt he carried, for whatever he thought was unforgivable.

No.

And in the blink of an eye, you lurched forward, your knees skidding on the scratched wooden planks as you landed by his side. His whole body convulsed, his limbs shaking the life out of him, draining him. The chattering of his teeth gritting made your belly churn as tears welled up.

“Joel. Oh my God, Joel!” You whispered, trembling hands hovering over him as your eyes roved over the gut-wrenching vision in front of you. “No, no, no!”

Your desperate wails became louder, but your mind got sharper. This couldn’t be happening. You needed to act now if you were to save his life, there was no time to run out and scream for help. Joel had no time left.

You rolled him over to his side, an inner debate happening as you did.

Should I? If this is what he really wants, if his pain is so great he’s decided to end it, should I intervene? Who am I to take the choice away from him?

But at the end of the day, the real question was: could you live with yourself if you let him die? Could you look at Tommy’s eyes, at Benji’s or Maria’s, and tell them you didn’t dare intercede? That you rather watch him die than having him resent you even more?

What is one more ounce of hate?

And with that thought, your selfish decision was made. Craning his head back a little and holding his jaw with your left hand, you sank three fingers down his foamy mouth, pressing them down on his tongue.

Joel retched, even in his almost gone state.

His eyes fluttered open for an ephemeral moment, tears smudging the beautiful chestnut of his irises, to then shut while his limbs kicked everywhere.

“No, Joel, please,” you pleaded in a sob, forcing your fingers deeper down his throat and pressing down on his tongue again. “P-please come back to me.”

Finally—thankfully—Joel heaved, and you let go of an audible, relieving cry when you felt the warmth of his vomit running past your fingers. You gently held his head tilted towards the floor so his airway wouldn’t block and removed your fingers from his mouth.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed tremblingly, rubbing his shoulder before you raked your fingers through his soft, silvery curls, so his hair wouldn’t be in his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh, God. Please, be okay. Please, Joel.”

He had a nasty cut on his left temple running down to his brow, probably from plummeting onto the floor and hitting his head on the countertop. It was still bleeding, but there were more pressing matters.

Joel stayed down for a minute while you whispered your relief, it was obvious his brain had been battling for oxygen and was trying to come back to reality. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before he showed signs of wanting to sit up.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you did. Joel leaned back, back resting against the kitchen island. It took him a second before his misty eyes focused on you, his breathing as shaky as your soul.

Under his intense stare you froze again, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were windows to a profound desperation, a grief so deep you’d only dared to imagine, but one you felt down to your core, in your bones. It hit you like a massive wave, flooding your chest with a dread you hadn’t let yourself feel since you arrived at Jackson.

“Joel…” you hushed faintly, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, a comforting caress.

He didn’t reject your advance. And that was when you knew he was broken inside. All pieces of him scattered around like shards of glass, a puzzle with missing bits—the most important ones. The ones that made him, him.

And then Joel swallowed hard before covering his eyes with one broad palm. His shoulders shook in silence, and with that your heart shrank and fell freely into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, Joel,” you mumbled shakily, scooting over towards him and embracing him, wrapping him in your warmth.

Instead of denying his own tears as he did on patrol, Joel cried. Soft, heartbreaking sobs that found root in your heart, and you just couldn’t help yourself but hug him tighter, fighting your tears back at how low he’d fallen to be openly vulnerable with you.

“It’s okay, Joel, you’re okay,” the words stuck to the back of your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’re not alone, Joel. You aren’t. I’m here. I’ll always be here if you need me to. It’s okay.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand while the other was firmly on his back, bringing him closer to you. And when you felt one of his on the small of your back in a half embrace, thick tears sprang to your eyes.

You held him tight, allowing him to brush some of the weight he carried off his shoulders. And then, your own guilt began suffocating you. Was he crying because you took the choice away from him? Because he wasn’t dead? Because he wasn’t resting?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t,” you begged of him, a plea for lenience that escaped before you could wish it back.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

“You’re very late, Ellie,” Joel reproached, arms folded at the top of the steps.

He fought to keep his tone steady, he hated doing this. He’d been worried sick all night, wondering where Ellie was. The catastrophist in him had already imagined every single scenario where she’d be hurt or left for dead in a trench. He’d felt so anxious for the last three hours, Joel had to set aside the carving he had been working on after messing it up twice.

Seeing her walking towards the house had filled him with an immense relief, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would grow legs and run away. But dread quickly followed—the father in him couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Ellie needed to be reminded of the rules. And she’d put up a fight, make him the bad guy.

And despite being okay with becoming the villain in her story, it still hurt him. A wound so deep that his heart was splintering, because he didn’t really want to do it. Didn’t want to grow further apart from her, the abyss between them so big now it seemed insurmountable. Their relationship was almost beyond repair—he was painfully aware of it—and telling her off for coming home late would only complicate it more.

But he couldn’t just ignore it. He had to do something.

Ellie’s shoulders dropped as she walked past him towards the garage, blatantly disregarding his presence.

Another chink in his already hollering heart.

“Ellie, I’m talking to you,” he raised his voice, warring with himself to keep a calm demeanour. “It’s past two in the morning. You should have come home at least three hours ago.”

Ellie stopped right in her tracks, turning around to face him. The despise in her eyes was as fiery as it was seven months ago when she learnt the truth. And despite the passage of time, it hurt all the same, if not more.

“Who do you think you are to control my every move?” She hissed between gritted teeth, cocking a querying brow.

Your father, was the innate response that burnt the tip of his tongue. Joel fought back the words, knowing full well they would only aggravate the situation.

“What? Do you really think you’re my dad?” Ellie scoffed loudly, an instigating smile curling her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes, more of a frustrated grimace than anything else, but still a knife through the heart would have hurt less—Ellie’s words so perfectly aimed, they’d hit the bullseye, causing internal bleeding. Joel felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes but reined the feeling in with a deep breath.

She doesn’t mean it, she’s angry, he reminded himself.

“I may not be your biological father, but—”

“No, Joel. There’s no but. You aren’t my dad,” Ellie gritted in frustration, her hands moving as she kept on going at him. “My real dad wouldn’t have lied to me for more than four years about what happened in the hospital. My real dad wouldn’t have taken away from me the only thing that made me valuable to this world. My real dad wouldn’t have promised to not kill Eugene to then fucking shoot him while I was gone!”

She knew how to twist the knife, how to make the wound even worse than it already was. Joel’s mouth ran dry, a gurgling void consuming the pit of his stomach as the words settled in his brain. His heart was beating so hard, his eardrums were about to explode.

Joel needed to redirect the conversation before Ellie said something that would tip him over the edge. He needed to keep a cool mind, try not to let her accusations take root in his heart. Joel had to bite back, “I did do all of it because I love you like my own blood, Ellie. You are more valuable than your immunity, that’s not what makes you, you, not to me. And I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“Why are you late? Who were you with?” he said instead, swallowing the suffocating knot in his throat.

Ellie laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Why do you want to know? So you can go and kill them too for keeping me away from this dreadful house?” she retorted back, huffing. “Since that’s how you deal with every fucking problem in your life. Kill them all, right?”

“Because I’m your guardian—”

“—I’m nineteen, Joel. I don’t fucking need you—”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you’ll play by my rules,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Then perhaps I should move out!” Ellie shouted at him, taking a step back. “God, were you this insufferable with Sarah too? Because if you were, I’m sure she hated you for being the worst dad ever. Perhaps it was for the better.”

Ellie didn’t need to specify what was for the better, Joel caught the meaning instantly. That she died.

That was a way to take the knife out of the gaping wound to have him bleed to death. Her cruelness left him speechless, the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes returning. That was the lowest blow he’d ever received; one he didn’t expect from someone he held so dear despite the souring of their relationship.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel whispered, forcing himself to swallow.

Ellie paused—her expression faltered for an instant, perhaps realising the damage she’d caused, but her anger blinded her, stronger than the side of her that wanted to apologise.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled suddenly, her anger slowly deflating, taking a few steps away.

“Ellie,” Joel called under his shaky breath. “I—”

I’m sorry. I wish I could have done better. I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child, of losing you. Perhaps you don’t understand how much I love you, how there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Maybe one day you’ll know, you’ll understand why I did what I did. I’m really sorry.

“It’s late,” Ellie cut him off. “And I better go to bed before you kick my ass.”

And with that, she disappeared into the gloomy night.

I’ve already lost her too.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, so hard it made him stagger. Joel grabbed the handrail for support, his other hand flying to his chest. His heart was pumping so hard, it almost felt like that muscle was about to give out.

It felt like his heart had been ripped out, chucked on the floor for someone to stomp. Joel truly had no reason to be here anymore―the only tether to keep him earthbound had just been severed.

Ellie wasn’t angry with him, no; she hated him. So much that she hadn’t hesitated to bring Sarah up in conversation, knowing how much of a touchy subject it was for Joel. His memories of his daughter were fading, so ethereal now Joel almost thought he dreamt her. The only ones that were vivid in his brain were the bad ones—all the poor decisions he made, in the last few hours of her life.

Grief was a funny thing—how it gave a loud voice to his mistakes and drowned the actual good things he did for her, how it made him focus on the bad rather than the good. He sometimes even doubted if he’d ever been good to Sarah at all—good enough at least, better than his own father was.

“The heart’s memory is selective, which is the basis of its deceitfulness.”

Ellie throwing that accusation at him had only enlivened his most dreadful fear. Had he been the worst dad to Sarah? Had she hated him too? Did she blame him for her death, for his low reaction response, for not taking the bullet for her?

I wanted to. I wish I could have. I wish it had been me.

Taking a big, shaky breath, Joel made the decision he’d been postponing for four weeks now in the hopes that the situation would get better, that he would feel better. However, it had only gotten worse. Ellie had been very clear that she didn’t need him anymore, that he was just a hindrance to her life—a reminder of how she’d failed humanity. Tommy didn’t need him either; he had a thriving family of his own, and Joel was convinced that his sombre presence would only do more harm than good.

And without his family, there was nothing left for him to do on this earthly plane. Joel was exhausted—the kind of mental fatigue that only a deep, forever sleep would cure. And he was done with it all; with this feeling of harrowing melancholy, of drowning loneliness, of death sniffing at the cuffs of his pants.

He couldn’t bear the thought of one hundred years of solitude, not anymore. Joel had lived his life and had nothing left to give.

In a blurry haze, he walked inside his home.

“[…] not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude.”

It all happened as if he wasn’t even in control of his own actions. As if he was watching himself from outside, completely detached from his own body. A void in his mind so big, there had been no room for thought. With trembling hands, Joel had taken out the two letters he’d written to Tommy and Ellie and smoothed them down on the kitchen counter besides the sink before he’d headed to the medicine cabinet. Anything he could blindly reach for would do.

It had only taken a few minutes for all the pills to make him feel sick.

Next thing he knew, Joel was on the floor, sweating and drifting away in agony—his mind spiralling, his throat itching with bile, his stomach burning.

And when he blinked alive again and saw you there, Joel thought you were a vision, that you really weren’t there. That perhaps, finally, he had succeeded, and you were there to guide him into the afterlife.

But the moment you hugged him, the moment he felt himself bound to Earth again, Joel knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was real—you were real. The person he’d mistreated at every opportunity, so much he’d seen the hurt in your eyes and regretted it.

Joel tried to mend his mistake—tried to apologise the night he walked up to your porch at the stroke of midnight. But his resolution had wavered, and his stupid ass had asked for the book instead. The disappointment in your features still haunted him, even at Death’s door.

And yet, here you were, comforting him at his lowest, seeing the ache he’d carried for so long pour out into the world.

Joel had not been able to contain the tears, the desperation trickling out the cracks of his shattered soul, soaking the fabric of your cardigan. And as much as he hated being vulnerable, he just couldn’t rein his demons back in.

The loss he felt was greater than anything he’d experienced before. So loud, yet so quiet in its disguise; so alien, yet so eerily familiar in its pain; so suffocating, yet so freeing in its release. He’d lost so much of himself over the past few months, there was nothing left of him—just a carcass of his existence, a cocoon that kept the jagged pieces of his being feebly glued together, just enough to keep him standing for the people he loved.

Not people, just the one person who grounded his world, Ellie. And with her deeming him expendable, what was there left to fight for? What was his reason for existing if not to be a better version of himself with Ellie by his side?

At sixty-one, all joy and happiness had snuffed out of his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

And then there was you, apologising for bringing him back, for pulling his strings like an expert puppeteer. For undoing his choice without a second thought. For forcing him back into a dark, soul-crushing world.

Should he be mad? Yes, but Joel had no energy left to confront you nor anyone. His throat was ablaze and sore, the aftertaste tingling on his tongue. And then the exhaustion—he was so fucking tired, his arms felt heavier than usual, his legs almost paralysed. His tummy churned, another wave of nausea overtaking him.

His head snapped to one side when the bile rose up his throat. He couldn’t stop the retching before he vomited again, fire climbing up his mouth with a pungent, acidic tang.

You didn’t even flinch, didn’t even step back away from him when he almost puked on you. Instead, you patted his shoulder before your hand travelled up the back of his neck to skim his curls back and away from his forehead. The caress was so gentle, so comforting and almost intimate, it made his skin crawl.

“Why… why are you here?” Joel asked gruffly, brushing his mouth with the back of his still shaky hand.

Your fingers dropped from his hair, your eyes full of a compassion he’d never witnessed before. They were warm and calming, bright under the orange glow of the overhead light. But they also had a sadness to it—almost as if you understood him, as if you knew what he was going through.

Sitting back on your heels, you sighed. “I… I just finished reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold and thought you might wanna borrow it,” you uttered under your breath, your hands twisting on your lap, but your eyes were transfixed on him. “The truth is, I saw you on the porch with your daughter. And then I had this… urge to come see you.”

Joel didn’t correct you about Ellie. Despite how adamant she’d been about him not being a father to her, despite her cruelness, he still believed himself to be her dad. Because that was what fathers should do—love their kids unconditionally, even when they would hurt you with their spiteful words. Even when they would walk away and never look back. Even when they would banish you and disown you. Because even then, even after Ellie had implanted the seed for his descent into hell, Joel still loved her as his own, always would. No words or argument could ever change that.

The irony of your words didn’t escape him—had you foretold his death? This urge you spoke of, was destiny getting in the way of his not-so-well-crafted plan?

Joel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, the back of his head still resting on the side panel of the kitchen island.

“You shouldn’t have,” was all he managed to whisper.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have saved me. You should have let me die.

Your gaze dropped before your eyes flickered back to his. Remorseful, but determined. A beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I know,” you mumbled with a little shrug without breaking eye contact.

Joel’s chest felt suddenly heavy—like a stone had lodged itself between his ribs, his throat clamping up and it had nothing to do with wanting to puke again. Such a feeling was foreign to him, its warmth slowly flushing through his body.

“I’m tired. You should go,” was his way of disclaiming this alien sensation.

You quickly sprung up to action, his petition for you to leave fell on deaf ears. Squatting by his side, you slithered your left arm around the back of his waist to help him up, the other hand wrapped around his front to clutch at his ribs. Too tired to reject your assistance, Joel managed to get up to his feet.

He staggered back, the whole world spiralling around him as his mind felt extremely buzzy. His fingers curled around the rim of the kitchen island to steady himself, all the while you were still holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you to bed.”

The side glance you threw his way admitted no discussion, so for once Joel kept quiet. Trudging on wobbly legs, he made it upstairs with you by his side, his right arm draped around your shoulders for stability and your fingers intertwined with his.

You opened the door to the bedroom he’d nodded to and walked him inside. You pushed him towards the bed and almost forced him to sit down on the mattress. Without saying a word, you knelt before him to undo the knots of his boots and slide them off his feet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” You asked unfazed by it all, towering up to your full height.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It felt too intimate, too… close for comfort.

“I’m just gonna get them for you and then I’m gonna step out while you change,” you explained with a soft smile. “You can’t sleep with those clothes on, Joel.”

“First drawer of the dresser,” he mumbled, mind still hazy.

You grabbed his plaid pyjamas and left them on the bed by his side. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joel saw you disappearing through the doorframe. Moving at snail speed, he managed to change into his night clothes before you returned with a tray. You were balancing a jug, a glass and a small bowl on it, a clean cloth perched on your shoulder.

“You’ve got a nasty cut on your temple. I’m not good at stitching, but we should clean it up before it becomes infected,” you explained while placing the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside him.

Joel had no energy left to oppose your care, so he just let you do. Your feather-like touch on his temple was soothing—so much that his eyes shut close while you delicately wiped the blood off his skin. You were so gentle he didn’t even wince once, or perhaps his mind was so fuzzy there was no room for physical pain.

“All done,” you announced after a couple of minutes. “You gotta drink all that water, okay? You may feel sick again too, although I think you’ve thrown everything up now. But just in case, that’s what the bowl is for.”

Joel nodded thoughtlessly, taking the glass you had just passed him and downing it. He gave it back to you, who put it down on the nightstand again.

“Do you want me to go get someone? Your brother? Your partner? A doctor perhaps?”

His head snapped up instantly, his heart mildly racing in worry. Joel quickly shook his head, the world spinning some more.

“No, don’t,” he husked out, swallowing a raspy groan, his hands curling into fists.

“Okay, I won’t,” you brushed his knee with yours. “Get some sleep. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t need to stay—”

“I want to stay, Joel, and I will stay. You’d have to kick me out of your house, and I don’t think you’re in a position to do that right now,” you said with gentleness before palming your thighs and standing up. “If you need me, shout.”

Your mind was still racing from everything that had unfolded. When you ran towards Joel’s house an hour ago, despite the doom pooling in your belly, you definitely had not expected to find him on the verge of death.

Your hands were shaking from the adrenaline running wild through your system, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what had pushed Joel so far as to take his own life. Because there was no denying what you had seen—it hadn’t been an accident. Which then made you wonder about the other times you’d found him.

Had he tried to end his life when you saw lying on the floor through the window? At the time you just thought he had fallen, an unlucky misstep on a ladder while changing a lightbulb. But now… the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. Same with the mishap with the infected—he’d definitely dropped the knife on purpose.

How long had this been going on? Had he sought help? Was his family aware? Tommy? Maria? His daughter? Had Joel become so good at hiding his own misery that no one had really noticed how the light in his eyes was dwindling?

How alone he must have felt after at least three attempts without no one spotting the signs.

At least you had. Late, almost too late, but you had. And while you knew he wasn’t appreciative of your intervention, you just couldn’t let it happen. Your first instinct had been to help—like you always did. That part of you had almost died in the first few years of the apocalypse, but as time went on and people’s humanity waned, you found yours. You had been the voice of reason in your group, the kind-hearted one that would welcome strangers in despite your friends’ reticence. You had a knack for telling who was a good person, and that sixth sense had never failed you.

And that was why you were sure about Joel. He was pretty rough around the edges, but his core was good. You just knew.

Your mind kept on drifting away, running through everything that had happened over and over again until you almost made yourself dizzy with worry. You were now in the kitchen, having finished cleaning up the mess on the floor so Joel wouldn’t have to deal with it tomorrow morning.

I’ll just go and check on him, make sure he’s still breathing and doing okay, you thought to yourself while washing your hands in the kitchen sink.

As you grabbed a kitchen towel to dry your skin, your eyes landed on two brown, folded letters near the sink. One was addressed to Tommy, the other one to an Ellie. Your heart began beating wildly in your chest.

They are goodbye letter, suicide letters to his loved ones.

“Who are you and where is Joel?” A snappy voice brought you back.

The interruption startled you, heart jolting against your ribs, as you turned around.

The teen you’d seen on Joel’s porch earlier was standing a few feet away from you, gun cocked and pointed at you. You raised your hands up in the air instinctually, still clutching at the kitchen towel, fearing the worst. Joel’s daughter clicked her tongue when you didn’t respond.

“Uh, hi. Ellie?” You ventured, remembering the name on the letter. A glint in her eyes confirmed you were right. “I’m your new neighbour. I came to Jackson around a month ago. Please don’t shoot me.”

Ellie’s head tilted to one side as she scanned you from head to toe. Her eyes momentarily sparkled with some recognition, and she sheathed her gun again.

“I’ve seen you before. You live across the street, right?”

You took in the biggest breath of your life and nodded, dropping your hands and twisting the towel.

“Yeah. Sorry. Your dad’s not feeling well. He’s gone to bed,” you excused Joel’s absence the best you could without giving away what had transcended tonight. You didn’t want his daughter to worry.

A sudden realisation dawned upon you—had you not intervened when you did, Ellie would have found Joel dead on the kitchen floor. Your eyes watered at the idea, but you blinked the tears away before they formed.

“Is he okay?” Ellie asked, an instant worry washing over her young face as she took a few steps towards you.

The letters, she can’t see them.

Thinking as fast as you could, you threw the kitchen towel on the counter, aim perfect, and it landed on top of the letters, covering them completely.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” you quickly put her at ease, walking towards her and patting her shoulder. “He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him, that’s all.”

 “Shit,” Ellie muttered, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

Then you remembered the heated argument you saw between them, and your heart silently cried for the young lady. Ellie must feel terrible now, her troubled expression darkening while she picked at her nails.

“Don’t worry. Joel’s okay now, Ellie. I promise,” the last word came out in a whisper. You didn’t want to lie to her but couldn’t tell her the crude truth either. If she was to find out, it couldn’t be through you. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I, uh… Just came to get an apple,” Ellie shrugged, reaching for the fruit bowl on the kitchen island.

You could tell that wasn’t the reason she was here. Perhaps she had come to apologise after the fight with her dad. If they two had something in common, was their reserve for apologies, that was for sure.

“Better get going,” Ellie muttered before biting into the apple and hopping back on the floor. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Just want to make sure he’s okay, then I’ll go back home.”

“Alright. Night.”

“Night, Ellie.”

Ellie lingered in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs for a second, probably considering going to check on Joel herself. But thought better of it, and a minute later she was gone.

You let go of a heavy sigh, eyes returning to the envelopes. Thank goodness she hasn’t seen them.

You couldn’t just let them lay there, so you grabbed them. Not that you were going to read them—it was a blatant invasion to anyone’s privacy—but you had to get them out of sight in case Ellie returned. So you folded them and slid them in the pocket of your cardigan.

You never went back home that night. After you went to check on Joel, who was squirming around in bed but otherwise asleep, you sat down on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. You fought against your own fatigue as best you could but ended up slipping into a light sleep.

A few hours later, you woke up to the whisper of your name.

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[rosie-posie1313]

Harry ‘W2S’ Lewis Fic Recs

05/30/2025

⭒ Temptation by @pretendyoucantseeme

you’re a contestant on season two of inside. only the other six sidemen and your friend/co-contestant george know that you're dating harry, and they love making shit difficult for you, because why the hell not.

⭒ Casual? By @ldr13beaches

⭒ Drunken Confessions by @/ldr13beaches

⭒ drunk bingo by @candykissd

drunk bingo is a crazy time, especially when you're a lightweight. although, harry's there to take care of you.

⭒ jealousy, jealousy by @/candykissd

there'd always been some tension between the two, a flirtationship, if you will. and so, when someone shows interest in y/n at a friends party, harry's jealous side comes out to play.

⭒ My Winner. By @sdmnpact

⭒ Wroetoshaw Masterlist by @/sdmnpact

⭒ Comfort In You by @ahopefullwritter

You’re visiting London to do a shoot with the sidemen and have been having a hard time sleeping. Harry notices your tiredness and offers you his bed and himself to help you finally get some rest.

⭒ Comfort In You pt. 2 by @/ahopefullwritter

It’s the morning after you slept over at Harry’s and the line between being friends and being more has officially been crossed.

⭒ NETFLIX SPECIAL by @whoetoshaw

an episode of the sidemen documentary follows harry around his day to day life with you

⭒ Masterlist by @/whoetoshaw

⭒ Festival by @sillylittlegirlthoughts

⭒ Skippers by @/sillylittlegirlthoughts

⭒ YOUTUBER MASTERLIST by @myoddessy

⭒ More Than Just a Match by @maggie-readss

The Sidemen Charity Match 2025

⭒ Take a break by @clemswinecorner

When something’s off with Harry, there’s probably only one person that can make him feel better: his girlfriend.

⭒ I get satisfied by @/clemswinecorner

Chris’ camera woman- and by now, also the boys’ friends- and Harry get teased about their dating life. No one seems to notice they’re saying exactly the same, though.

⭒ Being w3s assistant for 24 hours (Calfreezy’s video) by @sidemenxyn

⭒ Pub crawl, (chips video) by @/sidemenxyn

⭒ Harry & Y/n moments caught on camera! By @/sidemenxyn

⭒ SIDEMEN BRUTALLY RANK MORE YOUTUBERS  by @wroetojaw

cozy day in with your boyfriend and watching the sidemen

⭒ 200 Y/o Cheesecake by @bad268

Harry joins your YouTube tutorial.

⭒ Laugh by @bad268

⭒ #mrsw2sslays  by @infictionalwonderland

the nation absolutely adores you. . oh yeah, and your boyfriend too.

⭒ Stay by @mrtelevisionlover

⭒ WROETOSHAW ☆ masterlist by @w2sology

⭒ under the sheets by @/w2sology

everyone knows that you and harry are together, yet no one really knows what goes on in your relationship. but when fans get little snippets, they can't help but fawn over you both.

⭒ Wag by @w2soneshots

after your boyfriend, Harry, played in the sidemen charity match and lost, you go back to your hotel room and make him forget all about the result.

⭒ #Instagram Au (02) by @zaynieinsanie

⭒ The mystery package by @natailiatulls07

⭒ Favourite person by @yourimagines

you are Harry’s favourite person

⭒ Summertime fun by @kar1nsworldx

The Sidemen + their gf’s go to a trip to Croatia, where the reader is from

⭒ You made it. By @buzzyb33

growing up together y/n dreamt day and night of being a musician, she played guitar and piano and adored everything about it, her and Harry went school together until year 8 when she moved all the way to Leeds, she never really left his mind.

⭒ The Wedding Bells of December by @sofiasworld00

Harry and reader at Ethan and Faiths wedding where one thing leads to another and the night ends with an engagement.

⭒ Confessions by @landonorrisscar

A video of you and Harry at Vikk’s wedding went viral and the rest of the boys are questioning you guys about it.

⭒ w2s as a munch by @propertyofwicked

⭒ Your words still haunts me in my dreams by @lovelynikol7

⭒ Untitled by @jeezybipsman

Harry being teased about his stutter by the boys and is now kinda embarrassed to speak to the reader

⭒ Harry Comforting reader by @/jeezybipsman

⭒ ANOTHER BLANKET by @lvrslvt3

reader is being harassed by a creepy man harry is a little too late to save her.

⭒ LOVE IS A CHOICE by @/lvrslvt3

harry’s insecurities causes the downfall of his own relationship.

⭒ BABYFEVER by @allywthsr

Y/N sees a TikTok from side+ and gets severe babyfever

⭒ Stupid Mental Health by gothicwidowsworld

⭒ Thigh Riding by nsfwketamineharry

⭒ Romance is Boring by 221mars

Harry takes in a cold winter morning in his London flat

⭒ Date Night In Isolation by damn-behzinga

The activities you and Harry get up to in quarantine

⭒ You and Me by ketamineharry

reader and harry both really like each other but they both haven’t dated in a really long time so they have no idea what to do

⭒ I Love Me  by ketamineharry

the reader is curvy compared to Talia + Freya and the other girlfriends and they are on holiday with everyone and the reader feels a bit insecure and scared of what everyone will think when they look at photos, have photo shoots and insta comments

⭒ Outnumbered by ketamineharry

⭒ Until I’ve Lived My Life  by ketamineharry

Until I’ve Lived My Life by Lucy Spraggan

⭒ Behind His Back by sour--disposition

reader is best mates with cal and he brings her to shoots and in vids and such and her and Harry are kinda together but no one knows then someone accidentally outs them

⭒ It’s Been A While by sour--disposition

⭒ 2am Feast by sour--disposition

⭒ Bad Girlfriend by sour--disposition

⭒ Confessions at Sea by sour--disposition

harry lewis where like you’re hanging out with him and the sidemen and then you fall asleep on him and then the guys start making like “cheesy” comments about the two of you and harry like confesses how much he loves you

⭒ Head Over Heels by sour--disposition

while Harry is streaming on twitch Y/N passes out. Harry doesn’t notices until he sees that chat go wild.

⭒ Take Me By The Hand by sour--disposition

One taking the others hand to help them up

[chadobi]

Bayverse TMNT Boys React to Reader’s Specific Talent (Headcanons)

Leonardo – Reader is a talented calligrapher and traditional artist

•Leo spots your sketchpad one day and flips it open expecting doodles… only to find perfectly executed calligraphy and serene ink drawings of Japanese landscapes, spiritual symbols, and even his katana.

•He’s quiet for a moment, flipping pages. “You drew these?”

•“It’s meditative,” you say, handing him a brush. “Want to try?”

•He’s reluctant, but soon you’re teaching him how to hold the brush, how to let his breathing guide the strokes.

•It becomes a bonding ritual: silent, focused time together with tea and ink.

•You even start writing him notes in delicate calligraphy. He saves every single one.

•On your birthday, he gives you a blank scroll. “Your art brings me peace. I figured… maybe you’d share it with me.”

Raphael – Reader is an amateur boxer who trains for fun

•You two are sparring in the dojo and Raph’s holding back — until you duck, twist, and land a perfect shot to his side (with love, of course).

•“Holy hell,” he grunts, grinning wide. “Where’d you learn that?”

•”Boxing gym. Did it for confidence. Didn’t think I’d need it to fight a mutant turtle boyfriend.”

•He’s impressed, like genuinely hyped. It’s not about strength — it’s your footwork, your fire, your control.

•You start training together. It turns into flirt-sparring: punches, banter, the occasional kiss mid-round.

•He brags about you to everyone. “My girl? She could drop you.”

•When you knock out a would-be mugger one night with a clean jab, Raph is so proud he forgets to throw a punch himself.

Donatello – Reader is a speed reader with a photographic memory

•He hands you a blueprint to get your opinion, expecting to explain every detail… but you just skim it and respond with a perfect breakdown.

•He blinks. “Wait… did you just memorize that whole thing?”

•“Yeah? I’ve always had a weird memory for stuff like this.”

•You casually reveal that you can quote entire books, recite news articles, or remember the order of a deck of cards after glancing at it.

•He’s fascinated. He starts testing you — hands you technical documents just to see if you can do it. You always can.

•You become his research buddy. You read things ten times faster and summarize like a pro.

•“You’re like… my living database,” he says in awe.

Michelangelo – Reader is a skilled dancer

•One night you’re goofing off while music plays, and you suddenly drop into a freestyle routine — clean footwork, isolations, body rolls that are way too smooth.

•Mikey’s jaw hits the floor. “WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT???”

•He jumps in immediately, turning it into a dance battle that ends in both of you panting, laughing, and collapsing into a tangled mess on the floor.

•From that point on, dance-offs are your love language.

•He starts choreographing silly couple dances for TikTok (even if you don’t post them), and begs you to teach him your slickest moves.

•You make him playlists, he makes you custom LED sneakers.

•”You’re like a human rhythm goddess,” he says. “And lucky for me, I’m your #1 backup dancer.”

[joelmillerrrr]

What's your problem? | Joel Miller x Reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You found your way to Jackson alone. Joel doesn’t seem to trust you or like you, but he actually can’t stop thinking about you.

w/c: not sure lol

Warnings: age gap (25/60), Maria and Tommy aren’t together, jealous!joel, slight nsfw

A/N: This is my first time writing in a long time lol so apologies if it’s rough!!

The sun peeks through the torn curtain, making you open your eyes with a slight wince. The mattress underneath you feels heavenly, still unbelievable to you that you are even waking up on such a bed after a life on the road, alone for a long time.

Until you got to Jackson, that was.

You didn’t really speak to anyone when you first arrived, only Tommy and Maria, who ran Jackson. It was hard for you to get used to everyone living out their lives as if there wasn’t imminent death behind the gates and walls.

A lot of these people didn’t know what you had been through to get here, how many people you had lost on the way. Not that any of them cared, probably.

The only people who knew what you, kind of, went through were Tommy and Maria, as when you had shown up at the gates that fateful day, they obviously had some questions to ask you, as 50 guns were pointed in your direction.

They eventually started to trust you, apart from one man who was relentless in his attitude towards you.

Joel Miller. Tommy’s older brother.

He always had a look of annoyance on his face when it came to you, as if you being in the same town as him was an utter inconvenience on his part. You tried to keep out of his way as much as you could, and you rarely saw him anyway.

That was until Maria called a meeting in the town hall, as she wanted to discuss new working patterns. Up to this point, you have been working on patrols with Tommy, sometimes Maria, but mainly Tommy. You really liked Tommy’s company; he made you feel safe, which is something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Thank you all for coming. I think it’s time we switch things up a little bit-” Maria carried on speaking, but you saw the crack of the door open, and Joel slumped into the town hall, his usual grumpy face on display.

“-If I say your number, you are moving onto Patrol D, and the pairings will change every other day. Okay, so, number 12, 15, 35, and 67.” Patrol D was Tommy’s patrol, the one you were on normally, but your number hadn’t been called, so that meant you had been moved. Brilliant.

You look up to see Tommy throw you a sympathetic glance, knowing all too well how you wouldn’t approve of being taken away from him, but things had to change, especially because new people had since turned up and Tommy needed to make sure they were above board, like you.

Looking in your direction was Joel. You didn’t even realise he was staring at you, and the interaction you just had with Tommy. His brows knitted together very slightly as he watched you communicate through your face to his brother.

Were you guys hooking up out there? There’s no way, right?

“Patrol G, number 4, 60, 56, and 97.” 97? Did Maria just say 97? AND Patrol G. There was no way that Tommy had agreed to putting you on a patrol with his brother.

Again, you look at Tommy, forgetting Joel even entered the room late, “Are you serious?” you mouth to him, shaking your head. Tommy mouths back, “Talk after, okay?”.

The meeting carried on until the end, and all you could do was sulk the whole way through, waiting for Tommy to come over and talk to you, which he did.

“Tommy, what -”

“Before you start going in on me, trust me. More people have joined Jackson, and it’s my job to take them out at first -”

“I know, but Tommy, we don’t -”

“See eye to eye, I know, but it’s one day out of the week, and if he is really that bad to you, I will move you onto a different patrol. Give my brother a chance.” He almost pleads, “Please.”

Rolling your head back, you nod your head reluctantly, “Alright, fine, whatever.”

You start to walk away, but Tommy grabs the top of your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “You might be surprised.”

“Yeah, we will see.” You reply, continuing to walk again, this time towards the door where Joel was standing.

He was still in the back, arms crossed with that stoic look on his face. Joel was watching you the whole time. Never taking his eyes off you. It frustrated him that you were so blissfully unaware of how pretty you were, and not in a way that was in everyone’s face but subtly in the background. You were more than half his age, and he should’ve felt guilty for the way he looked at you and fantasised about you, but he didn’t.

“I’m just as happy as you are.” You said, walking past him and out of the door.

—–

It was Thursday, the day designated as your patrol day with Joel. You saw him waiting at the gate for you, the same unimpressed look on his face.

“Let’s just get this out of the way, shall we?” You took the gun from him that he passed to you with no more than a sideways glance your way and headed out the front gates together.

The trip was quiet; the only sound to be heard was the crunch of the snow beneath your feet. Joel was in front of you, leading the way. You couldn’t help but check him out a little.

Guilty as charged, you found Joel Miller attractive, like most of the young girls in Jackson. There was something about him, something dangerous, alluring, dominating, but also soft and gentle. He was also really nice to look at when he didn’t have that look on his face, like he didn’t want to be anywhere near you.

“Keep up,” Joel said, turning around to look at you in a daydream. You looked so damn perfect, he thought. How can someone like you be around in a world like this? He wanted to protect you as much as he could.

You were snapped back into reality with Joel’s husky voice, even though he was the worlds biggest arsehole, that voice could do numbers to your body.

“I am.” You huffed, “Tommy and I have been doing this route forever, nothing happens up this way.”

Joel gruffs in response, “Just keep up with me. I won’t repeat it.”

“Yes, Sir.” Whispering it under your breath, you look up at Joel, who does not look amused, “Damn, do you ever lighten up? Is your face just a constant scowl?”

Joel doesn’t respond.

“You can at least pretend to like me.”

“No, I don’t,” Joel responds.

Both of you carry on walking in silence until you get to the outpost. You genuinely have no idea what you did to Joel Miller for him to dislike you so much, but you will get to the bottom of it by the end of this patrol.

The crisp, cold air outside is closed off by the door to the outpost. A sudden warmth reaches your cheeks, and you take off your coat. You hate being hot; it’s the worst thing in the world for you. You place your bag down on the floor and open your pack to find that Tommy has made you some sandwiches for the patrol today. Even though you weren’t with him, he still cared about you.

“Cute,” you say, under your breath.

Joel looks up from his packed lunch and notices that the lunchbox belongs to Tommy. He can’t help but feel rage grow inside of him, and this is why he stays away from you. He cannot control himself while you are around.

Visions start shooting around his head of you and his brother coming here to hook up. He can see Tommy’s hands all over you, and your pretty face making those pretty expressions. A little sweaty and panting heavily, but not for him. He needs to have you.

“Desperate,” Joel retorts, “How long have you been hooking up with him?”

You are taken aback, “What?”

Joel grabs his lunch and storms off into the other room away from you. You are left there to wonder where that sudden question came from. Tommy was a friend, the only friend you really had in Jackson. He was supportive and kind, and trusted you unlike his elder brother.

You follow him into the other room. “Tommy and I have never hooked up.”

Joel looks up from his lunch and lets you continue to speak, “and even if we did, what does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” Joel says, looking back down at his food. Joel was trying to keep his cool; he was trying not to just grab you and take you there and then. Tell you that’s all he’s been thinking about since first seeing you, tearing off your clothes, or looking after you in the most wholesome way.

“Well, it obviously fucking must for you to bring it up.” You step into the room fully, “So tell me, what is your problem? I feel like I have done nothing but get out of your way. It’s not my fault Tommy put me on your patrol, if you have a problem with it, talk to him.”

Joel’s whole demeanor changes, he tilts his head, and starts to walk over to you. Your breath hitches as you feel so small all of a sudden. He knows how to make people feel tiny. Stalking over to you like a lion would its prey, you stand firm against the inside of the doorframe, not giving in to his intimidation.

“My problem?” He is so close to you now, you can almost feel his breath on your face. “My problem is I see you every day, looking like that,” Joel rakes his eyes up and down your body, “and you’re not mine.”

You are frozen, frozen under his stare. His body is so close to yours, “Make me yours then.”

Joel smirks, “That easy, huh? If I knew that, I would’ve tried a long time ago.”

“Can’t blame a girl who’s touch starved.” You whisper, still not breaking contact with his eyes.

He smirks, “Thanks for making me feel good, babygirl.”

Your knees sink a little at the pet name and the teasing, “I’m not giving you a compliment when you have been an arse to me ever since I got here.”

His hands trail down your sides and rest on your hips, squeezing the area with his big hands. It’s enough to make your core throb. He was horrible to you, and you couldn’t stand him, and now you wanted him to make you his.

Joel’s face is meters away from yours, you can feel his salt and pepper beard touching your skin, “Let me make it up to you.”

You nod your head rapidly as he leans down to catch your lips in a kiss. A very rough and passionate kiss. It feels like Joel is taking the air out of your lungs, and you relish in it. You give your entire mind, body, and soul to Joel Miller.