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shokocide · 1 month ago

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PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.

word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)

content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, alcohol consumption, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare

author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS

The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.

Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.

You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.

There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.

You need a drink.

The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.

You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.

The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”

You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.

“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.

She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.

“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”

You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”

She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”

You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.

The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”

A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.

“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”

You don’t look away. “He local?”

“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”

You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.

“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”

She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”

You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”

The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”

You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”

“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”

You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”

She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”

You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”

You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.

You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.

There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.

Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.

It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.

You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.

You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Someone’s moving out there.

And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.

You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.

You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.

You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.

You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.

You both stop—almost head to chest.

“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.

He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”

You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”

He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”

“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.

That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.

“I’m Choso.”

“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.

“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”

And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.

The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.

“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”

You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”

She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”

You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.

You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”

She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”

You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”

“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”

You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”

Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”

You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”

“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.

You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”

“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”

You pause. “Like what?”

She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”

“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.

You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.

You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.

But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

You need eggs.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.

You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.

Still no sign of him.

You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.

You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.

No Choso.

No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.

You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.

Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.

And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.

“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”

You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”

He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”

You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.

He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

The bar’s quieter tonight.

Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.

“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”

“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”

She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”

You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”

“You mean termites?”

You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—

“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”

You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”

You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.

The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”

Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.

Then he nods.

The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.

He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”

The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”

And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”

He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.

Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.

You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.

“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.

Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”

There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.

It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.

You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.

“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”

Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”

“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”

That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.

He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”

He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.

“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”

And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.

Choso.

You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.

No. You’re here to get your life together.

Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.

You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.

You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.

“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”

You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”

He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”

He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.

“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.

You blink.

Because holy hell.

You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.

He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”

“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.

Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.

The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.

At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.

You like him.

It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”

The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.

Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”

Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.

You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”

“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”

He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”

You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”

When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.

��Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”

You glance over. “On the porch?”

“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”

He nods once. “It shows.”

Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.

“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”

And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.

You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS

[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there

[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE “LEMON WATER” AFTER

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. it’s entertaining

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.

“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass.

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”

You blink. “Saturday?”

“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”

Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”

You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”

“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”

You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”

“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”

You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.

You swirl the ice once more.

You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.

You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.

No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.

Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.

Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.

“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.

You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.

You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.

And still, you keep looking.

Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.

You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.

“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.

You tense.

Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.

“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”

You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.

He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”

Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”

“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.

“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.

You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.

You swallow, then nod.

Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”

The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”

Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”

You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”

“…No.”

“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.

You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.

“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.

“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”

You try not to read too much into that. You fail.

You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.

You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.

You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.

He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”

You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.

“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”

He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”

Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.

“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.

He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”

You follow without thinking.

And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.

But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.

You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.

Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.

“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.

He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.

The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.

Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”

He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.

Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”

A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”

The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.

You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”

Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.

“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”

You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”

His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.

To your mouth.

He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.

His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.

You don’t.

His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.

You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.

The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

But still—he leans in closer.

Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.

He doesn’t move far.

Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.

Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”

Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”

That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”

He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”

That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”

And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.

He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.

The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.

He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”

Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”

You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.

Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.

Just barely.

You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.

You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.

The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.

Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.

You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.

Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.

“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.

He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.

[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.

You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.

[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.

[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.

You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.

The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.

You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.

And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.

The days that follow feel different.

Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.

Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.

There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.

Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.

Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—

Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.

You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.

You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.

But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.

You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”

He does.

And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.

When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”

You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.

It starts with a rumble.

The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.

You don’t.

You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.

You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”

His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.

“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”

You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.

Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.

You nod.

He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.

Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.

��Thanks,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”

You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.

The silence stretches.

“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.

Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”

The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.

“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.

Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.

The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.

He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.

Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.

Maybe it’s him.

You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.

But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.

“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”

There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.

The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”

The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.

“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”

You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”

When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”

Your stomach flips.

You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.

Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”

You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”

“Still suits you.”

You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.

The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.

Then—soft.

The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.

You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:

“Glad you agreed to come.”

You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”

The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.

His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.

It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.

Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.

His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.

When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.

The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.

Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”

You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.

His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”

But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.

You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Choso—”

“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”

The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.

He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.

He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.

“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “’Til now.”

His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.

“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.

You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”

His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.

Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.

And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.

He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”

You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.

It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.

He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.

Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.

And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”

You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.

And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.

And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.

His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.

Because it’s not calm anymore.

There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.

When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.

“Almost there?”

You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.

He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.

Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.

“Good.”

He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.

Like it matters.

And it does.

“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.

“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”

He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—

And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.

You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.

When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.

His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”

You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.

“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”

He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.

You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.

Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.

You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.

You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”

His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”

Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.

He sees it all.

Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.

“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.

“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.

And then you bottom out.

Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.

And for a second, everything goes still.

Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”

His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”

Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.

He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.

“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”

“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach.

You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”

And so you do.

You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.

Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.

You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.

Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.

“Baby…”

It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.

But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.

He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.

“Choso—!”

“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”

He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.

He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.

“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”

Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.

He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.

His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.

“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”

And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.

Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”

His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He groans.

And then it happens.

In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.

He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.

His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.

“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”

One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.

“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”

His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.

You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.

You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.

“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.

“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.

His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.

“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”

And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.

Choso loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”

He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.

Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.

“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.

“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.

“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.

“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”

You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.

For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.

Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”

You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”

He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”

Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.

“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.

Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”

There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

No need to rush. Not tonight.

author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3

3K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

4K notes · View notes

humanjarvis · 2 months ago

Text

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart.

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh.

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer.

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes.

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win.

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.”

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.”

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust.

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily.

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park.

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.

But soon, you run out of room to stall.

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach.

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering.

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off.

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination.

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well.

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch.

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion.

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late.

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!”

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip.

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues.

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand.

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below.

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not.

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise.

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.”

You nod brusquely.

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches.

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually.

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you.

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one.

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.”

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you.

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t.

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm.

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly.

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations.

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape.

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed.

You don’t know what to wear.

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look.

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall.

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use.

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway.

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect.

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you.

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other.

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied.

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin.

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did.

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street.

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious.

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift.

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood.

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs.

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.”

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth.

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.”

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well.

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard.

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.”

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb.

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you.

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed.

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much.

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years.

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world.

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try.

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint.

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it.

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet.

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you.

Caleb had had better nights.

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better.

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn.

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself.

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle.

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him.

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening.

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good.

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would.

Instead, he feels his dog tag.

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings.

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace.

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you.

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him.

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago.

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away.

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface.

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it.

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back.

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force.

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?”

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.”

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you.

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside.

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended.

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern.

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy.

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times.

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness.

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault.

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you.

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it.

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure.

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand.

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be.

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole.

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided.

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you.

***

The days drag on.

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever.

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure.

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him.

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves.

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space.

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer.

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide.

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom.

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you.

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing.

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time.

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept.

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb.

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened.

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby.

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out.

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him.

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless.

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it.

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly.

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring.

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall.

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone.

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times…

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before.

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home.

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions.

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t.

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without.

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void.

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress.

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you.

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer.

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction.

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet.

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan.

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time.

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return.

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm.

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would.

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight.

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered.

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Where else would I go?”

And those violet irises find yours.

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did.

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end.

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation.

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.”

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.”

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.”

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily.

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.”

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone.

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours.

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.”

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.”

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.”

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue.

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him.

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch.

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back.

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time.

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead.

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.”

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there.

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises.

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much.

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully.

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct.

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months.

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air.

Then, a soft clink.

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck.

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight.

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened.

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend.

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push.

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try.

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

1K notes · View notes

junojoel · 3 months ago

Text

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 9.4k

Summary: You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, THEN oral (f!receiving), outdoor sex, joel is a widower, sorry i accidentally made it really sad, joel is also soft for reader, and a romantic

this is the product of me playing stardew valley and reading the pumpkin spice cafe. enjoy :)

The city had a way of hollowing a person out.

You realised it the morning you woke up with your cheek pressed against your desk, a half-finished cover letter stuck to your forearm, and the acidic tang of stale coffee burning your throat. Four years of late-night study sessions, unpaid internships, and networking events had earned you a shiny degree and absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The job offers were there if you wanted them. Cubicle farms with fluorescent lighting and managers who'd call you honey in meetings. Apartment leases with paper-thin walls and neighbours who played bass-heavy music at 3am. A life measured in subway delays and happy hours that weren't happy at all.

So when you found the ad for Miller Ranch buried in the classifieds—Help needed. Room and board. Quiet place for quiet souls—you didn't overthink it. You packed your duffel, left a vague note for your roommate, and pointed your car west until the skyscrapers melted into golden fields.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The ranch wasn't what you expected.

You'd imagined something from a postcard—red barns, cheerful horses, maybe a friendly dog trotting up to greet you. Instead, you found a sprawling property that looked like it had been wrestled from the earth itself. The main house was all rough-hewn logs and a sagging porch, the wood weathered silver by decades of sun. A few outbuildings dotted the land, their roofs patched with rusted tin. And beyond it all, endless stretches of pasture fading into shadowy pines.

You were still sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel, when the screen door creaked open.

He moved like the land did. Slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with anyone else's pace. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, his faded flannel rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scars. His beard was more grey than brown, his hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. But it was his eyes that caught you: dark, assessing, the kind of eyes that had seen too much to be impressed easily.

He studied you with dark eyes that missed nothing. Your clean sneakers, your manicured nails, the way you squinted against the sunlight like you'd never truly seen it before.

"You lost?" His voice was rougher than you expected, like gravel under tires.

You lifted your chin. "Are you Joel Miller?"

"You the one who called about workin' here?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that settled low in your stomach.

You swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh—I emailed last week."

He didn't smile. Just nodded once and stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

You learned fast that Joel Miller didn't waste words.

He showed you the ropes in silence—how to check the fence lines for breaks, how to tell if a horse was favouring a leg, which tools to use when a storm knocked a branch through the chicken coop roof. His hands were always moving, always working, rough fingers handling everything with a care that surprised you.

"You ever done any of this before?" he asked on your third day, watching you struggle to coil a rope properly.

You wiped sweat from your brow. "Does petting a pony at a county fair count?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. "Guess we're startin' from scratch, then."

He didn't baby you, though. When you spilled a bucket of grain, he made you sweep it up. When you misread the clouds and left the hay bales uncovered before a downpour, you spent the next afternoon hauling soggy bundles to the compost. But he never yelled. Never made you feel stupid. Just showed you, again and again, until your hands stopped shaking and your muscles stopped burning.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

You found him in the kitchen at 2 AM, the old percolator hissing on the stove.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, lingering in the doorway.

He didn't turn around. "Old habit. Used to take night shifts checkin' the herds."

You padded closer, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon—he'd been baking earlier, you realized. There was still flour dusting the counter.

"Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Then he reached into the cabinet for a second mug.

You sat at the scarred oak table while he poured, the steam curling between you. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.

"City girl like you," he said suddenly, sliding the coffee toward you. "What made you come out here?"

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin. "Needed to remember what quiet sounded like."

"Why'd you really come out here, darlin'?"

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

You watched the horizon lighten from black to deep blue. "I think... I needed to prove I could."

His knuckles brushed yours as he reached for the bottle. Neither of you moved away.

For the first time, Joel looked at you—really looked at you. And you saw something flicker in his gaze, something warm and understanding.

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The sky turned the colour of a fresh bruise an hour before the twister touched down.

You were repairing the chicken coop roof when the wind kicked up, sending your hammer tumbling into the dirt. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Joel's shout carried across the yard. "Get to the cellar! Now!"

You'd never seen him run before. He moved like a man possessed, boots pounding the hard-packed earth as he closed the distance between you. His arm hooked around your waist just as the first hailstone struck your shoulder, a marble-sized bullet of ice that left your skin throbbing.

The storm cellar doors groaned in protest as Joel wrenched them open. Damp, cool air rushed up to meet you as he practically carried you down the stairs.

Darkness.

Then the single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and, oddly, a stack of well-loved paperbacks.

"You okay?" Joel's hands were suddenly everywhere, tilting your chin up to check your pupils, running down your arms to inspect for injuries, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I'm fine," you breathed, though your heart was trying to escape your chest. "Just... just scared."

The admission hung between you as the storm raged overhead. The bulb flickered again, then died completely, plunging you into blackness.

Joel's voice came from closer than you expected. "Ain't nothin' in this world can hurt you while I'm here."

You reached out blindly, your fingers finding the rough denim of his shirt. His breath hitched as you fisted the fabric.

Somewhere above, the world was ending. Here in the dark, something was beginning.

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The cellar doors groaned as Joel shouldered them open, releasing you both into a world transformed. Dawn painted the ravaged landscape in pale gold, revealing the storm's cruel artistry. A century-old oak now lay uprooted across the north pasture, its massive roots clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fence posts had been plucked from the earth and scattered like straws, barbed wire curling in dangerous spirals across the mud. The chicken coop roof had taken flight, landing thirty yards away in a splintered heap.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. He rotated his left shoulder unconsciously—the old injury from a mustang bucking him off always acted up before rain.

"Gonna need to—"

"Check the livestock first," you finished.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Two months ago you'd asked if cattle could swim during a flash flood. Now you knew ranch priorities.

The work was brutal. By noon, your shirt clung to your back with a mixture of sweat and residual storm humidity. Joel moved with relentless efficiency, his forearms corded with muscle as he wrestled fence posts back into alignment. You watched the way his wedding band caught the sunlight when he wiped his brow, the silver chain glinting against his sun-darkened skin.

At the third post, your blisters burst.

You didn't make a sound, but Joel's head snapped up like he'd heard something. His eyes dropped to your hands, where blood seeped through the leather work gloves.

"Goddammit." He was in front of you in three strides, peeling the ruined gloves off with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the raw flesh of your palm, and you hissed involuntarily.

Joel's mouth tightened. "Should've said something."

"You would've told me to toughen up."

"Would've told you to take a damn break." He rummaged in his saddlebag for the medical kit he always carried. The antiseptic stung, but his hands were steady as he wrapped your palms in gauze. "Stubborn city girl."

The way he said it sounded almost like praise.

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The next week passed in a haze of exhaustion and unexpected discoveries.

You learned that:

A properly sharpened axe sings through wood with a sound like a breath being released

Joel's coffee preferences involved exactly two sugar cubes (never spoonfuls)

Your body could ache in places you didn't know existed

Each evening, Joel would appear at your elbow with some new remedy; a salve made from beeswax and lavender for your sunburn, a stretch to ease the knot between your shoulder blades, a cold beer pressed into your hand with a quiet "You earned it."

Tonight, you found him at the workbench, repairing a bridle by lantern light. The golden glow softened the lines of his face, catching the silver strands in his beard. He didn't look up as you approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly when you set a fresh cup of coffee beside him—two sugars.

"Thanks." His voice was rough from disuse.

You leaned against the bench, close enough to smell leather and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Show me?"

Joel's hands stilled. For a heartbeat, you thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space for you at his side.

"Watch close," he murmured, his shoulder pressing against yours as he demonstrated the intricate stitch. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the needle flashing in the lamplight. "This part's gotta be tight enough to hold, loose enough to flex."

You tried to focus on the technique, but his proximity made concentration impossible. The heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred your hair when he leaned in to correct your grip—

The needle slipped.

"Shit." A bead of blood welled on your thumb.

Joel reacted before you could, catching your wrist. His calloused thumb brushed the droplet away, his mouth set in a hard line. "Ain't paying you to bleed on my tack."

But he didn't let go.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the barn wall—two silhouettes frozen in the amber light, fingers intertwined.

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Betty the nanny goat had taken a disliking to you from day one.

Today, she'd decided to escalate hostilities.

"You're gonna want to—" Joel's warning came too late as you bent to refill the water trough.

Betty's horns connected with your backside with the precision of a missile strike. The world tilted violently as you face-planted into the mud, the entire herd erupting in gleeful bleats that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Strong hands hauled you upright before you could drown in three inches of water. Joel's chest vibrated against your back—the bastard was laughing.

"Told you she don't like people looming over her," he said, voice thick with barely-contained amusement.

You wiped mud from your cheek, glaring. "You could've warned me sooner."

"Where's the fun in that?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, his eyes widening slightly at his own audacity.

Something warm unfurled in your chest. This was new—Joel teasing, letting his guard down. You retaliated by flicking a glob of mud at his shirt.

His jaw dropped. "Did you just—"

The second mudball hit him square in the chest.

For one terrifying second, Joel looked genuinely pissed. Then his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, city girl."

What followed was a mud battle worthy of any childhood memory, complete with strategic retreats behind hay bales and Betty the goat serving as an unwitting double agent. By the time you both collapsed against the fence, breathless and filthy, Joel's laughter rang out clear and unguarded—a sound you'd only heard in fragments before.

The setting sun painted him in gold, his smile lines crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. Mud streaked his cheek, his shirt clung to his torso, and his eyes—

His eyes held yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

The moment stretched, thrumming with something unspoken. Then a cold rivulet of mud slid down your neck, breaking the spell.

Joel cleared his throat, suddenly business-like. "Better clean up before supper." But his fingers lingered on your elbow as he helped you up, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The generator sputtered its last breath during the season's first real cold snap.

You found Joel in the living room, already building a fire with the economical movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The flickering light caught the silver in his stubble, the strong line of his nose, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he worked.

"Got extra blankets in the cedar chest," he said without turning.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of the flannel you wore—his flannel, the soft blue one that had been hanging in the hall until you'd "borrowed" it three days ago. The one that smelled faintly of his soap and the woodsmoke that always clung to his clothes.

Joel turned then, freezing when his eyes landed on you. His gaze darkened as it travelled from your bare feet to the oversized cuffs swallowing your hands to the way the fabric draped off one shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second stretching taut between you. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Outside, the wind howled through the pines.

Joel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You—"

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment shattered.

"Should check the livestock," he finished roughly, grabbing his coat with unnecessary force. The door clicked shut behind him with deliberate finality.

You sank onto the couch, pressing your face into the flannel's collar. His scent surrounded you, warm and familiar and utterly intoxicating. Outside, the temperature dropped steadily, but your skin burned as if touched by sunlight.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The invitation arrived on a Thursday, creased and coffee-stained, delivered by old man Henderson when he came to pick up his repaired plough.

"Annual Harvest Social," the flyer read in looping script. "Music, supper, and dancing at the Grange Hall. All welcome."

You were elbows-deep in soapy dishwater when Joel tossed it onto the counter with a grunt. "Town nonsense," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to your reaction.

You wiped your hands carefully, studying the faded print. "We going?"

The silence stretched so long you thought he hadn't heard. Then:

"You wanna go?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you noticed the way his thumb worried at a callus on his palm.

The image flashed unbidden—Joel in a clean shirt, his large hands warm at your waist, moving to music under paper lanterns. Your throat went dry.

"Could be fun," you managed.

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "I'll dig out my good boots."

The night of the dance, you stood frozen before the hallway mirror, suddenly unsure. The dress—a thrifted floral sundress—felt foreign after months of denim and flannel.

A knock rattled the doorframe.

"Ready or not, we're gonna be—" Joel's voice died abruptly as you turned.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his good white shirt half-buttoned over a clean undershirt, his usual scuffed boots replaced by polished ones. His gaze travelled down your bare legs with the weight of a physical touch before snapping back to your face.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You... uh." He cleared his throat. "We're gonna be late."

The truck ride into town was silent except for the staticky country station and the sound of Joel's fingers tightening rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The Grange Hall glowed like a lantern against the prairie night, alive with fiddle music and laughter. You felt every eye on you as Joel guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back—his touch burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Miller!" A grizzled rancher clapped Joel on the shoulder. "Ain't seen you at one of these in—" His gaze landed on you. "Well I'll be."

Joel's fingers flexed against your spine. "This is—"

"His ranch hand," you supplied, watching the older man's eyebrows climb.

The music shifted then—a slow waltz, all aching strings and longing. Joel stiffened beside you.

Across the room, women whispered behind their hands. You caught snippets—"...that Miller..." "...never brought anyone since..." "...still wears Tess's..."

Joel's jaw clenched. "We should—"

"Dance with me." The words left your lips before you could stop them.

His eyes went wide. "I ain't much for—"

"Please."

Something in your voice broke his resolve. With a shaky exhale, Joel took your hand and led you onto the floor. His right arm slid around your waist, his left hand cradling yours like something precious.

"You're supposed to—"

"Just follow me," he murmured into your hair.

And God help you, you did.

Joel moved with surprising grace for a man who claimed to hate dancing, his body swaying in time to the music. The heat of him surrounded you—the cedar and leather scent of his cologne, the scratch of his collar against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed.

The song ended too soon. Joel made to pull away, but you clung to his hand.

"One more?" you whispered.

In answer, he drew you closer, his lips brushing your temple as the next song began.

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The truck cab was thick with unspoken words as Joel navigated the dark ranch roads. Moonlight painted his profile in silver, catching the tension in his jaw.

"You okay?" you ventured.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Tess loved those dances."

The name hung between you like a ghost. You'd never asked about the wedding band he still wore, about the locked bedroom door at the ranch, about the way he sometimes stared at the horizon like he was waiting for someone.

The truck rolled to a stop outside the darkened house. Joel didn't cut the engine.

"I should tell you about her," he said hoarsely.

You reached across the seat, covering his hand with yours. "Only if you want to."

His fingers turned, intertwining with yours. For a long moment, you sat there in the quiet, two sets of breath fogging the windshield.

Then Joel killed the engine.

You sat in the stillness, your hand wrapped around his, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind through the trees, the hum of the distant creek, and the distant calls of coyotes. For a second, you both just... sat. Neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. The weight of the unspoken words between you felt like an uncharted territory neither of you were willing to navigate just yet.

Joel’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a subconscious comfort more than anything else. His gaze shifted to the darkened ranch house ahead, his eyes narrowing as though the past was pressing in, refusing to let go.

“Tess was…” He started, then paused. The words seemed to choke him for a second. “She was my world, y'know? Before…” He swallowed hard, and you could see his jaw tighten as he forced the rest of it out. “Before she died.”

Your breath caught, the weight of the sudden revelation hanging thick between you. You could feel him pull away into himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were trained somewhere in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular.

“She was the love of my life," Joel continued, his voice low, raw. "We had a house, a future... hell, we had plans. Then…” He trailed off, his hand tightening briefly around the steering wheel, like he was holding onto something for dear life. “She got sick. Fast. One minute, she was fine. The next, she was gone. Just like that."

You stayed quiet, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to ease the weight of that kind of loss. The kind of grief that ran so deep it felt like it might swallow him whole. Joel had always been a man of few words, but this? This was raw.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That it was too late. I kept telling myself I should’ve known... that I should’ve noticed sooner, that maybe I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. And now…” His voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure, even as his hands trembled on the wheel. “Now, it’s just me. And sometimes I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be. Just a guy who lost everything.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching for him. The grief, the loss—it was so much more than you’d ever imagined.

His gaze flicked to you, but only for a moment, before he looked away again, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that told you he was holding himself back from saying more. From letting it all spill out.

“I don’t talk about her much," he muttered, his voice hoarse, like the words had been locked away for far too long. "Tess… she was everything to me. I don’t know how to move on from that. I don’t know if I ever will.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his hand, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on to him, his rough fingers curling against yours as if you were grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

“I’m not asking you to forget her,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand, your voice steady. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, either.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw the rawness of the man behind the rancher—the weight he’d been shouldering for so long, and the part of him that was still fragile, even if he didn’t show it. His eyes softened, though there was still that quiet wariness in his gaze. He hadn’t let go of the past, not entirely, and maybe he never would.

But maybe, just maybe, he could let a little of it slip away.

“You remind me of her,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “The way you... the way you care. Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned in, your hand still holding his. "I'm here, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the truck’s engine and the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world had paused, just for that instant, to let the weight of the moment settle.

Eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the silence with a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “Guess it’s getting late,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure, but his voice was still rough, thick with something unspoken. “We should get inside.”

You both climbed out of the truck, and Joel led the way into the house, his hand brushing against yours once more as you followed him inside. The warmth of the fire hit you immediately, the familiar scent of woodsmoke mingling with the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Joel stopped by the fire, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared into the flames. You stood beside him, not speaking, just being there. A quiet presence, a steady hand in the darkness.

After a long while, Joel spoke again, his voice low. “You remind me of the way things used to be. Before…” He let the sentence trail off, like he didn’t want to finish it.

You didn’t press him. Instead, you simply nodded, letting him find his own pace.

For a while, neither of you said anything, but there was something in the silence now. Something warm. Something that felt like the beginning of something new, something fragile but real.

Eventually, Joel turned toward you, his eyes dark but not empty. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment before he pulled back, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you like that.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. "For listening."

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel quite so alone.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room as the shadows danced across the wooden walls. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt more like a kind of peace settling in around the two of you. Neither of you spoke for a while, as if the silence had become its own conversation.

Joel stood by the fire, staring into the flames, his posture a little less rigid than it had been before. His hand rested on the mantle, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline, but the tension in his body had softened. He looked different somehow, less burdened. Maybe it was the weight of his grief being shared, maybe it was just the comfort of your presence, but something in him had shifted.

You stayed quiet, sitting on the couch, your eyes watching him, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between you. You didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words—it felt like a space where both of you could just be.

But eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the stillness with a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to work through something in his mind.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y’know?” he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself more than to you. “I’ve been running on autopilot for so damn long... Just trying to make it through the day. But lately... everything feels harder.”

You could hear the weight of exhaustion in his voice, the kind that had settled deep in his bones over the years. He wasn’t just tired from the work—he was tired of the constant struggle, of carrying everything on his own.

You stood up slowly, walking over to him. Without saying a word, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough. He stiffened for a second, but then his shoulders relaxed, and he glanced at you, his eyes softening.

“I don’t know how to fix everything for you, Joel,” you said quietly. “I can’t take away the pain, or bring back what you lost... But I’m here. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing you in a different light—maybe not just as someone to lean on, but as someone who was offering him something he hadn’t realised he needed. A way out of the solitude he’d built around himself.

You reached up then, gently cupping his face with your hands. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and his breath hitched for a second, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him there, your eyes locked with his, letting the words settle between you.

“Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm you could sense in him. “Maybe we can just... take it one step at a time.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. And then, almost imperceptibly, Joel leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, like he was allowing himself to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the weight of the past.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were both a confession and a plea. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You smiled gently, your thumbs brushing the roughness of his skin, your heart aching for him. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Joel. You don’t have to fix everything. Just... be here. With me.”

The tension in his body slowly ebbed away, and for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to lean into you. To let someone else carry a small piece of the burden. The moment was fleeting but meaningful, a quiet understanding passing between you both.

“I’m not promising anything, but…” Joel trailed off, his gaze softer now, something more vulnerable creeping into his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start trying. For once.”

You nodded, your heart full of quiet hope, and took a small step closer to him. “One step at a time.”

Joel didn’t answer, but his hand reached for yours, his grip gentle but firm. He didn’t let go when your fingers intertwined. It was a small gesture, but it meant something bigger than words could convey.

The fire crackled again, casting more dancing shadows on the walls, but it felt like the start of something new. Something fragile but real. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were alone either.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

You woke early, as usual, the first light of dawn peeking through the curtains. You could hear Joel already moving around downstairs, the familiar sound of boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the old chair at the kitchen table. You stretched and pulled yourself out of bed, the chill of the room pushing you into motion. It was another busy day ahead—feeding the animals, checking the fences, mending what needed mending—but you found yourself looking forward to it more than you had before.

You made your way downstairs, the aroma of brewing coffee filling the air before you even reached the bottom step. Joel was standing at the stove, his back to you, flipping pancakes in a skillet with an ease that came from years of practice. The warm, golden light of the morning spilled through the windows, making the kitchen glow.

"You’re up early," you said, leaning against the doorframe, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at you, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not much for sleepin’ in." He turned back to the skillet, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Figured I’d get a head start today."

You crossed to the counter, grabbing the mug Joel had already set out for you. "I could get used to this," you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "You know, waking up to pancakes and coffee."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes catching yours for just a second. "Don't get too comfortable. I’m not much of a cook. You might end up makin' these yourself sooner or later."

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around the warm mug. "I think I could manage."

There was an ease in the way the two of you moved around each other now. Where once you’d felt like a stranger in a new world, now it felt... natural. Even the hard work didn’t seem quite so overwhelming anymore. You knew the land better, understood its rhythms, the way it demanded respect without asking for much in return. And Joel—well, Joel was becoming something you hadn’t anticipated. He was still the man of few words, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was a gentleness in him now. A trust.

You sat down at the table, watching him finish cooking, the way his large hands moved so gracefully despite their size. There was a quiet confidence in him now that made your chest tighten, and it wasn’t just because of his strength. It was because, for the first time in a long while, he seemed like he was allowing himself to be here—really here—with you.

"After breakfast," Joel said, setting the last pancake on the stack, "we need to check the horses. Haven’t seen 'em this morning."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee. "Got it. I’ll grab the gear."

The work felt familiar now, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t just about chores anymore—it was a way to connect, to feel part of something larger than yourself. You and Joel worked together, side by side, fixing fences, checking the cattle, and tending to the land. It was a steady rhythm, one that was comforting in its predictability.

By midday, you’d found your stride. You’d mended a tear in the barn roof, helped Joel move hay bales, and checked the water troughs. And when the sky turned to gold with the setting sun, you both found yourselves leaning against the fence, the last light of the day painting everything in warm hues.

Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he shifted, and for a moment, you felt like the world had quieted completely—just the two of you, standing in the vastness of the land you had come to love, connected in a way that felt timeless.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be this comfortable with someone around. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people work with me before, but it’s different with you."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze now—something deeper. "I think I’m finally getting used to the quiet, too," you admitted. "And to you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Joel."

Joel’s lips twitched, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I’m just a stubborn old cowboy," he said with a hint of humor, though there was something more sincere in the way he said it, like he was offering a piece of himself you hadn’t seen before.

You shifted closer, the space between you shrinking. "I don’t mind stubborn," you replied softly. "It’s... kind of endearing."

Joel's smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The evening air was still and cool, the sound of the crickets chirping blending with the distant lowing of the cattle. The world was small here, simple. But somehow, it felt full.

When you reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, your hand grazed Joel’s arm. He stiffened just slightly, and for a heartbeat, you both seemed to hesitate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached out again, this time more deliberately, and placed your hand on his forearm, your fingers lingering.

Joel’s gaze flickered down to where your hand rested, and then back to your face. There was an unspoken understanding between you now—no more games, no more hesitations.

"Don’t go getting any ideas," Joel said, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might end up stickin' around for good."

A light laugh bubbled up from you, and you squeezed his arm. "I’m already stickin' around," you said, your voice more certain.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the horizon as you and Joel made your way back from the creek. The day had been long, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—a quiet contentment that settled in your chest. Now, as the evening light bathed everything in gold, the two of you walked in silence back toward the house. The barn loomed behind you, and the fields stretched out endlessly before you, a peaceful canvas of green and brown.

You were both tired, but there was an energy between you that felt new, something that tugged at the edges of your thoughts. It was the way your heart seemed to race just a little faster every time Joel’s presence shifted around you. The way your breath caught in your throat when you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Joel stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his boots kicking up the dirt, and turned toward you, his face softening in the fading light. The warmth of the day was still lingering in the air, and the world around you seemed to hush, waiting.

“You’ve been here for a while now,” Joel said, his voice low, like he was considering each word carefully. “I’ve seen you adjust. You’ve done more than just fit in. You’ve... become part of this place.”

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quickening at the seriousness in his eyes. "I never thought I’d find a place like this," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "And I never thought I’d meet someone like you."

Joel stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the dirt. His presence felt different now—closer, more intense. He stood just a few feet away, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joel said, his voice softer now, like he was letting down a barrier. “About how much you’ve changed things around here. Not just for the ranch, but... for me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. And in that instant, the world seemed to still, the sounds of the ranch fading into nothing.

With a slight movement, Joel reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. It was a soft, almost tentative gesture, but there was a strength to it, an undeniable certainty in the way his thumb brushed across your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, igniting something that had been slowly building since you arrived.

Before you could think, before the moment could slip away, you leaned in.

Joel’s hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world around you melting away. His lips were warm and insistent, and the gentle pressure of his kiss sent a thrill rushing through you. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the world and all its distractions faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something new, something that had shifted in the space between the two of you.

Joel’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You smiled, your chest full, heart racing. “I think I’ve wanted you to.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “You’re not what I expected, you know that?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, before stepping back just slightly, your fingers brushing his. “Neither are you.”

You were up earlier than usual, moving through the kitchen in a daze of thoughts, your mind still racing from the kiss. The silence of the ranch was comforting, almost like a cocoon, wrapping you up in the stillness of everything around you.

Joel hadn’t said much when you parted ways the night before, but the look in his eyes—intense, yet soft—had told you everything. It was clear that neither of you had expected the shift that had come so naturally, but now, there was no denying it. Whatever had just begun, it wasn’t something you could walk away from.

You heard the soft sound of boots on the porch, the familiar rhythm of Joel’s steps as he made his way toward the house. You turned around just as he entered, the sight of him bringing an unexpected rush of warmth to your chest.

He smiled, a little shy, a little unsure—like he was still figuring out where to stand in all of this. You both were.

“Mornin’,” he greeted softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet sincerity.

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a smile that felt more like home than anything else.

By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was filled with the scent of eggs and bacon, the soft clinking of plates as you set the table.

“Want to head out to the fields later?” Joel asked, his voice casual but with a hint of anticipation.

You nodded, your stomach fluttering with excitement. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel smiled, that familiar warmth returning to his expression.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as you and Joel made your way out into the vast expanse of the ranch. The air had warmed up since the early morning, and there was a gentle breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As you walked beside him, your thoughts drifted back to the peaceful breakfast you’d shared. The conversation had been easy, flowing naturally between you, but there had been something comforting in the silence, too.

When you reached the edge of the field, you stopped, your eyes falling on a patch of grass where Joel had already laid out a blanket. There, in the middle of the field, with nothing but the sounds of nature around you, he had set up a picnic. The scene was simple, but there was something about it that felt intimate, like a secret just for the two of you.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of sharing a meal together only adding to the sense of peace that seemed to settle over you both. After a few moments, Joel reached for the book beside him, holding it out to you with a slight grin.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

You took the book from his hands, glancing at the cover—The Secret Garden. Your heart warmed at the thought of him wanting to share something so personal. It felt like an invitation to step into his world, to see the things he held close.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Joel settled back against the blanket, the sun casting a golden glow over him, and you curled up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The moment felt so simple, but in its simplicity, it was perfect. The world outside this small bubble you had created seemed to fade away as he began to read aloud, his voice deep and steady, the words flowing smoothly into the air.

As he read, you let yourself relax, the sound of his voice weaving a sense of comfort around you. There was something incredibly romantic about the way he read, each word filled with a quiet intensity, like he was sharing a piece of himself with you in each sentence. The book’s story was a good one, the characters coming to life with Joel’s voice, but it wasn’t just the story that held your attention—it was the feeling of being here with him, in this moment, with nothing else to do but listen and be present.

You could hear the occasional breeze stirring the trees, the distant call of a bird, but everything else seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself wrapped up in both the story and in him.

Eventually, Joel turned a page, pausing for a moment as he glanced at you. “You comfortable?” he asked, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

You nodded, lifting your head slightly to look up at him. “I’m perfect,” you said, and it was true. There was no place you’d rather be than here, beside him, feeling the warmth of the day and the gentleness of his presence.

Joel gave you a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned to the book. He continued reading, his voice almost a soothing hum against the backdrop of the quiet ranch. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way he spoke with such focus and care. It was moments like this—quiet, intimate, with no rush—that made everything feel so right.

As the story unfolded, you both became more absorbed in the tale, but time seemed to stretch, becoming less important. The whole world could have passed by, and you wouldn’t have noticed. It was just the two of you, sharing a peaceful day in the fields, wrapped up in a story and in each other.

When Joel finished the chapter, he closed the book and placed it beside him, his hand gently resting on the blanket. He looked over at you, his expression soft.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice a little hushed.

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I did. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of quiet, a small but meaningful silence that held everything you both hadn’t yet said, but didn’t need to. You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your gaze catching his. You could feel the subtle change in the air between you, the quiet understanding that had been building all morning, now palpable.

Slowly, as if it had always been meant to happen, you leaned in, closing the space between you. Joel’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then, without any more words needed, your lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that lingered in your soul long after it ended.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together, both of you breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think I could get used to this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel smiled, his eyes soft with affection as he gazed at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

"You’ve... you’ve got a way of making everything feel a little different," Joel said, his voice catching slightly as he looked into your eyes. The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his words settling between you like a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of something growing deeper between you both.

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. The way he was looking at you now was unlike anything you’d seen before. His gaze was hungry, but not in the way it had been before—this was more. More raw, more real.

You didn’t say anything in response. Instead, you let the tension build, your breath shallow as you reached for him, cupping his jaw gently in your hand. His breath hitched as your thumb traced the line of his jaw, and you couldn’t help but lean in just a little, your lips barely brushing against his.

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the storm that had always been present was even clearer now. You could see the restraint in the way his body was coiled, like a man holding back the tide.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Joel didn’t need any more encouragement. His lips crashed against yours, hot and urgent, a mixture of relief and longing as if he were finally giving in to something he’d held at bay for far too long. The kiss was fierce, as though he were trying to make up for all the time spent keeping his distance.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him with a strength that made your breath hitch. The heat between you two grew, making the air around you seem almost too thick to breathe. You could feel the solid weight of him against you, the way his chest pressed into yours with each kiss, the way his hands wandered across your back, memorising every curve of you.

His lips left yours only long enough for him to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me," Joel murmured, his voice rougher than usual, the words a low growl.

You laughed breathlessly, your hands still resting on his chest. "I think I’m starting to get the idea."

The blanket beneath you was rough against your bare thighs, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as Joel hovered over you, his body casting a shadow that made the gold in his eyes burn even brighter. His lips had just left yours, swollen and wet from the way he’d kissed you—deep, consuming, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, voice rough, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was already fighting the urge to take more.

In answer, you arched up against him, your chest brushing his, and Joel let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips. "Out here like this—anyone could—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding against the hard length of him, and Joel cursed, his restraint snapping.

His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher until his calloused fingers met bare skin. You gasped as he traced the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing, maddening.

"Joel—"

"Tell me what you want," he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before dragging down your neck, teeth scraping lightly.

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shirt. "You. Just you."

That was all it took.

His hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you already wet, already aching for him. He groaned against your throat as he stroked you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips jerked against his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, watching the way your body responded to him. "Look at you."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers worked you with a precision that had your toes curling. But just as you were teetering on the edge, Joel pulled back, leaving you empty, desperate.

Your protest was cut off when his mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided your hand to his belt.

"Wanna feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle, then the button of his jeans, and when you finally freed him, Joel hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking into your touch.

He was thick, hot in your hand, and when you stroked him, his entire body tensed, his grip on your thigh tightening almost to the point of pain.

"Fuck—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "Gonna ruin me."

You smiled, squeezing lightly, and Joel growled, his patience gone.

In one swift motion, he yanked your underwear aside and pushed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Joel stilled, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, his voice strained.

Joel's breath was fire against your neck, his body trembling with restraint as he waited for your answer.

"More than okay," you gasped, arching into him, needing him deeper.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joel moved with a roughness that stole your breath—deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jaw clenched tight with pleasure. The sight of him—undone, wrecked, yours—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

"Joel—"

"Know what you do to me?" he rasped, his thrusts turning slower, deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you. "Fuckin' ruin me."

You clenched around him, and his control snapped.

With a groan, Joel flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he surged into you, his rhythm turning desperate. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter—until you shattered, crying out his name.

Joel followed with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then Joel exhaled, rough and unsteady, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Christ," he muttered, voice wrecked.

You grinned, still trembling beneath him. "That a complaint?"

Joel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Ain't even close."

His touch gentled as he traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the inside of your thigh—checking, silently, for any discomfort. When he found none, his hand returned to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You good?" The question was gruff, but his eyes—dark and liquid in the low light—held an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Better than good."

Joel’s throat worked. He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, nothing like the frantic heat of before. This was something else—a claiming, a promise, a thank you that didn’t need words.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Gonna take care of you," he murmured, already moving to slide down your body.

You caught his shoulder. "Joel—"

"Shhh." A kiss to your sternum. "Let me."

His mouth was hot as it traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping deliciously. You gasped when his tongue laved over you, slow and thorough, his hands spreading you wide.

"Joel—"

His grip tightened. "Told you," he growled against your skin. "Gonna take my time."

And he did.

By the time he was done, you were boneless and breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair as he crawled back up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the flutter of your pulse.

"Still good?" he asked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your limbs heavy with pleasure.

Joel smirked, that rare, real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"Rest," he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. "I got you."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

As you drifted, Joel reached for the spare blanket, draping it over you both. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—circles, spirals, the occasional brush of his knuckles—as if memorising you by touch.

Joel’s lips brushed your forehead. "Stay?"

Not a command. A question.

You curled closer, your leg hooking over his. "Try and make me leave."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, his arms tightening around you. "Wouldn’t dare."

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in the heat of him, you realised—

You were home.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction

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carnalcrows · 18 days ago

Text

WHITE COAT, RED HANDS

pairing: chishiya x top male reader

content warnings: 18+, chishiya is a sociopath, hearts game, major character death, blood, ftm chishiya, oral (reader receiving), p in v, general AIB warnings.

word count: 2.4k

You meet Chishiya in a game called “Karma.”

No one knows the full rules until they’re already inside — typical of the Borderlands. You only know three things when you walk into the rust-colored warehouse where it’s held: the game’s a Hearts suit, it’s for pairs, and you’re stuck with the blond guy who’s barely said a word since you got scanned in.

“Looks like we’re partners,” you say, offering a hand.

Chishiya glances at it, then at you. “Lucky me.”

His voice is flat, clinical. Doesn’t take the handshake.

You drop your hand. “You a doctor or something?”

“Used to be.” He keeps walking, hands in his pockets like this is an errand he’s annoyed to be running.

There’s something unreadable in his expression — or maybe that’s just his face. He’s got this quality like he’s always three steps ahead, but can’t be bothered to tell you what’s coming. The kind of guy who might let you drown just to see how long you could hold your breath.

You follow anyway.

Because there are only two kinds of people left in this world: the ones you can use, and the ones who’ll use you first. And you’ve learned the hard way it’s better to be close to the former — even if they look like the latter.

“Cool,” you mutter under your breath. “Stuck with the cryptic type.”

“Better than the loud type,” Chishiya replies dryly.

You glance at him. “You always this charming, Doc?”

He twitches an eyebrow. Just one. “Only when I like someone.”

That makes you laugh, unexpectedly. “So I’m fucked, then.”

He looks at you, slow and sideways. “Not yet.”

Then he keeps walking, as if he hadn’t just said that.

You hate the way that line stays with you.

The warehouse door slams shut behind you both with the kind of finality that makes your stomach tense. A countdown lights up on the far wall in blood red:- 00:59:59. One hour. No instructions.

You both scan the room — crates, high catwalks, and a flickering overhead light that casts shadows like they’re watching.

“I hate Hearts games,” you mutter.

Chishiya hums. “People usually do.”

You shoot him a look. “You sound like you’ve played more than a few.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just wanders toward the nearest crate and pops it open like this is a casual scavenger hunt.

Inside: two vests. Black, fitted. One for each of you. You pick one up and notice the red LED embedded in the chest and shaped like a heart.

“Not ominous at all,” you say.

Chishiya’s already sliding his on. It hugs him close, snug around the ribs. You try not to stare, but he catches you anyway.

“Like what you see, or just trying to figure out where to stab me later?” he asks, voice too casual.

“Can’t it be both?”

That earns a small smirk. Not quite a smile, but the kind of curve at the edge of his mouth that feels like a reward. You kind of hate that it makes your pulse jump.

Once you both suit up, the LED lights flicker to life. Yours flashes red. So does his. Then a metallic clunk echoes from above, and a screen buzzes on.

“Welcome to Karma.”

The voice is male, modulated, and void of any emotion.

“You and your partner share a life. Your hearts are linked. One dies, both die.”

A pause.

“But to win… only one may remain.”

You look at Chishiya. He’s unreadable again. As if he didn’t just hear a death sentence wrapped in a riddle.

“The game begins now.”

Then the lights go out.

You draw your knife on instinct.

Somewhere in the dark, Chishiya says softly, “This part’s always fun.”

Your voice drops. “You know how to win this, don’t you?”

A long pause. Then:

“I might.”

That makes your grip tighten. “Planning to share with the class, or are you just gonna play puppeteer until it’s convenient to let me die?”

There’s movement. A footstep behind you. You spin — knife raised — and feel a hand close around your wrist, steady but not aggressive.

“I’m not going to let you die,” he says in that same flat voice. “Yet.”

“Yet,” you echo.

The light flickers on for a heartbeat. Long enough to see his face close to yours, half-shadowed. Then dark again.

“You’re enjoying this,” you murmur.

His hand slips from your wrist. “You’d be surprised how few people are fun in the dark.”

You move in silence for a while. The kind that pricks your skin because it’s not truly silent — the warehouse breathes. Vents rattle. Metal ticks. A slow, mechanical hum pulses beneath your feet like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

Chishiya doesn’t seem affected. He walks beside you like he’s on his morning commute. Calm. Controlled. The picture of someone who doesn’t flinch even when the building itself feels like it’s watching you.

You glance over. “How the hell are you this calm?”

“I’m used to being hunted.”

The way he says it — flat, without ego — should sound like bullshit. But you believe him.

“And you’re a doctor?” you ask.

“Was.” He pauses. “Still am, technically.”

“Right. Doctor of hearts, huh?”

That gets a proper smirk. Just a flicker. “Clever.”

You snort. “You know, most people don’t look smug after admitting to possible homicide.”

“I didn’t admit anything.”

You’re about to respond — some sarcastic quip already loaded — when the warehouse shifts. The floor jolts with a loud hiss, and metal walls snap up from the ground, boxing you into a corridor that didn’t exist two seconds ago.

“What the—?”

“Maze,” Chishiya mutters, already walking ahead. “Figures.”

“Wait—” You grab his shoulder instinctively. He stops. Looks down at your hand. Doesn’t pull away.

His gaze lifts slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

He tilts his head. “But you want to.”

That shuts you up for a beat. The hum beneath the floor ticks louder. Red lights blink at the corners of the ceiling.

“You gonna tell me what you meant earlier?” you ask. “About not letting me die yet.”

“I mean exactly that,” Chishiya says, voice soft but cold. “I need you. For now.”

You laugh once, low and bitter. “You’ve got a real way with words, doc.”

His eyes flick to yours again. “You’re still here.”

You don’t have a response for that.

The next corridor is narrower. Walls dripping with condensation. Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, until neither of you bother stepping aside anymore. It’s stupid — the smallest contact — but it feeds something between you. A tension that feels almost like a test.

“You’re not afraid of dying, are you?” you say.

“No.” Chishiya’s gaze is forward, steady. “I’ve made peace with it.”

“And killing someone else?”

His eyes flick sideways. “That’s not the question you want to ask.”

“…What’s the question, then?”

“You want to know if I’d kill you.”

You swallow. “Would you?”

He stops. Turns to face you in the dim corridor. The blinking red lights give his face a flicker—soft, then sharp.

“If I said no,” he says, “you’d be stupid to believe me.”

Then he leans in just enough that you feel his breath, calm and infuriatingly even. “But if I said yes... I think you’d still follow me.”

Your heart thuds, traitorous and loud. You don’t know if it’s fear or want or both.

You mutter, “You always this cryptic with people you plan to backstab?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’re insufferable.”

“I know.”

You lean a little closer — not thinking, just moving on instinct now — and mutter, “Do you always flirt in murder mazes?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. “Only with idiots who flirt back.”

Then his hand grabs the front of your vest and drags you forward, not gently. Your back slams against the wall, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not romantic. It’s rough and hot and too fucking much — all the tension, the danger, the push and pull of not knowing who’ll betray who — and it unravels in seconds. His tongue parts your lips without hesitation. You groan into it, hands gripping his hips because it’s the only part of him you can grab that doesn’t feel like a trap.

Chishiya’s kiss is strategic and brutal. Not gentle. He bites your bottom lip and pulls just enough to make your cock twitch in your pants. Your hips rock forward, involuntarily, and he smirks against your mouth like he expected it.

“You’re really hard,” he murmurs, low and flat in your ear. “Impressive.”

“You’re really fucking annoying,” you breathe.

“And yet, you want me to keep going.”

He drops to his knees.

He’s on his knees like he’s done it before. Like it’s second nature. No hesitation, no reverence — just a methodical slide of fingers to your waistband, popping the button open with practised ease.

You watch him through shallow breaths. One hand braced to the wall behind you, the other twitching with the urge to grab his hair. But he’s not looking up at you for permission.

He’s looking at your cock. And when he pulls it out, already hard and leaking at the tip, he hums — a quiet, pleased sound, like you’ve passed another one of his secret tests.

“No complaints,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your chest rises with something between pride and disbelief. “You always do this with people you might kill?”

Chishiya glances up then, eyes half-lidded. “No. You’re special.”

Then he licks a slow stripe from the base of your cock to the tip.

Your breath stutters. Your head tilts back and hits the wall with a dull thunk.

His tongue is warm, deliberate, not rushed. He wraps his lips around the head and takes you into his mouth in slow, steady inches. His hands are cold on your thighs, anchoring you as he sucks you in deeper — not messy or desperate. Just efficient. Intentional. Like he’s cataloguing every sound you make.

“F–fuck, doc…”

His lashes flutter at the nickname. His throat tightens around you as he swallows a little deeper, and your fingers tangle in his hair without thinking. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t fight the grip. If anything, he leans into it. Uses it to go deeper.

He sets a brutal pace after that — not fast, but intense. Hollowing his cheeks, flicking his tongue under the head, teasing and then swallowing you whole again. Your knees buckle once, and he presses harder into your thighs to steady you, like he knew it would happen.

“Shit—Chishiya, I’m—”

He hums again, sending vibrations through you just as you come, heat spilling down his throat. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just swallows like it’s nothing and pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You sag against the wall, heart pounding, still trying to catch your breath.

You’re still panting when he stands, wiping the corner of his mouth like nothing happened. Like your orgasm was a minor detour.

But there’s a flush in his cheeks now. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Want.

You spot it the second he pushes you back against the wall again, fingers ghosting along your jaw. “Can you keep going?” he asks, low, almost clinical.

You snort, a breathless sound. “You kidding?”

Chishiya doesn’t smile, but there’s the barest twitch in his mouth. He steps in and kisses you, finally, open-mouthed and quiet, tasting faintly of you. It’s softer than you expect. Almost gentle. But it only lasts a beat before he turns, and without a word, walks toward one of the crates behind him.

You watch as he shrugs off his hoodie and shirt, tossing them over the metal edge. And when his pants go next, what’s left between his thighs leaves no questions. There’s a harness strapped tight to his hips, black and minimalist, but you can see it clearly when he turns and walks back to you, slick already glistening between his folds.

You blink.

He tilts his head. “Problem?”

You step forward without a word, grab his hips, and kiss him again.

He presses into you without hesitation, one hand finding your cock and guiding it between his legs. He’s wet—hot, and when you slide into him, he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to maintain control.

“Fuck—” you mutter, grounding a hand on his lower back. “You’re soaked.”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re the first person who’s made it this far.”

You want to ask what he means by that. But then he tightens around you, rolling his hips with expert precision, and your brain short-circuits.

The rhythm is fast, deliberate, but not frantic. You pin him to the wall now, bodies flushed, your cock buried inside him as he works you with movements that feel almost mechanical in how precise they are. Every grind pulls a sharp gasp from your lips. Every twist of his hips feels calculated — like he’s memorised exactly what it takes to keep you right on the edge.

He lets you manhandle him. He lets you bite at his neck, groan against his ear. But he doesn’t moan. He doesn’t beg. He just watches you, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable — like he’s processing your every reaction, filing it away for future use.

You grab his thighs and lift him. He wraps his legs around you easily, arms hooking behind your neck. You fuck up into him harder now, slamming into that wet heat over and over, the lewd sounds of skin and slick echoing off the walls.

He finally gasps — one sharp, ragged breath that punches from his lungs — and that’s what undoes you. You curse, burying your face into his shoulder as you come deep inside him, warmth flooding his cunt, your whole body twitching as you ride it out.

Your grip on him tightens.

You don’t even feel the knife slide in.

It’s only when your breath catches in your throat, sharp and wrong, that you realise what happened. Blood fills your mouth. Your legs falter. You both sink to the floor.

He stays straddled over you, cock still inside him, as your body collapses beneath his. His chest rises and falls evenly. His hands are warm against your jaw as your vision starts to fade.

“I wanted to wait until after,” he murmurs.

You gurgle something. His face softens.

“I wasn’t lying. It felt good.”

Your blood is everywhere now — on his hands, his stomach, pooling beneath your spine.

He leans down and kisses you again.

Soft. Warm. Almost apologetic.

“Only one survivor.”

And then he slips off your lap and rises to his feet, walking toward the blinking green light at the end of the hall. The blade, slick with your blood, swings loosely in one hand.

GAME CLEAR.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @seomn

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

Text

a lesson in condom sense | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist pairing: dbf!joel miller x sex shop employee!reader summary: [no outbreak] the last customer you expect to be waltzing into your secret day job is your dad's best friend. you can only fight the tension between you two for so long before giving in. warnings: (18+ mdni) what it says on the can: reader works at an adult store, many sex toys referenced (& used!), age gap (mid 20s/early 50s) brief mention of sex work, don't follow reader's example, joel buys a fleshlight, joel fantasizes about you, brief mention of bondage, mostly pwp, reader humps a chair + gets caught doing it, mild exhibitionism, 'just the tip' that leads into unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), vaginal fingering, joel uses a vibrator on reader, degradation, praise, soft dom!joel, pet names, aftercare [no use of y/n] word count: 6.5k a/n: condom sense is, in fact, a real sex shop that exists and serves the DFW metro area, so not exactly austin, but the name was too perfect not to pretend. unlike these two, please favor condom sense and wrap it up. dbf sex shop joel won the poll for my next wip, but expect coach!joel pt. 2 to be right around the corner.

Admittedly, working at a sex shop isn’t the highest point in your life, but it certainly isn’t the lowest, either. The 40% off employee discount does soften the blow of lying through your teeth at cookouts. Saying you’re working at Walmart while trying to navigate a competitive job market goes over better than saying you work at Condom Sense.

All things considered, it’s not the worst place you’ve worked. Your manager, a 60-year-old stuck in the 70s named Sally, is much more lenient than your past bosses. You get to recommend toys to the girls that come through, and you also get the satisfaction of them coming back to sing your praises. Condom Sense never would’ve been your first choice of work right out of college, but now you almost mourn the day you’ll have to leave.

Thumbing through an old issue of Cosmopolitan, your bubblegum is beginning to lose its flavor. The tinny noise of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” purrs out of the ancient radio sitting alongside tentacle dildos. It’s still a little weird to have a constant audience of whips, handcuffs, vibrators, fleshlights, and everything in between, but since your bedside drawer has gotten fuller with every shift you take, you really can’t judge anything stocked here.

The later shifts are normally slower, especially this close to 11:00. Sometimes there’s a gaggle of sex workers outside of the door, dressed skimpily no matter how biting the rare Texas cold is, but that isn’t the case tonight – you’re the only one here, feet kicked up on a pink stool.

As if the world has it out for you, the rust-eaten bell lets out a metallic jingle, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the thought of having to put your Cosmopolitan away. Who the hell comes into a sex shop twenty minutes before close? Someone whose vibrator gave out on them, someone who needs lube, or both.

“Welcome to Condom Sense,” you put on your customer service voice, reluctantly bouncing off of the stool. You flip your magazine shut and toss it onto the counter, breaking into a crouch to finally make yourself useful by restocking the condom display. “Let me know if you need anything.”

A small grunt comes in response, and then some heavy footsteps carry through the store. Great, even better, you think to yourself, it’s a man.

The crowd that’s attracted to Condom Sense is mostly college-aged or middle-aged women, not with too much wiggle room in between. It’s Texas, after all, where ownership of more than six dildos is “prohibited”. Sometimes there’s a stray overeager boyfriend or creep with a receding hairline, but normally Sally is right around the corner to tell anyone out of line to scram, waving around a broom as if trying to fend off a stray dog. That’s not the case tonight.

You hold your breath and keep putting boxes of Trojans into the glass display case. Whoever’s in here is quiet, at least, not the type to ask for help or make too much of a ruckus with knocking shelving units over. Hopefully you can get him checked out quickly so you can close up and head home.

You stay like that for five minutes, sorting through boxes and marking stock until a throat clears in front of the counter.

Jolting up, you smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes, fiddling with your nametag. “Hi, yes, you all seeeee-”

Who the hell comes into a sex shop twenty minutes before close? Apparently Joel Miller does. You know, your dad’s best friend.

Maybe it’s because you’re surrounded by phallic dildos, maybe it’s because you’re goddamn stupid, but Mr. Miller, who seems to be fresh off of a worksite, looks good. Even though there’s an unmistakable surprise stricken across his brown eyes and a splotch of dirt on the slice of neck above his flannel collar, his hair is mussed perfectly, his scruff tamed along his jawline. Your eyes flash down to what he’s holding: a fleshlight.

You hate how quickly your mouth goes dry at the thought of Joel himself thrusting desperately into the dumb toy, and worse is the thought of him using your cunt to get off instead. You’re quick to remind yourself. Off. Limits. First of all, you don’t fuck customers. And you definitely don’t fuck customers that are your dad’s best friend.

Joel’s fist tightens around the box as if trying to obscure what you already know. His face is redder than you’ve ever seen it, cheeks like apples. In the end, it’s him who speaks first. “This ain’t a Walmart, hun.”

Your face heats up, and you shrug. “Pays well.”

“Can’t blame ya there,” he nods along. “‘S been a while. You alright?”

“I mean, I work at a store called Condom Sense. What do you figure?”

“C’mon now, can’t be that bad,” Joel grins at you.

“It isn’t,” you concede. You look him up and down again, trying really hard not to spend too much time on the toy in his hand. “Long day… contracting?”

Joel lets out a long, winded sigh through his teeth. “Yeah… my guys fucked up our concrete job. Had us there two hours longer than we were s’posed to be. Probably gonna be another long one tomorrow.” He runs a hand back through his already disheveled hair, his nose flaring. “Not your problem though, sweetness.” His eyes flick over you, over the counter and the neon signs behind you. “Your daddy know you work here?”

You freeze, eyes widening. “He’d have a cow, Joel. And if you think you’re about to hold this over my head or somethin-”

“Woah, woah, now when did I ever say any ‘a that? That’s none of my business, hun. You’re an adult, as long as you're gettin’ paid and you’re comfortable? I don’t see the issue.”

You nod, heart slowing to a steadier pace, or at least as steady of a pace as it can manage with Joel standing on the other side of the counter holding a fleshlight. “So, uh, relaxing night in or…?” You swallow hard. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

Joel laughs, an almost nervous sound as he rubs the back of his neck. “Just… a bit dry lately, I guess.”

“First time buying?” you ask with a raised brow.

“That obvious?” He slowly slides the box across the counter to you, and you inspect it under the fluorescents.

You hum under your breath, tilting the box away from you to get a better look. “Not a bad first choice. I’ve heard good things. Since it’s your first time, are you more of a spit-in-your-hand kind of guy, or do you have some massage oil or lube?”

Joel stares at you, almost sputtering as his lips try to form words. “What?”

You shake your head, veins suddenly iced over. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t be asking-”

“No, no, not a problem, sweetheart. It’s your job. Just… don’t expect to be hearin’... that from you.” He chuckles, but it sounds strangled. “I… normally spit. ‘S faster.”

Joel, desperately shucking off his belt and pants, pulling his hardened cock out, spitting into his hand so he can wrap his fist around himself. That first groan of pleasure he lets out, hand moving up, down, up, down. He treasures his alone time so much that he has to be the type to savor it– but you can’t think that far. Your tongue darts out to swipe along your lower lip, and you swear Joel tracks the movement. Your chest is tied up in knots.

“Well, you’re gonna want a heating massage oil. Moves it along easier, feels realer, y’know?” You reach across the counter and pluck a blue bottle from the display. “This is our bestseller.” Mustering up the most casual smile you can give him without wincing, you tap your fingers along the countertop.

Joel looks between you and the bottle, gnawing nervously at the inside of his cheek. “Thanks, hun. That’ll be it, then.”

You ring him up, sinking the fleshlight, the oil, and a complimentary toy cleaner deep into a bag that says THANK YOU four times along the side. The printer buzzes as it spits out his receipt, and you hand it all to him. He gives you a nod, casual, simple. You could keep it that way, a tiny interaction isolated to the four walls of Condom Sense, but you feel the words knocking at the backs of your teeth.

You’re saying them before you can second guess them: “Enjoy yourself, Joel.”

He makes eye contact for what must be the first time that night, eyes murky with something that, if you were more gullible, could come across as want. “I will, sweetheart.” Joel nods, wrapping a large hand around the bag. You don’t watch him leave, but you do hear the ring of the doorbell as the door knocks shut. It’s not enough to distract yourself from thinking of what his moans sound like.

Joel sweats like a whore in church the next time your dad calls him. He practically is one when he thinks about what it’d be like to be inside of the divinity of your body, a rosary of sweat collecting on his neck. He’d say every prayer if it meant he got to keep thinking of you like that – feels realer, a spit-in-your-hand kind of guy, enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself.

It’s shameful, the way he thinks of you, the daughter of the man he considers his best friend. But he can’t make himself stop. Every time he pulls the fleshlight out of his drawer, you appear in his head. Sometimes you’re bent over the counter, whining as he rolls his hips into yours. Sometimes he rucks up those fucking skirts you wear to shove his face between your thighs, lets you soak his face as you pull his hair. Sometimes you’re riding him, moving how he shifts the fleshlight over his leaking cock.

Every time, regardless of what he imagines, he shakes himself loose in post-orgasm bliss, guilt chewing at his stomach. Every time he passes Condom Sense on the way to a job, he wonders if you’re working. What’s a respectable amount of time to stop in for a second sex toy purchase? Joel wouldn't know, and he doesn’t want to be selfish. Money doesn’t grow on trees, unlike his arousal. The fleshlight is already miles better than his own hand, and he worries what he might say if he sees you bouncing around, say, restocking dildos.

He manages to keep his self control. He doesn’t get on his knees and confess his sins to your dad on the phone, or when they run into each other at home depot. By some miracle, he doesn’t get any further than flicking his turn signal before immediately turning it off when he passes Condom Sense.

And then he has the dream.

It’s his day off, a Sunday, and he wakes up to his dick softening and his cum drying on his abdomen and all of the hair spattered there. There’s traces of the dream in reach, tugging on the harness he’d tied around your body to pull you back on his cock.

This time, he can’t shake himself loose.

He’s standing in Condom Sense by ten in the morning, running his hands down his sides and feeling oddly exposed, as if every camera or wandering employee can see the shame painted on his skin much like his cum had been. He hopes you’re not here; he’s not sure he can handle it, but he is sure of the arousal that would brim in his lower belly at the mere sight of you. It’s bad news – everything about this is bad news.

You’re bad for Joel, and you have been ever since he saw you for the first time after your college graduation, partying in your old man’s living room. Four shots deep and a feather boa around your neck, wearing a low-cut top as you scream-sung Dolly Parton into the busted karaoke machine from your childhood. That was the first time he ever saw you as anything more than your dad’s little girl. It should’ve been the last, too.

Joel takes a relieved breath when there’s no immediate sign of you in the store, but you very well could be squatting behind the counter like last time. There's a woman in a pink polo shirt with bangle bracelets standing over by the wall of ropes, reorganizing and sucking on her teeth.

He doesn’t even know what he’s here for – he’s chasing something he can’t have, or at least a semblance of it. The obvious choice is the restraints from his dream, but he has nobody to put them on, no skin to feather with kisses as he pulls them secure. Another fleshlight would be greedy.

And then he hears it. The unmistakable sound of your voice, a shockwave to his chest. He slips behind a display, almost ready to make a beeline for the door when you say, “We restocked the wands.” Joel glimpses you through the grid of butt plugs he’s hiding behind, where you’re waving around a rectangular white box. “You were asking for recommendations, right? Well, this one’s a trooper.”

“That so?” your co-worker clicks. “Might be too intense for me. You’re known to be an overachiever.”

“No shame in a little overstimulation,” you shrug.

Joel slams a fist on his chest to stop himself from hacking out a surprised cough. His thighs go hot, a warmth that spreads between them and tightens his pants as he thinks about you with a wand to your glossy clit, hips squirming for more and less all the same.

“Yeah, for you. I’d be bawlin’ into my pillow in two minutes.”

“It’s my favorite! Only just gave out on me yesterday… had her for years, though. My old faithful. Have to say, it’s a little rough waiting for my next paycheck. Nothing else does it for me. Feels fucking incredible.”

Joel walks out. Not because he wants to, but because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to stop himself from spending almost a hundred dollars on that wand and handing it to you in broad daylight. It occurs to him on the uncomfortable drive home, hard and throbbing between his legs, that he wants to be the source of your pleasure, to make you feel good.

It’s a damning thought for a man like him, but not damning enough.

Pent up is one way to describe the way you’re feeling.

After the unfortunate passing of your trustworthy wand, your fingers nor the rest of your collection of comparably wimpy toys, have been able to do the trick for you. And the worst part of it all? Your paycheck is still three days away.

You’d like to say not getting off in four days is the source of all of your arousal, but you’re not a liar. At least, not to yourself, because you wouldn’t stand at the podium and confess your nastiest Joel-centered fantasies to his face. It’d been bearable when it was only him fucking the fleshlight taped to the backs of your eyelids. You blame it on the pervy part of yourself that’s always rubbed her thighs together from watching a man get himself off. It’s no longer bearable when you start envisioning him moaning your name while he rocks his hips into the toy, chasing his release.

No, it’s not bearable at all.

Sitting behind the same counter you’d checked him out at makes it worse, roughly the same hour of the night that he’d popped in the other day. You keep thinking of how he looked at you, first caught like a deer in headlights, then almost shy, a word you’d never once use to describe the man you’d come to know as your dad’s best friend.

An even more pervy part of yourself, the same one that hopes he thinks of fucking you when he fucks his recent purchase, slowly rolls her hips into the stool. It’s imperceptible, not something that has a chance of being picked up by the camera. You grind your clothed, needy pussy onto the pink vinyl cover, smothering a whimper into your fist. The seam of your shorts catches on your clit, snuggled between your folds. Your arousal clings to the gusset of your drenched panties. Pleasure spools in your stomach, winding around your cunt and spine.

You curl in on yourself, burying your head into your folded arms and panting as you grind on the stool. You let yourself pretend it’s Joel’s lap; the mound-like shape of the foam beneath isn’t at all close to what Joel’s bulge must feel like, but with every press of your hips, it matters less and less.

The taboo of it all, knowing you’ll have to go into the security system and delete the footage once you’re done soaking the vinyl, being in view of the unlocked door, is doing just as much for you as your vibrator back home would. So much so that with your head tipped low, your eyes squeezed shut, and your hips canting back and forth, you don’t even notice the rusted rasp of the bell above the door.

You don’t notice a damn thing until a strangled sound comes from the front of the store.

Your head snaps up so fast that you go toppling off of the back of the chair, just barely able to catch and prop yourself up on a shelf behind the counter. An embarrassed cough knocks its way out of your gut. Too taboo. You’re still panting when you’re stricken by a passing thought: you’re definitely going to lose your job, the last one this part of Austin seemed to have to offer. Shit.

Your dignity on the other hand is long gone, somewhere in the smear of arousal you left on the stool. “Sorry – fuck! I’m sorry,” you blurt out in a last-ditch effort to keep your job, fingers crossed that it’s someone who understands or at least doesn’t care.

When you look up, you get none of that. For the second time this week, you get Joel Miller. Joel Miller with his messed up hair and work-worn hands, slack jaw and rapid blinking.

You must be matching his expression now, mouth opening and closing with your eyes widened in the ultimate form of disbelief. Your head bows and your chin meets your chest. Apparently it wasn’t enough for your dad’s best friend to buy a fleshlight from you. He also had to find you getting off in public.

“Joel, shit, I’m so sorry,” you start, planting the heels of your palms on your temples. Your legs feel weak, a death sentence with your sluggish, blistering heartbeat. Joel’s silence bears down on you, an inescapable weight, and you’re talking before you can stop yourself. “I– I’ve just been so pent up…” Cheeks burning from the inside out, you scrub your hands from your forehead to your chin.

“Shut up,” Joel says stiffly. A wince cleaves its way out of your body.

Another apology sits on your tongue. “I’m s-”

He cuts in, “Knock it off,” and that’s when your eyes drift lower. Below his belt buckle, but not much further. How could you look any lower when his cock is rock fucking hard in his jeans, fighting against the denim? You whimper, unable to stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together. “Jesus, are you in fuckin’ heat?” Joel snaps.

It doesn’t achieve the desired effect – you just let out another whimper, your arousal still clinging to your thighs. “Joel, please.”

Joel pinches his nose bridge. He shakes his head, dissolving into a muttered swear under his breath. “No, hun. Not gonna end up balls deep in my buddy’s little girl, even if you beg real pretty for me.”

“Why not,” you practically whine, pushing off of the shelf and walking closer to him. He only folds his arms over his broad chest as if to keep you away.

His voice is strained. “Baby–” Your heart flutters. “Can’t do that to your dad. You’re just houndin’ after a poundin’, ain’t ya?”

“I am,” you huff, brain clouded by the arousal that’s currently casting a shadow through all of your being. “Please, I haven’t come in days.”

Joel hisses at that like he’s in pain. He shakes his head again, much faster. There’s a line of remorse pressed between his brows, but it’s far overpowered by the pressure of his cock pulling his jeans taut. “Your little ‘massager’ quit on you, sweetheart?”

You bite your lip. Right on the money. “How’d you know?”

“Came in for… somethin’... the other day. Heard you fussin’ about it to your co-worker.” He shrugs.

You’re burning up, a match struck against the gritty concrete of Joel’s voice. It doesn’t matter that he’s a customer, doesn’t even matter that he’s buddies with your dad. You just want him to replace your aimlessly working fingers at night. You want release, and you want it with him. Begging won’t get you there with Joel, you’re realizing, even if all you want is to get on your knees and cry for his cock. You need to rile him up until he breaks. “Needed another pocket pussy to put your dick in?” you tease.

“Watch yourself,” Joel says. “You really that cock starved, darlin’, that you’d beg your daddy’s friend to stick it to ya?”

“You’re one to talk,” you smirk. “What is it you said? A bit dry lately, right?”

“I clearly got more self control than you, hun.”

You say, “Nah.” Your smirk widens, and you take another dangerous step towards him. “You’re hard as a rock, Joel Miller. Bet you were thinking about sticking it to me all along. That’s why you came back, huh? Get another glimpse of me for your spank ban-”

Joel seals the distance between you two, fist going to curl up around your jaw and squeezing. Your mouth pops open, a choked whimper dislodging from your lips. “You got batteries behind that register?” He asks, voice stern. His eyes are all pupil, plunged into black. You struggle to nod in his grasp. “Grab ‘em.”

He leaves you standing in front of the door, buzzing with nervous energy as he walks towards the vibrator section. Your stomach does what feels like ten cartwheels in a row. You lean over to the door, flipping the sign to closed and drawing the curtain shut before practically jogging to the batteries.

You grab the type your beloved wand takes, not even concerned with cashing him out before he’s in front of you again, slicing into the box with his truck keys. You slide the batteries over, and he’s peeling apart the plastic to expose your favorite pink wand, armed with six different settings that never fail to make you come. You only notice you’re rubbing your thighs together again when he gives you a sharp look while he’s popping the batteries into the proper compartment.

He pats the counter. “Up.” You hop up, maybe too eager, your eyes big and needy. Joel grabs you by the shoulder and leans you back, starting to work on the button of your jeans. “This is how this is gonna go,” he says, voice hardened with an order. “You want me to stop, say so. I’m gonna put this wand on your achy little clit, gonna make you feel better, because you ain’t slutty enough to be humpin’ a chair.” You nod so fast that you’re surprised your head doesn’t fall off. “Not gonna give you my cock, got it?”

“G-got it,” you get out shakily. He taps your hip, and you arch off of the counter so that he can yank your jeans and panties down, leaving you spread out and exposed.

Joel spreads you with his pointer and middle finger. “Shoot, baby, you poor thing.” He runs a thumb through your seam, thumb coming up sticky with your wetness. “Drippin’ like a faucet.” He brings his thumb up to the corner of your lips, and you greedily take it into your mouth, tasting your musk off of his callouses.

“That’s it, suck it like a good slut,” he coaxes as you run your tongue along his skin. He pulls away with a pop and weighs the wand in his hand. Flicking one of the buttons with his freshly-sucked thumb, the toy whirrs to life and thrums in his large hand.

You squirm below him and his intense gaze, gripping the edge of the counter for any semblance of purchase you can get. Without warning, he places the toy down onto your clit. Your vision crackles black at the edges as you cry out. You writhe underneath him, hips helplessly bucking. Joel laughs, the bastard that he is, and rolls it along your sensitive nub. It moves freely with the help of your wetness, and even on the lowest setting, it’s more than you thought it would be.

It helps that Joel’s the one using it on you, knowing just went to add extra pressure and lift up, and it also helps that you’ve been untouched by even yourself for the majority of the last week. You push your palms down on the counter and desperately grind your hips against the wand’s head. Your head lolls back, the neon signs on the wall behind you shining on your sweat-slick skin.

Joel flicks between two of the settings, a constant push and pull between low and a little higher, the sort of sensation that has your stomach stirring. “That feel good, hun? Better than rubbin’ this needy pussy on that stool, I bet.” You let out a pitchy sound of half-disagreement, half-pleasure in response, managing to push yourself up on shaking elbows to get a good look at him. He’s still hard, if not more than he’d already been, rolling the wand in easy motions against you. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. Not a bad thing that you only think with your cunt. ‘S cute,” he coos at you. His words make you gush.

“M-more,” you rasp, hips stuttering. You crave more, more of him, even though he’s already denied you that much. There’s a supernova of need flaring inside of you, enough to crack your lips into a ragged moan. Your cunt tightens, squeezing out more of your arousal. You crave him inside of you, buried deep and rolling his hips into you. “Joel, I need – need your cock.”

He turns it up, notches it to a faster pace that engraves pleasure onto your swollen clit. “No you fuckin’ don’t. Quit your mealy mouthin’ and take what I give you. You were ‘bout to spray your whore cum all over that chair, this should be more than enough.” Joel punctuates his sentences with hard jabs of the wand against you, drawing pathetic moans from your chest.

“J-J-Joel! Fuck!”

“J-J-Joel,” he mocks above you, shaking his head. His dark hair flops around with the movements and his tongue sneaks out to lick his lips while he watches you quiver below. “Yeah, you’re in heat alright.” Joel’s hand goes to the hem of your shirt and yanks it up, and your trembling hands help him lower the cups of your bra so he can grab and knead your tits.

His thumb circles your nipple when he turns it up to the highest setting, the one that makes your clit go numb and your back arch. You hardly have time to choke out, “Cl-close!” before Joel rubs the wand just right.

As your orgasm soars through you, you can hear him saying Attagirl, give it to me, so pretty when you come through the veil of your hearing’s fuzziness. You whimper, still rolling your hips as your fingers clamp around his over your tit, and he rubs circles into your palm while you ride it out. “That’s it,” he says when you come down fully, starting to shiver away from the pressure of the vibrator. He lowers it until it stalls in his hand and sets it down on the packaging.

“Good?” he asks, reaching up to stroke your cheek.

“Good,” you nod with a tiny little sigh.

You manage to haul yourself up fully onto your elbows, thighs still trembling. When you look him up and down, you notice two things: there’s the tiny etching of guilt in his eyes, but his cock is definitely still hard. Joel breathes out your name when you reach for him, cupping his sizable bulge through his pants. He hisses. “Can’t be doin’ that, baby.”

“Why?” you ask, lips contorted into a pout. “Because you’re scared you’ll bend me over and fuck me?” You feel his cock twitch under your hand. His resolve is breaking, and you’re loving it. “Just the tip, Joel.”

He winces from your words, but he looks at you, right down to your still-dripping cunt where your release trickles down your inner thighs and your seam. When you spread yourself out for him like he had done and run your finger tip along your opening, that seems to be the last straw. Joel curses under his breath and g0es to make quick work of undoing his belt with one hand, his other still holding yours. “Ju– just the tip,” he reiterates, voice stony.

Joel pulls himself free, groaning when his cock springs up. A noise of surprise catches in your throat when you see him in full. He’s even bigger than he looked in his jeans – which you had no idea was possible. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Just gonna give you the tip, remember?”

“Yeah,” you exhale on a shaky breath.

Despite his insistence, he still reaches out for the condom display next to you, already popping a box open. You grab his wrist urgently, shaking your head. “Don’t need one. Want – want you like this.”

“We shouldn’t,” he says, still holding the box. “I mean, hun, this joint is literally called Condom Sense. Oughta have some, shouldn’t we?”

“Don’t care.” You gather some of your cum on your fingertips, wrapping them around his head so you can brush over his slit. His hips jump, a dead giveaway to what his answer will be.

He grunts, tossing the box somewhere off to the side. “You protected? Clean?” You nod, victorious. “Alright,” Joel sighs. Apparently coming all over his fleshlight isn’t enough, because Joel bends over the counter and dips his head to press his lips against your clit, kissing before he sucks gently on it. You yelp, but quickly feel that heat returning and sparking in your core. He licks at your entrance, swirling his tongue around. “Taste fuckin’ delicious, baby.” You have a feeling he isn’t prepping you for the tip anymore, even more so when he pulls back to feed your cunt two of his fingers.

You whine, desperately rolling your hips down against his thick fingers, fucking yourself down on him as he opens you up properly. He curls his fingers, rubbing that spongy spot inside of you. Your stomach twitches. “That it?”

“Mhm,” you whine, and he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you, always sure to brush your g-spot. The heel of his palm slaps against your clit and you whine, looking at where his fingers fuck into you. It’s an obscene view, his knuckles drenched in your juices while you clench down around him.

“Good girl,” he sighs when he finally pulls his fingers from you. He gets a good grip on his cock, rubbing the head through your slippery, sensitive folds. He coats it in your arousal before notching it at your opening. When he pushes in, he stays true to his word so far, but the tip is enough to make the room spin all over again. You squeeze down on him and he groans a rough, “Fuck. So goddamn tight.”

His words make you clench again, and his head tips to meet your shoulder blade, body poised at an awkward angle while he fights to stay at least partially outside of you. “Didn’t expect you to feel this fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So fuckin’... good.” He gives you shallow thrusts with the tip, just barely enough to slip in and out of you. His teeth sink into your shoulder as if trying to keep himself quiet, trying to steel himself into remembering who he’s on top of and who he just made come.

“Joel,” you whine, carding a hand through his hair and tugging lightly until he brings his eyes on you. “Fuck me.”

For once that night, it’s enough. With his eyes on you, he eases into you, groaning with every inch he gives you until he’s bottomed out in your cunt. With all of Joel’s prepping, there’s no pain, only the fullness of what it’s like to throb around him, to leak down his cock. Your fist tightens in his hair when he pulls out of you only to slam back into you. You look down where his body almost covers yours, and through your silhouettes, you can see the stretch of your arousal sticking to his happy trail, stretching between your skin. The room does spin, now, a blur of pink and pleasure.

Joel says, nipping at your ear, “This what you wanted? Wanted me to stretch you out, make you take my cock like the whore you are?” He rolls his hips into yours and effortlessly finds your g-spot like before. Your legs scramble for purchase, wrapping around his waist and pulling him flush against you. His happy trail, spattered with your arousal, rubs against your clit. You grind your hips down, dig your nails into his biceps, desperate to meet his thrusts. When you don’t respond, he pinches your nipple, and your legs wind even tighter around him in surprise.

“Yes! Wanted it – wanted it when you first walked in, fuck,” you whine.

Joel smirks into the place between your shoulder and neck, kissing up the expanse of your skin. “Horny little girl. Bet you went home so excited to put that wand on your pretty clit, only to find out it quit on ya.” You can only moan, boneless and foggy underneath him as he rocks his hips into you. “Fucked my fleshlight thinkin’ of you, but I bet you already knew that, didn’t you? Wanted to bounce you on my cock so bad. Fuckin’ choking me like I knew you would.”

“Fuck me like you fucked it, then,” you say in a rush, your whimpers still poking through your sentences. “H-hard, Joel, want it rough.”

Joel grunts, twitching inside of you from your request. “Shit, can’t say no to ya. Gotta have… gotta have a goddamn death wish or somethin’, baby.” With that, he finds a punishing, ravenous pace, the filthy noises of his body slapping against yours filling the store from wall to wall. He grins. “But you like it, dirty girl. Can feel ya gettin’ close. C’mon, gimme another, baby.”

You come with a cry, soaking his cock, eyes watering from relief while you grip him. Warmth seeps into your bones and turns your brain to mush, electric from dopamine. You go limp on the ledge while he continues fucking into you, voice filling your ears, “That’s it, that’s my girl, fuuuuck, way better than that fleshlight. Shoulda bent you over the counter and fucked you that first night.” You moan at the thought, pussy still clenching his cock.

You’re too busy coming to notice him reaching to the side, retrieving the long-forgotten wand. You could scream when he touches it to your clit again on the medium setting, and then your thighs are shaking around him even stronger and you’re coming for the third time that night, launched from one orgasm straight into another with Joel hovering over you, still fucking into you. “Fuck, again?” he asks, voice layered with disbelief. “Such a messy pussy, baby. Drippin’ down my thighs. Gonna make it even messier, pump you full ‘a my cum, sweet girl.”

Your vision whites, palms slapping on the counter before he wraps his hand back in yours like before to ground you. You squeeze his hand and moan in response. He turns the vibrator back to low and keeps rolling his hips into you. “Close, baby, gonna shoot this load up your pretty pussy.” Joel’s forehead drops to the counter, still mouthing at your neck when you feel him jerk inside of you. You feel the warmth of his cum spill into you while you still flutter around him, his debauched moans filling your ear as he empties himself into your cunt.

Both of you are breathing heavily by the time he pulls away from you, you laying down on the counter and staring at the ceiling tiles. They’re unfocused and blurry in your post-orgasmic bliss. You blink yourself back to reality, giving him a look with your hooded, tired eyes. His chest rises and falls, mouth and softening cock smeared with your cum. He’s looking at you with the same eyes you’re giving him, something crossed between incredulity and shamelessness.

Joel fishes around in his back pocket before finding a red flannel handkerchief, which he’s careful to dab at your inner legs. You’re both silent until he separates from you with a peck to your forehead. “Did good for me. You’re, uh… really somethin’, sweetheart.”

You grin at him. “That mean this is gonna happen again?” You ask as he tucks himself away and buckles his belt. You stuff your tits back in your bra, pulling down your shirt and securing your pants and shoes from where they’d long fallen into piles on the floor.

“Don’t jump the gun, baby.” He rubs the back of his neck and licks his lips. “But I ain’t rulin’ it out.”

A cocky smirk tugs at your lips, and you hop fully off of the counter, tugging your jeans up your waist. Joel taps the vibrator box when you’re all done. “Cash me out?” he asks, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket and grabbing his wallet instead.

You nod, scanning the damaged vibrator box and batteries and reading off his total. You bag up the soaked vibrator, the on-the-house toy cleaner, and the rest of the batteries he’d bought. “Here you go,” you say, holding it out for him.

“Nah, hun. That’s for you. What use am I gonna get out of a vibrator unless it’s makin’ you come?” He pats the back of your hand and slides the bag across to you again.

You stare at him, fighting not to let your jaw loosen. “Joel… that’s a lot of money.”

“And you deserve to come as much as you want, got it, pretty girl?” He smiles at you with a shrug as if he hadn’t just wrung three out of you within an hour. “Besides, you have my number. You know who to ask if you ever need someone to talk you through it.”

You choke, nodding dumbly at his proposition. So definitely not ruled out.

“Thank you,” you say, bringing yourself to match his smile.

He gives your hand a squeeze and says, “See you later, sweetheart,” before heading out.

And sure, this entire thing is a tornado that could toss up your life like a trailer park, but for Joel? You’d let it happen.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller/f! reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic

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beasangel · 2 months ago

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a very bad time p2

⤷ joel miller x fem!reader

💭 “You think it’s hope?” You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.

part one joel masterlist main masterlist

The silence after Kansas City hangs heavy.

It follows you like a second shadow, quiet and careful, just waiting for one of you to break it.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not in the middle of a shootout. Not with your back pressed to a rusted-out car and Joel covered in blood. But fear had cracked you wide open, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them.

Joel’s reaction was instant. Unfiltered. The kind of knee-jerk panic you weren’t used to seeing from him.

But he hasn’t brought it up since.

Neither have you.

There have been nights, long, quiet ones where your ribs press into his under the blankets, where the fire dies too early and neither of you says a word, when you almost did. When his fingers brushed over your skin too gently for someone who hadn’t asked a single question about the possibility of a life growing between you.

But the words stayed in your mouth. Stuck. Swallowed down like ash.

You survived the ambush, but barely. Your body still aches from being thrown against the ground. The bruise on your shoulder blooms like ink, sharp and dark, another addition to the collection of marks you’ve gathered from trying to stay alive.

There are more immediate concerns: a place to sleep. The sharp echo of gunfire in your memory. Food supplies thinning. Joel’s shoulder, which he swears isn’t dislocated but still hasn’t moved quite right since.

So you hold it inside. Try not to count the days. Try not to notice the way your stomach swirls each morning, or the quiet weight that’s settled in your chest. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s nothing.

But it isn’t. And it’s getting too loud to ignore.

You find the pharmacy by accident.

A sun-bleached skeleton of a building, wedged between a burned-out diner and a tire shop caved in on itself. The sign is half-gone. Inside, it’s cooler. Still. Dust floats through the air like pollen.

Most of the shelves are empty. Looted long ago. But your feet move through the aisles anyway, like muscle memory.

Joel takes the back. You crouch behind the counter, sleeve pulled over your hand to avoid the shards of glass glittering across the cabinet doors.

That’s when you see it.

Tucked behind a warped stack of cotton swabs. Slightly crushed, but unopened.

A pregnancy test.

You pause. Just for a second. Then you grab it, fast and clumsy, like someone might snatch it away if you hesitate.

Joel’s boots creak behind you.

You don’t have time to hide it.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You turn slowly. It’s in your hand, stupidly obvious, like a bomb with the timer counting down.

His eyes flick down to the box, then back to you.

“You said you weren’t sure.”

“I’m not,” you say too fast. Voice too tight.

Joel doesn’t nod the way he usually does when he doesn’t want to talk about something. Doesn’t shrug it off and shut the door on you. Instead, he says quietly, “You wanna take it?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your throat’s dry.

“I want to,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “But… until we find Tommy. Until we’re somewhere safe. I don’t think I should.”

He watches you for a moment. Then nods.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, you’re tucked into the woods just off the highway. Ellie’s out cold, collapsed like a dropped coat. Joel sits by the fire, sharpening his knife with the kind of focus he only uses when he’s trying not to feel.

You settle beside him. Pull your coat tighter.

“So… you think we’re close to Tommy?” you ask softly.

Joel doesn’t look up. “I know.”

You hesitate. “I just- I want to be somewhere it’s okay to hope.”

He draws the blade down the whetstone. Once. Twice. Then pauses.

“You think it’s hope?”

You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

There’s a stretch of silence.

Then Joel says, voice quiet like it’s been untouched for years, “Sarah had this shirt. Blue. Covered in little butterflies. Got too small for her, but she wouldn’t stop wearing it. Said it made her feel like she could fly.”

You don’t speak. Just stare at the fire, the way the flames curl like hands.

“I kept it,” he says. “After. Couldn’t throw it away. Still had it when I met you.”

Your breath catches. He never talks about Sarah. Not like this.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Joel says. “I’ve been… afraid. That nothing would ever matter after her. That nothing would be more than memory.”

You turn to look at him. Your heart hammers.

“But then you showed up,” he says. “Ran into me in the North Zone. Didn’t flinch when that clicker came at us. Shot it between the eyes. Called me old.”

You laugh, startled by the sound.

“You were limping,” you murmur. “I thought you needed backup.”

“I thought you were out of your damn mind.”

You smile. Eyes sting. “Maybe I was.”

He looks at you then. Really looks for the first time in days. His face is tired, lined, worn down from too many years of surviving. But there’s something steadier beneath it. Something warmer.

“I don’t know if it’s hope,” he says. “But if it’s you… it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

Your throat tightens. The fire crackles.

“Still,” Joel adds, dry now, “if you ever tell me you might be pregnant in the middle of a gunfight again…”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, can we not-”

“No, we have to talk about it,” he says, lips twitching. “That might’ve been the worst timing in human history.”

“I panicked!” you protest. “There was blood everywhere, I was panicking!”

“Even so. You couldn’t wait five more seconds?”

“I wasn’t thinking rationally! I just-” You hesitate. Your voice softens. “I didn’t want either of us to die without you knowing.”

Joel doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. His whole expression shifts, gentles.

“You’re not dying,” he says. “Not on me. Not like that.”

Your chest twists.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He reaches over. Brings his hand to yours. Callused and warm. Steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” Joel says. “Together.”

And for the first time since Kansas City, you believe him.

Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “Joel…”

“Hmm?”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder.

“It was positive.”

He freezes.

Then slowly, without a word, he wraps his arms around you. Holds you to his chest like something fragile and beloved. Like he’s not letting go.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel it.

Just for a minute.

Hope.

#joel miller age gap #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x pregnant reader #joel miller x younger!reader

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im-ovulating · 1 year ago

Note

I think Tate should pin reader to a wall and fuck her. W me deserve a treat this Halloween season, and slutty Tate is such a nice thing.

(A/n: I think that's the best idea you've had yet. Slutty Tate is really all I need in this life🫠)

(Forgive the writing rust, it's been a minute)

(Not proofread)

(Pretend it's still October for me, yeah?)

Word Count: 1,611

Summary- Run, baby, run.

Warnings: Chasing, Unprotected Sex

Age Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Tate Langdon x Fem! Reader: Run

-------------------

"Oh, my fucking god, Tate!" You screech as you use the banister to make a sharp turn. Tate thunders down the stairs after you in that stupid mask he found.

"C'mon~" He rasps out. "Don't you wanna play?~"

You round the kitchen island, circling it to keep distance between you. His vocal fry makes your cheeks burn; the innuendo in his phrasing doing nothing to help the heat.

"Don't -" You cut yourself off with a scream as Tate all but lunges around the island at you.

And you're running again, through the living room, past the home office, until you spot the basement door in your peripheral. You shoot off towards it, ripping the door open and sprinting down the stairs. You use the support pillars to your advantage, losing him in the maze that you call a basement.

You can hear his heavy steps as he taunts you. Boot clad feet clicking and echoing through the dark room.

"Y/n~" He singsongs. "Come out, come out wherever you are~"

His voice is muffled by the mask.

You slip around the last outcropped wall and plaster your back to the brick.

A shiver runs up your spine and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end as it suddenly goes deadly silent. The only sound in the damp room is your ragged breathing that gets poorly muffled by your hands.

Why did you think the basement was a good idea? You've done nothing but effectively trap yourself.

You're a sitting duck down here. Your best chance at escaping him is if you can manage to get back up the stairs and make a break for the front door. In theory, it's easy. The door is just a few paces to the right of the basement. But this is a ghost you're dealing with - nothing is that simple with him.

Nonetheless, once you steady your breathing, you start inching your way back to the steps.

Thank the gods you decided to put off putting your shoes on; your socks make your steps silent as you scoot around a corner. Your eyes adjusting to the pitch black does nothing to quell your paranoia; if anything, it merely heightens it. The knowledge that you could turn your head at any point at be face to face with your pursuer has your heart frantically beating against your ribs as if aching to smash through the bone. The quiet roars in your ears as you strain to hear even the slightest shuffle in the dark.

Wait-

No. That was your pulse in your ears...

'Where is he..?'

Every step you take feels like it's being watched like a hawk, and, at this point, you don't know if you're just psyching yourself out or not. Something moves in the corner of your eye, but when you whip around, you're met with nothing.

'This isn't funny anymore...' your mind unhelpfully supplies.

Taking a shuddering breath, you make up your mind and call out into the pitch.

"Tate? Please, this isn't fun anymo-"

A hand covers your mouth, an arm snaking across your stomach to drag you back. You thrash, desperately trying to rip the hand off. Your protests remain muffled as your captor pins you face-first to the nearest wall.

"Gotcha~" Tate quips, his breath fanning your neck. "Are you scared, baby?"

So, he ditched the mask... 'Finally,' you can't help but think.

You shake your head despite the answer being an obvious 'yes'. You can feel his cock pressing into your ass, getting harder with each passing second.

"No?" His hand slips from your mouth to your jaw, tilting your head back, "Liar."

With that, Tate slams his mouth to yours, hungry and not afraid to satiate himself.

You know it's wrong. That being hunted down and caught shouldn't make you feel this way, but it does. It does. It makes your tummy get all hot and fuzzy - makes your head cloudy and hazy.

And Tate knows it.

He knows this dirty little secret of yours and loves to entice it. Because, just as much as you love the chase, he loves the hunt.

The arm around you slides down until his hand can slip into your pants.

"Not only are you a liar -" he murmurs into the kiss, "- but you love that you're scared. I bet you're soaking through your panties, too, aren't ya?"

His fingers finally reach your folds, easily stroking you with all the slick that's shamefully accumulated. "Knew it~"

Tate breaks the kiss and pulls his hand out. Lifting his hand to your lips, he barely has to mutter out an 'open' before you're accepting the digits into your mouth.

You can feel his dark eyes boring into you as you suck your own juices from his fingers.

"Good girl..." His thumbs along your jaw with his free hand before pulling his digits from your mouth.

Tate turns you around and pins you to the wall once more before leaning down to kiss you again. It feels like he's devouring you; eager to eat you until there's nothing left for him to take. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting all you have to offer and still some. It's when he starts to work at your jeans that you pull away.

"Down here?" You ask, as you attempt to catch your breath. Tate makes that easier said than done by shifting to focus on your neck.

You can feel the shit-eating smirk that spreads against your neck as he mumbles out a "Why not? You had no problem soaking your panties down here."

He belts out a laugh at your offended gasp and as much as you want to snark back, you can't deny that he's right. So, instead, you huff out an "Asshole" as you relax against the wall. Wasting no time, Tate shoves your jeans down until you're able to kick them off; after unbuckling his own, he hikes your leg up and lines his cockhead with your entrance with an almost evil grin.

"Tate, don't you fucking dar-" You're cut off with a yelp as he shoves himself to the hilt with one motion.

"You love it," he grunts. And you do.

He pulls out to the tip before thrusting back in. Again and again, he builds up to a frenzied rhythm as the wet sounds of your arousal echo through the basement and all you can think is how glad you are that you're the only one home.

You can feel the staccato of your heartbeat as it mirrors his trusts.

You can barely breathe with how hard he's slamming into you, but he still has you all but clawing at his back, so it's not like you can complain. He isn't much better with how he's basically growling into your neck, sucking and biting a pattern into your skin as he fucks into you.

"How are you still so fucking tight?" He groans out, grinding his cock into you before pulling out. Tate flips you around once more before pushing back in.

Your cheek scrapes against the wall with a few trusts before you're able to get your palms against it. Using your new leverage, you start to press back, meeting him trust for thrust as he draws out grunts and groans from both of you.

The hot, wet slide of him in your cunt has your brain going empty of anything but Tate and the growing need to cum. You can feel the steady build up, the tension mounting in your muscles as he guides you closer and closer to the edge.

You're not even sure what sounds your making; all you can hear is the heavy breathing and growled curses that Tate is releasing. His hands snuck up to play with your tits at some point and with each tug and pinch, your back arches more and more as electricity starts to crackle in your veins.

"God, I'm close," you pant out. "Please, Tate..."

You feel the tip of his nose trail up your neck as he inhales your scent. "You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?" He mumbles once his lips meet the skin just below your ear.

He slips one of his hands back down to your clit, "Then cum."

With one last tug to the sensitive nerve, your vision blurs as you cry out his name. The static in your limbs shoots out, spreading through your fingers and toes and tosses your head back against his shoulder. You don't even register your legs going out until Tate's arm tightens around your waist, keeping you up as he chases his own release.

"Hold on, baby," He rasps, "Just hold on for me a little longer-"

The continued stimulation keeps your eyes shut as your forced to take what he gives. Any rhythm he had is gone as he pounds into your cunt like an animal; you could cry out in relief once you feel his hips start to stutter. And you do. As soon as you can feel the thick, hot ropes of his cum pump into you, the tears fall; the overstimulation makes your legs quiver, but ecstasy still hums in your veins.

You don't register the muttered praises Tate presses into your shoulder until your breathing evens out and your heart stops hammering in your ears. "You with me, Pretty?"

Nodding, you test your legs, finally taking the strain off of Tate, though his arm stays firmly locked around your waist. Blinking the remaining blurriness from your eyes, you turn your head to face him before getting pulled into a kiss.

"There she is," he whispers against your lips.

(3 years and I still don't know how to end smut🤪)

#tate langdon x reader smut #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon smut #tate langdon #tate langdon x you #ahs smut #ahs x reader #ahs murder house

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riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

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Greenhouse Seven

summary: When Hogwarts’ weed supply runs dry, Mattheo Riddle discovers the last place he expected to find salvation-a Hufflepuff characters: mattheo riddle. hufflepff! reader. mentions of theo nott and enzo berkshire. warnings: For clarity !!!! while the terms weed supplier and drug dealer are sometimes used interchangeably, there’s a difference. A weed supplier typically focuses solely on the distribution or growth of marijuana, whereas a drug dealer usually refers to someone dealing a variety of illegal substances. This story does not portray the characters as drug dealers. They’re strictly weed suppliers - nothing more. It’s a lighthearted story with a bit of magical mischief (and maybe some smoke in the air), but no involvement with any other substances. IM A CHILD OF THE DARE PROGRAM word count: 1.1k

It started with Theo flipping the stash drawer upside down like the weed would miraculously appear behind a sock.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice muffled as he dug deeper. “We’re officially f-”

“We’re not out,” Enzo interrupted from across the dorm, kicking his feet up onto the arm of the couch as he lazily stirred sugar into his tea. His curls were damp from the shower, and his tie hung loose around his neck like he hadn't decided whether today even mattered. “We’re just… momentarily low.”

“Theo’s right,” Mattheo cut in from the window seat, his tone sharper, quieter. His dark eyes were fixed on the swirling October fog outside, but his attention was clearly locked on the conversation. “We’ve got maybe a week. Less if the Gryffindors keep ordering those massive bundles.”

Enzo sat up straighter. “Okay, so we improvise. I could charm the next few grams into stretching-”

“We’re not selling trash,” Mattheo snapped. “We built a reputation. You want to throw that down the toilet so we can sell watered-down garbage?”

Theo sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “We’ve got to find a new grower. Fast.”

A tense silence fell, thick with the weight of urgency. The dorm, usually buzzing with late-night laughter and the scent of burned parchment, suddenly felt smaller. Colder. Even the enchanted record player in the corner seemed to hum quieter.

Then, like a switch had been flipped in his brain, Theo’s head shot up.

“Wait. Ravenclaw sixth year - Avery - I overheard him talking in the corridor last week. Swore someone was growing the real stuff. Said something about ‘lush leaves in a forgotten greenhouse.’ I didn’t think much of it at the time…”

Mattheo turned to face him fully now, brow lifting with curiosity. “Which greenhouse?”

“I think he said Seven.”

Enzo blinked. “Greenhouse Seven’s a graveyard. Nothing’s grown there since second year. Sprout keeps it locked up.”

Mattheo stood without another word, grabbing his coat and slinging it over his shoulder with a fluid motion.

“I’ll go check it out.”

He didn’t wait for input. The boys had learned long ago that when Mattheo decided something, he rarely looked back.

By the time he reached the edge of the grounds, Greenhouse Seven was almost completely swallowed by mist and ivy. The structure sagged with age, glass panes cracked and grimy, its metal frame creaking against the autumn wind. It looked forgotten - haunted, even - and yet something about it pulsed with quiet life.

The warped wooden door gave with a reluctant groan, and Mattheo stepped inside.

It was warm - unnaturally so, like the air inside obeyed a different season. A faint golden light flickered from deep within the tangled space, revealing rows of chaos: overturned pots, broken shelves, rusted shears hanging from pegs. But further in, where the shadows grew softer, something else came into view.

Nestled in the back, beneath a canopy of hanging fairy lights and softly glowing enchanted stones, was a pocket of vivid green. Neatly lined rows of thriving marijuana plants stood proud and healthy - glistening under the lights like they knew they were special.

And kneeling between them, humming to herself and dusted with dirt and calm like a walking spell, was a Hufflepuff girl.

You.

Your jumper was oversized and patchy at the elbows, sleeves pushed up to your forearms as your fingers gently examined the soil. Your hair was twisted into a lazy knot, strands framing your face where the light caught them. There was a steaming chipped mug at your side, a battered gardening journal open beside it. The entire scene felt… unreal. Peaceful.

You didn’t notice him at first. Not until the door groaned shut behind him.

“Who-?” you stood suddenly, wand half-raised, alarm flaring in your eyes.

Mattheo raised both hands in mock surrender, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Relax, flower. Not here to rat you out.”

Your brow pinched with suspicion. “Then what are you doing in my greenhouse?”

Mattheo stepped further into the light, eyeing the plants with clear appreciation. “Your greenhouse?”

“Well, Professor Sprout doesn’t exactly use it. I… repurposed it.”

His gaze flicked back to you. Cute. Smart. Kind of dangerous.

“I’m Mattheo,” he said simply, like the name should carry meaning.

You arched an unimpressed brow. “And?”

He chuckled, charmed despite himself. “I came on behalf of my… associates.”

“Associates?”

“You could say we supply Hogwarts,” he said, tone casual. “Used to, anyway. Until we ran low.”

You crossed your arms, eyeing him warily. “And now what? You want to steal mine?”

Mattheo shook his head, smile faint. “I don’t steal from artists. I collaborate with them.”

You didn’t laugh, but you didn’t hex him either - which he took as a win.

“Look,” he continued, stepping closer. “We’ve got reach. Systems. Loyal buyers. You’ve clearly got the product. Let’s help each other out.”

You stared at him, brow knit. “You’re asking me to team up with a bunch of Slytherins?”

“Not just any Slytherins,” he replied, voice a little lower now. “The ones who can make sure your secret garden stays exactly that - a secret. You grow. We distribute. We split profits. No risk. All reward.”

You hesitated. The greenhouse was your sanctuary. But you weren’t stupid - you knew how fast rumors spread, how dangerous it could get if the wrong person stumbled in.

“And if someone finds out?”

Mattheo’s expression darkened. “They won’t. Not with us watching your back.”

Silence fell again. A soft breeze rattled a loose pane overhead.

You looked down at your plants, then back at him. “Why should I trust you?”

Mattheo’s expression sobered just enough to make you pause. “Because I’m not the only one who’d come looking. You got lucky it was me tonight.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken.

Then you sighed, brushing a leaf between your fingers. “You’ll keep the location a secret?”

“Cross my heart,” he said, mocking, tapping his chest.

You smiled faintly, then extended your hand, still smudged with soil. “Fine. But you bring me tea every time you come. And no messing with the plants. They like music and gentle company.”

Mattheo stared at your outstretched hand, amused - and just a little intrigued.

“Tea and gentle company,” he repeated. “What a terrifying pothead you’ll make.”

He shook your hand, fingers curling warm around yours.

And with that, a partnership formed - strange, unlikely, perfectly balanced between reckless ambition and grounded charm. A trio of underground Slytherin suppliers and the softest Hufflepuff grower Hogwarts had ever known.

It wouldn’t be the last night Mattheo stepped into that greenhouse - not even close. But for now, the deal was struck. And the smoke was only just beginning to rise.

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #theo nott #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #hufflepuff!reader

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

Lie Better

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: After a failed mission, you hide an injury to avoid looking weak. But you can’t escape Bucky’s watchful gaze.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: enemies to lovers vibe; graphic descriptions of injury and untreated wounds; low self-worth; emotional suppression

Author’s Note: Thank you for this request, my dear! I had fun bringing it to life. Hope you’ll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights in the briefing room are too bright.

They buzz overhead like an accusation and spill white over tired faces and blood-stiff uniforms.

The table is long and cold and metal. You sit at the far end, spine rigid, eyes forward, your body still echoing with the aftershocks of the mission.

Nobody is talking about what went wrong. No one ever does.

Steve says something about containment protocols. Natasha nods. Sam makes a clipped joke no one laughs at.

You stare at the holographic blueprint glowing in the center of the table and pretend you don’t feel the heat of Bucky’s eyes boring into the side of your skull like a warning shot that hasn’t fired yet.

You don’t look at him. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s been watching you since you stepped back onto the quinjet right after the failed mission. Hasn’t said a word.

Your side throbs and you try not to flinch when you shift your shoulder and it sings agony down your spine. You keep your arms folded, elbows tight to your ribs in the hopes of keeping them together.

But you’re fine. Or at least you are supposed to be. The mission is over - failed, but over. The explosions have stopped. The sky is not on fire anymore. So you must be fine.

You stepped onto the quinjet earlier, zipped up your tactical suit, and ignored the crimson that stained the inside like rusted guilt. You stood tall beside your team, among the living legends who don’t bleed and don’t fall and don’t feel like failures. You walked into the compound pretending the floor wasn’t swaying and that you didn’t see stars glow behind your eyelids.

And now, in the debrief of said failed mission, you don’t really say anything. Just low responses when prompted, clipped and tactical.

Bucky hasn’t said a damn thing for the entire hour. Not to Steve. Not to you. Not even when Sam mentions a breach in the lower wing and looks toward Bucky with the expectation of a rundown. Bucky says nothing. Just leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Because every time someone talks, every time the screen flickers with mission footage, every time you glance down at your trembling hand and will it still, he’s looking at you.

His gaze scrapes across your skin like sandpaper, cataloging your movements like a file being updated in real time.

You feel it like a fingerprint pressed to your skin. Heavy. Heated. He’s not subtle when it comes to you.

Bucky stares as if he’s reading the parts of you you’ve never let anyone see. As if he knows things you haven’t said out loud. As if he’s trying to find a reason not to say them first.

You shift in your seat. And the world tips. Not far, just a breath, but it’s enough for you to clench your jaw so hard it stings.

He sees it.

His eyes snap down. You wonder if he’s tallying up your mistakes, your imperfections, the way he always used to.

Your skin pulses hot and slick, a slow-drum ache that’s spreading its limbs now. You’re pretty sure something inside you shifted wrong, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t say that. Not here. Not with him looking at you like that.

As though he already knows.

As though he’s angry about it.

You push up from your chair before they’ve dismissed you. You move fast. Too fast. The movement sends pain ricocheting through your side and you bite down on it, hard enough to taste metal.

You don’t limp, this time. The last time you limped off the quinjet, he made sure to point it out with narrowed eyes. But your steps are too careful, your gait off-balance, your body feels misaligned with the floor.

Your blood is still warm where it shouldn’t be. Your shoulder is soaked through, the pain urgent.

You reach your door.

And you don’t hear him until he’s behind you.

“Didn’t look too good in there.”

You freeze, fingers still pressed to the panel. His voice is low, but not quiet. There’s is something resembling rust in it. Wear.

You don’t turn. “Pretty sure that applies to half the team.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one still bleeding,” he says, flat.

You don’t say anything.

He waits.

And you hate how he does that. Just stands there. Just waits. As if he’s not going to speak again until you do.

“I’m not going to the med bay.” The words are sharper than you mean them to be. Or maybe you don’t care how sharp they are.

“Didn’t say you have to,” he answers gruffly.

You swipe your door open, slip inside, and it almost closes, but his hand is there.

He stops the door and pushes it open again, steps in, and lets it seal behind him without asking, without invitation, without hesitation.

You don’t turn around. You don’t want to see his face. Don’t want to know what his mouth is doing or what his eyes are trying to say.

Instead, you sit down on the edge of your bed because standing is no longer an option. Your shoulder screams when you start peeling back the sleeve of your suit. You hiss and your hand falls away.

In the mirror on the wall, you catch Bucky’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t say anything, just moves, and you hear him pull something from the med kit on your desk - gauze, antiseptic, quiet clicks and snaps. You stare at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes in the reflection.

Still, without a word, he comes kneeling in front of you. His hand hovers for a second too long before brushing yours away. There is blood on his knuckles still.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter weakly.

He ignores you.

Cool metal fingers tug the fabric down and you flinch without meaning to.

“Stop moving,” he instructs, though his hands still for a second, his words come through gritted teeth and he says it with a voice too soft.

Slow and controlled, he peels the suit back further.

Your breath is uneven. You think of all the times he’s looked at you as if you’re a mistake waiting to happen. All the clipped comments, the tension, the cold.

And now he’s here, in your room, on his knees in front of you.

The antiseptic burns and your breath catches. His hand steadies your arm. Not tight. Almost soothing.

You hate that it helps.

“I didn’t ask you for this,” you clarify, barely in a whisper.

“No,” he states evenly. “You didn’t.”

The gash on your shoulder is deep. Ugly. Stitched with shrapnel. His fingers smear salve across the worst of it.

You glance down and see his brow tight, jaw flexed, mouth tugged in a frown. He looks as if he’s trying to keep something down. Something sharp.

He doesn’t say why he’s doing this. Doesn’t ask if it hurts. He cleans the wound in silence. You flinch again. He pauses. Not a word. Just eases his hand back, slows his movements, rolls his tense shoulders.

You don’t know what to do with him acting this way. With his hands being so gentle with you.

But his voice still isn’t.

“Shouldn’t have ignored this.” His eyes flick to yours, then away again.

You press your lips together and watch the way his hands move. Experienced. Unshaking.

“You always think you can do everything alone,” he says after a long pause. “You think that’s strength.”

Your mouth fills with copper. “You get that from reading my mind?” you ask rather unkindly.

His eyes fly up and catch yours like glass catching sun. They hold this time, just long enough to knock the breath sideways in your chest.

“No,” he says, calm and low. “I get it from watching you limp off the quinjet and pretend your ribs weren’t giving out.”

That lands too close. You look away.

His hands keep moving. He’s pressing a fresh wrap into place now, pulling it snug. Not too tight, but enough to hold. His fingers brush your skin and they are cool where you are fever-warm.

“You favor your left when you’re exhausted,” he adds, voice quieter now, talking as if this is a passive observation. A note. “You’ve been doing that since Moscow.”

You blink. Moscow was months ago.

It was the first week-long mission you ever had with the man in front of you. It went sideways. You took a pretty big hit.

You didn’t expect him to still think about this.

“You take notes on everyone like that?” you ask dryly.

He shrugs. “Not everyone’s got your talent for pretending they’re inscrutable.”

The silence is filled with things neither of you are going to say.

You press the heel of your hand against your brow. Breathe through your teeth. “I’m not pretending to be anything, Barnes.”

“And yet, you said nothing.” He doesn’t say it as a reprimand. He says it as a fact he’s disappointed to keep collecting.

You breathe out sharply.

You’ve never made it easy between you two. You know that. Ever since they threw you on the same team, there’s been some friction. He’s quiet and disciplined and splits the world into useful and not. You are stubborn and made of sharp turns.

You bicker a lot. Get under each other’s skin.

He doesn’t trust easily. You don’t like being watched.

You told yourself he doesn’t like you. It was simpler that way. Now he is fixing what you won’t admit is broken. Not exactly looking at you as if he hates you.

And somehow that’s worse.

Bucky tapes the last piece of gauze down with the same careful pressure. Then he sits back on his heels, metal hand flexing at his side.

You pull your arm back, testing the tension. It’s tight. Secure. You flex your fingers to prove something, even if you’re not sure what.

Bucky keeps sitting there, keeps watching you.

“I’m fine,” you say. Uselessly. But it’s easier than saying thank you and it’s the most practiced lie in your arsenal anyway.

His brow lifts, faint. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands with a grunt, packing the things he used together. He moves slow.

You watch the way his shoulders move. Still coiled. Still prepared. As if his body doesn’t know the mission is over.

You take a moment to breathe in. Breathe out. Then you open your mouth to say the words that will most likely burn on your tongue. “Thank you.” It comes out quieter than intended, but you know he picks it up.

He doesn’t respond, but the mirror shows you the way he stills in his movements for a moment.

Then he heads to the door without a glance back.

“You walk as if it’s the shoulder, but you’re guarding your ribs.” His voice is a low earthquake. Not loud, but enough to crack you open if you’re not careful.

You freeze.

“Next time,” he says, voice rough, pausing at the threshold, “at least lie better.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’d like to curse him out.

#2k drabble challenge request #2k drabble challenge #bucky barnes x reader #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes x avenger!reader #avenger!reader #avenger!bucky #bucky barnes imagine #bucky drabble #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader fanfiction #bucky x reader

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nemisuki · 8 months ago

Text

Behind The Walls

Zombie Apocalypse AU | The society you used to know was long gone when the outbreak started. You were supposed to be worrying about what to wear at your graduation, not about what house to scavenge for supplies. You find yourself sticking together with your blonde classmate, only to be separated from him soon after. Living in a world without humans was isolating, but a world without him is just lonely.

᧔o᧓ || Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader, no manga spoilers, no nsfw, no quirks, kinda depressing at first ngl, minor gore and blood mentioned bc zombies duh, angst but happy ending, first kisses, love confessions, minor time skips, starts as third years and ends around 19-20 yrs, tamed bakugo bc he's mature yet still feisty, 5.7k word count

According to the tally marks scribbled down in her flimsy notebook, it's been exactly three months and 10 days.

Three months and 10 days of being on her own.

Everyday it gets harder to think about the past, so she chooses to ignore it as her day goes on. She tries to avoid leaving the house as much as possible. Not leaving her temporary base, unless it's time to scavenge for supplies like food or water.

When she does go out, she can only hope that she’ll find something edible. Majority of the time getting lucky by finding rusted cans of food or forgotten granola bars. It's been a few weeks since she ate her last fruit. A package of dried mango.

Due to the sudden transition from fall to winter, it was hard to find such delights. Not leaving her much time to cherish it for a future occasion.

It’s winter now.

Years ago she would've been happy at the sight of snow.

But the world is different now.

Instead of feeling joy at the sight of the first snowflake, she quickly made her way back to her hideout. Grabbing her bookbag and packing all her essentials in it, which wasn't a lot in the first place.

She couldn't stay much longer in this house during the winter. The structure was practically crumbling by the day and certainly wouldn't hold up in the cold climate. Honestly, she was lucky that it held up till now.

It was at night where her mind constantly wandered back to the past.

Back to him specifically.

(∩˃o˂∩) flashbackᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

In a single day, society lost all aspects of humanity.

But moments before that, came the main topic of discussion — romance and crushes. Typical girl talk.

It didn't take long for her classmates to notice how quiet Y/N had gotten. Seemingly extra shy all of a sudden. They all squeal knowingly and nudge her to “spill the beans” on who she has her eyes on. Though everyone already knows. Hell, the whole grade probably knows.

She dismissively waves her hands around trying to deny such silly assumptions. But her eyes go on autopilot and land on the destination – his desk.

The blonde who seems to be slouching in his seat, is spewing curses towards the ‘extras’ who come up to him so casually as if it's any other day. The infamous hot head has definitely mellowed out over the three years. Yet his temper never disappeared completely, well not like anyone minds it now.

Spending 8 hours around complex personalities such as his, makes you immune to their empty threats and insults. Anyone who spends much time with him, such as his classmates, knew he didn't mean harm.

As everyone waited for the teacher to arrive, that's when the screams started in the hallways.

Y/N could never forget the scene of everyone collectively pausing their conversations to listen. To question what exactly is going on.

Soon the odd noises started multiplying. Students began running down the hallways, yelling at the top of their lungs with complete fear displayed on their faces.

It was then when panic kicked in.

The speakers soon switched on in each classroom and hallway. The principal's voice echoed throughout the school, clear unease in his tone.

“ALL STUDENTS AND STAFF LEAVE THE PREMISES NOW! A UNKNOWN VIRUS HAS SPREAD THROUGHOUT THE BUILDING. PEOPLE ARE GOING FERAL AND BITING ONE ANOTHER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL! PLEASE SAVE YOURSELF-”

The sudden announcement was cut off by screams of pain and unknown groaning from the attacker. Not much longer, anxiety surged through everyone's body. Everyone ran out of the classroom trying to get away from an unknown threat.

Y/N rushes out alongside her classmates, attempting to make her way through the crowd. Students pushing one another to reach the closest exit quickly. She yells out to her friends who are farther up ahead for help. Her height comes to be a disadvantage for her as she gets shoved around left and right.

Making no progress whatsoever, her classmates make it out of her sight. Unable to hear Y/N's voice due to the screams and chaos around them.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Her heart starts beating at an uncontrollable rate, complete dread taking over her body as she's left alone in a crowd of unfamiliar faces. Her mind is going on loop, praying to whatever god out there, to save her. To help her.

She can feel her vision get glossy as tears start to form. And then not a second later, she feels a warm hand wrap around her waist. Pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her body jumps at the sudden contact and she quickly looks up to her side, only to see those red eyes staring back down at her.

“There you are” he says while inhaling a deep breath of what seems to be relief. His eyes quickly looked over her figure, seemingly to look for any sign of injury or pain.

“B-Bakugo-”

“We don't have much time. C'mon, we're leaving another way, this crowd is doing us no good” he says, cutting her off before she could even reply. Using his arm that was resting on her waist to easily lift her off the ground.

She yelps in shock and quickly wraps her arms around his neck to stabilize herself, not wanting to fall from his grasp. He shoves past the mass of students and runs towards the library, the room now empty of people and eerily quiet.

Y/N wanted to ask why he brought them here, but her question answered itself when he ran towards a window and set her back down on the floor. A fire escape visible on the other side of the glass.

“Stand back nerd” he yells in her direction as he picks up a chair then starts to continuously hit the window with all his strength.

Only after a few tries does the glass shatter with a loud crash. He uses the silk curtains to dust away the shards from the window frame for an easier path. With ease, he hops over the open wall and stands on the ground of the metal fire escape.

He looks back and beckons for her to approach quickly. She can still hear screams coming from behind her in the hallway, making her legs move immediately to the shattered window. She was about to climb over when he looped his hands under her arms, picking her up like a doll and pulling her outside with him.

Once again, setting her down beside him.

“Let's go. And don't move so fast, this fire escape might be old as hell and fall to the ground with us on it” he says while starting to walk down the steps first.

“Do you know what's going on? There were some students in the hallway with blood on their uniform” she says, completely frightened as they started to descend down the steps in a quick yet careful manner.

“No damn idea. But what I do know is that we’re getting the fuck out of here” he grumbles as he’s seemingly in thought. Likely trying to come up with a reason as to what's happening.

They both pause in their steps when they look towards the front of the school. Y/N gasps and covers her mouth in horror of the sight. While Bakugos eyes widen as he looks ahead at the entrance gates of UA.

It was a massacre. Screams of pain and terror echoing around the area. Corpses of students and staff members are on the ground, bloodied and missing chunks of their bodies. Some of the dead now standing up, and moving around sluggishly to attack those who are running by. Eating eachother alive. The walking corpses only multiplied in numbers by the minute.

The movies became reality that day.

An unfortunate reality.

“Zombies” Bakugo says as his fists clenched at his side while looking at the scene playing out before him. He mutters a variety of curses under his breath and quickly takes out his phone to check if he has a signal of any kind.

“No damn signal. Of course!” he groans and puts his phone back in his pocket. He quickly looks in her direction as he tries coming up with a plan, “Nerd listen up. We’ll go to my house since its nearby then-”

Bakugo pauses when he sees the expression on her face. Her fearful face and glossy eyes with tears already spilling out as she looks at the sick scene of zombies tearing into others flesh. Recognizing a few students from other classes or by passing them in the hallways.

A few seconds later his hand lifts up to turn her head to face him, and not at the gruesome sight below. She can see the neutral expression on his face, and she bites her bottom lip to avoid more tears falling down. Not wanting to seem so weak in front of him.

“Can we stick together?” she says with a wavered voice while wiping her tears away.

“Tch. What kind of stupid question is that? Of course we're gonna stay together. Don't need you running off and getting yourself killed” he says quickly with furrowed brows, as if he's offended she'd even think he’ll leave her alone.

He can still see the fear in her eyes and he sighs. Resting his hand on her cheek as he speaks in a confident manner, “Alright, pay attention because I'm only gonna say this once. Me and you are not going to be separated. Do you know what I did when we all dashed out of that shitty classroom? I looked for you. Because I knew your ass was gonna be scared as shit.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Her breath wavers at his words and admission. It made her body feel warm all over. Her tears are no longer present anymore. She notices how quickly he lets go of her chin and averts his gaze. Suddenly embarrassed by his own words, as the tips of his ears turn red.

“So uh, don’t cry or whatever. You're with me from now on. What, you don’t trust my abilities to protect you or something? I ain’t weak ya know” he huffs scratching his head and avoiding her eyes.

“I trust you” the words exit her mouth before she can even think.

She does trust him. More than anyone.

Y/N knows how much he’s changed since their first year at UA. And she can't help but to have fallen in love with him along the way. Though that’s for another day, for now they’ll need to survive.

“…Good. Now c'mon my house is a few minutes from here. We'll stay there and come up with a plan” he says quickly grabbing her hand all of a sudden as they walk down the fire escape. He doesnt turn around or talk much after that. But his flushed ears say otherwise.

The journey to his home was mostly silent, but their hands stayed intertwined. When she asked him about it, he simply spoke about her being “a notorious klutz” and having to keep tabs on her.

Both of them avoided the topic after that, to focus on getting somewhere safe for now. Maybe one day, when things settle, they’ll finally talk about this tension between them. It’s long overdue anyways.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

That was a year ago. And they never did have that talk about romance.

Months went by and the two were on their own. It almost felt as if they were the last survivors on earth. Not another human to be found.

Then everything changed when they were on a scavenger run.

There were just too many zombies. A huge hoard came out of nowhere, almost as if they were collectively migrating west like the birds in the sky.

Both of them ran towards the forest, assuming their best chance of survival was to camouflage alongside the patches of green. Yet neither of them could escape the corpses' line of sights.

Bakugo mutters curses under his breath as they run, “Oi! Y/N I need you to run east, find a house and stay hidden til I find you. I’m going to distract these bastards away and run in the opposite direction-”

“W-what?! No, I can't leave you!” she quickly says, looking at him as if he lost his mind.

“Damn it Y/N! At this rate we’ll both die out here. Now go!” He practically shoves her to change courses.

“B-but-” she looks back at the hoard and then to him again. That's too many to take on his own, not even he could…

“GO YOU IDIOT!”

Y/N looks at Bakugo one last time as she grits her teeth in pain and frustration, “Don’t die you dummy! I-I love you!”

His eyes widened at her sudden declaration of love. It took him a moment to react but his lips curve very slightly upwards, “Hah you idiot, as if I’ll die to these weaklings! Now go!”

With a pain in her heart, she changes directions and starts running towards the city as instructed. Some zombies break from the pack and continue chasing her but Bakugo yells out to get as many as their attention as possible.

She feels sick to her stomach despite the smile he gave her. Wanting nothing more than to turn back around to find him. But she knows it’s best to listen to him. To trust him. So she runs east.

Runs, runs and runs.

Y/N enters the first house she sees and quickly shuts the door. Sliding against the wall as she inhales gasps of air, trying to recover her energy. Other than her own racing heartbeat and breaths, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

She’s gotten used to Bakugos loud presence around her, only feeling more lonely now that he’s gone. But he’ll be back soon. Right?

Quickly she shakes her head of any negative thoughts. He’s completely capable on his own.

She grabs her baseball bat and proceeds to walk around the house. Thoroughly checking every room for potential threats. Thankfully finding nothing in the home.

She remembers the survival tips he taught her and quickly gets to work. Making sure every door is locked, boarding up the windows and picking a resting place where there’s always two exits if needed.

Her stomach growls and she sits down, unwrapping a granola bar from her pocket. Eating in silence as she waits.

Days will soon pass and no sign of him.

She wants to go out. Look for him. Maybe he’s lost. But what if she leaves and he comes to an empty house?

After some thought, Y/N decides to track the days in an old notebook she found in one of the rooms. If he doesn't show in 2 more days then she’ll head out.

When the time comes, she leaves the house to look for him in the woods. For any clue or sign. Leaving behind a note at the house in case he shows up while she’s away. Bold writing stating ‘Bakugo stay here. I’ll be back’.

She came back that evening, empty handed with no clues. Coming back to the house exactly as she left it. That night she could only curl up in the old mattress she found, cuddling into a blanket as she cried herself to sleep. Missing Bakugo. And thinking the worst.

(∩˃o˂∩) flashback over & back to present ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Y/N continues walking east, using the sun to guide her in the right direction. A tip she learned from none other than Bakugo. It’s been 3 months and 10 days according to her journal.

No human interaction. No sign of Bakugo.

She left another note at the house, in case he did manage to make it back one day. Telling him that she’ll continue heading East.

Overnight it snowed a tremendous amount, much to her disappointment. It’s freezing and she didn’t have good quality clothing. Using a bunch of old ragged clothes to bundle herself up in layers.

What’s worse is that she’s low on supplies. It’s harder to scavenge during the winter. Animals go into hibernation and there’s no berries growing in the forests. The only food in her bag currently is a single can of beans and some crackers.

She continues walking east, taking occasional breaks and hiding from zombies who she avoids contact with at all costs. The only good thing about winter is that they slow down the zombies' movements.

Y/N doesn’t continue her journey anywhere else but East. It has to be East. Her legs take her as far as they could, til the sun starts setting. She looks around and sees nothing but trees around. No shelter in sight. But thankfully no zombies either.

So she keeps going. Yet soon she notices the wind start to pick up, snow falling down heavier than before. Just her luck.

A blizzard.

Her body battles against the harsh winds and she shivers uncontrollably. This isn’t good. She genuinely might freeze to death out here. Tears want to fall yet it’s so cold that her body is unable too. Her body feels so heavy, so weak.

After a few more hours, in the pitch black forest, she sees it. Smoke floating up into the air, the sound of engines in the distance. People.

Her heart nearly stops right then and there. People? Survivors?

It’s been over a year since she’s seen other humans who aren’t Bakugo. She doesn’t have any other choice, it’s either ask for help or die out here in the cold.

With newfound hope in her heart, she continues walking forward. Her eyes slightly widening at the sight in front of her.

A military base.

Oh my god. A campsite of what looks to be soldiers with vehicles. Concrete walls are all around the perimeter, snipers are on watch towers as they walk around.

She tries taking multiple steps forward but her legs are so shaky, “E-Excuse me…” she says as her teeth chatter, she definitely won’t get their attention like that. Even if she ran it would take her minutes to reach the base.

Slowly with weak arms she lifts her flashlight and flicks it on and off in the direction of the watchtowers. Hoping to get someone’s attention, anyones whatsoever.

After a few tries, someone on the watchtower seems to notice. They talk to the other guards and a few minutes later, the gates soon open. A military car zooming out and coming into her direction.

Her knees give out. Due to relief or fatigue she doesn’t know. She falls onto the ground of covered snow and her eyes struggle to stay open.

She hears the vehicle pause nearby and a man shout “It’s a survivor!”

Her eyes squint trying to regain her sense of sight, yet all she can hear is mumbles all around her. Then soon, feel herself being picked up and loaded into the back of a truck.

“She doesn’t seem to be infected!”

“Quick check her vitals!”

“She's freezing to the touch!”

“Ma’am? Can you hear me? You’re safe now”

“What's your name?”

Her eyes slowly start closing against her will but she tries answering, “Y-Y/N…”

Everything is a blur after that. All she could remember is the feeling of warm blankets being draped over her. Then just darkness.

(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭ time skip⋆｡𖦹 °✩

It's been a while since then. Two weeks since she's been temporarily situated at the main base.

For a few days she was in and out of consciousness, fighting against her hyperthermia and malnourished body. But after much treatment from the medical team, she was able to finally wake up and adjust to her new surroundings.

It was so different, yet so familiar.

She resided in a tent with other survivors who had similar stories. Though she tended to keep to herself, despite feeling joy at no longer being alone, it wasn't the same as with Bakugo.

The survivors in her tent often spoke around the campfire as they ate the food that the soldiers provided for them. Then the topic of discussion suddenly switched. They went around speaking of their past loved ones or companions they lost along the way when the outbreak started.

“And you Y/N? Did you have anyone before the world went to hell? You don't have to share if you don’t want to of course”

All eyes look in her direction, waiting for her to speak. She hesitates but stares at the fire as she speaks, “I was at school when the outbreak started. We heard screams in the hallways, and an evacuation announcement soon after. I ran out of the classroom, lost my friends in the crowded hallway. Honestly I felt like I was gonna get trampled at some point-” she weakly chuckles at the thought and a small smile forms on her face.

“But then a classmate found me. We managed to get out of the building in time. Spent a year together after that… just the two of us” she says while a wavered voice towards the end. She clears her throat trying to regain herself and speaks quicker.

“We got separated after that. There were too many zombies chasing us, so he ran another direction to lead them away. Haven't seen Bakugo since that day-” she cuts herself when she hears silence. Too much silence.

She looks up from the fire and around at the group. Noticing their widened eyes and stunned expression.

“W-What?” she says awkwardly scratching the back of her head, not knowing why they reacted so differently to her story in specific.

“Did you say Bakugo?” an older man asked her quickly with furrowed brows.

Honestly she didn't even realize she let his name slip out of her mouth, “Oh.. yeah his name was Bakugo-”

“As in Katsuki Bakugo?!” another woman jumped in with a curious expression.

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Y/N could almost feel everything freeze at that exact moment. Her eyes widened at the woman's words. Everyone seemed to notice her sudden look of shock and another man quickly interjected, “A blonde guy with red eyes and a grumpy as hell temper right?!”

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“Yes! Do you know him?!” Y/N says nearly jumping out of her seat and dropping her plate of food. Newfound hope in her eyes.

“That guy was brought here a while ago! The soldiers found him in the woods all exhausted and bloodied up. Apparently the guy took on a hoard of zombies himself. He kept refusing to come here, saying that someone was waiting for him back home. But he passed out from exhaustion before he could refuse. The soldiers returned with him after and he's been here ever since” the man says as the others smile at the realization.

“Where is he now?!” she quickly says, grabbing her boots and tying up the laces. Already feeling her heart rate skyrocket at the revelation.

“He works here as a soldier! His group should be coming back from an expedition any moment now at the front gates!”

“Go get him girl!”

“You got this Y/N!”

She shines the brightest she's had in a while and nods at the group, “thank you all!”

Her legs ran as fast as she could towards the front of the base. Her smile never leaves her face. She knew it. She knew he was alive.

In a matter of minutes, she makes it towards the front gate and runs over to join a group of awaiting survivors. “Excuse me, did a group return from an expedition just now?” she says to a woman as she tries to steady her breathing.

“Hm? Not yet, they're opening up the gates now. You made it just in time. I'm waiting for my boyfriend, are you as well?” a female says as she smiles at her.

Y/N feels her cheeks heat up at the question, suddenly growing flustered. She didn't even know what type of relationship she had with Bakugo.

Sure they were alone together for a year and had clear feelings for one another, yet they never did establish anything between them. The woman notices and chuckles, “So you are! Then let's pray for everyone's return hm? Oh look, here they come!”

The gates slowly open up, revealing a large group of soldiers on the back of trucks and cars. People cheer as the vehicles pull into the base and the gates close back up once everyone is in. Soldiers scatter around to find their families or loved ones that are waiting for them.

Y/N walks around the crowd looking in every direction trying to find him, that blonde hair that she misses so dearly. With no luck, she can feel her heart sink to the bottom of her stomach.

Til she spots it and freezes in place.

That spiky blonde hair that she hasn't seen in months.

His back is to her as he speaks with other soldiers, “Restock on supplies and take the injured to the medical tent. And someone get me a report tomorrow on the number of casualties we faced on the expedition” he says in an authoritative cold tone as he walks towards a tent.

“Yes Captain!”

Her eyes don't leave his figure as he disappears behind a large green tent. He looks both healthier and stronger now, she can tell by the increase in his back muscles through his uniform.

And captain? He's captain of a squad… she shouldn't be so shocked. Of course he is, given his incredible leadership and survival skills.

She shakes her head to get out of her thoughts, now running towards that tent with purpose. Her hand shakingly hovers over the tent curtain to move it out of the way-

“I told all soldiers to not bother me after the expeditions. Stand down soldier” he yells out as if he sensed her presence.

Y/N smiles at the sound of his voice and pushes past the curtain. It was clearly his tent. Where he slept and resided after missions. Her eyes land on his back as he is taking off his gloves, he pauses and tosses them down on a nearby desk. Turning around to face her for the first time.

“Oi. State your name and rank, for disobeying orders you shall be-”

His whole body stiffens as he looks at her. His eyes widening and his words wavered towards the end. Their eyes meet instantly. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

“Y/N-”

“Katsuki!”

Her legs moved forward before she could think. The gap between them lessened by the second. Tears were already beginning to spill out of her eyes. He quickly closes the distance, meeting her halfway.

She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him so hard that her hands shake. Crying into the crock of his neck. His familiar scent invades her nose and sends warmth throughout her entire body.

He's not doing much better. As soon as she reached him, his arms immediately wrapped around her waist. His breath came out in shaky breaths as he held onto her.

“How- thank the gods. You're alive. Thank the fucking gods” he says in a hoarse mumble to himself or her, she doesn't know. He quickly pulls away to give her body a full scan for any injuries. When he sees nothing he lets out a loud sigh of relief.

“Katsuki-”

He lifts her head with his hand and leans down immediately. His lips finding hers in a desperate searing kiss. Her breath hitches but her eyes slowly close at the sensation. His hands find her waist yet again to pull her body flush against his.

She's reminded of how warm his body was. His palms feel like it's burning his mark on her skin through her clothes. She can feel his fast heart rate against her chest, and she knows he can feel hers too.

The kiss increases as time goes on. Only after a minute does he part away from her lips. They gasp for air, yet only for a few seconds at best. Because his lips were back on hers shortly after.

But it wasn't lust filled whatsoever. His left hand trailed up her body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. This kiss was more soft. More tender.

He slowly pulls away and his hand reaches her cheek, wiping away the remaining tears from her face. With this close proximity, she can see those red eyes she's missed so much. Her hand gently rests against his cheek, wanting to feel him.

Making sure this is real life and not one of those hopeful dreams she's had in the past few months.

“What happened? You went missing for months, I was looking all over for you. I thought you had…” she doesn't dare finish her sentence. Biting the inside of her cheek to avoid the tears resurfacing.

“Some people told me that soldiers found and took you in. But it's been months and you're some sort of captain now? Were you ever gonna come back to me-”

“I never stopped looking for you Y/N” he quickly says with furrowed brows. Still cradling her face. His other thumb massaging small circles on her hip to ease her nerves.

He sighs and runs a hand through his spiky hair, “Shit- I wasn't supposed to stay here that long. Wasn't even gonna join them til I fucking passed out. I woke up here a few days later. Tried to leave but I had an injured leg, so they kept me here til I healed up. After a week or so, I realized how safe it was here. Safe for you.”

His eyes meet hers again and the grip on her hip tightens. Guilt showing in those red irises.

“I joined the soldiers immediately after that. I went out on every expedition near the east to keep an eye out for you. Did my best to show off my strength so I can quickly climb up the ranks. I knew if I left this place, it would've been near impossible to find you. They had vehicles and people I could use. I managed to become a captain in no time, and got my own group. Practically had to beg the leader of this place to give me the east section of patrols.”

He rests his forehead against hers and lowers his voice in a softer tone, “I promise. I have never stopped looking. I didn't just become captain to look for you. I'm making this place safer. For the other people here sure. But mainly for you. So we don't have to be separated ever again. I don't know how the hell you found me first, or what you've gone through on your own and you can tell me later but… I swear to you-”

His warm hand grabs hers as he kisses the back of it, “I will never let you be alone ever again. Because you're mine now. Got it nerd?”

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“Mhm…” she lets more tears fall down her cheeks, smiling at his words. Looking into his eyes as she forces every detail in her brain. During their time apart she was terrified she’ll forget his face. But now she won't have to worry.

Bakugo scoffs and the corners of his lips turn up, “Cmon we're getting some food in you. You're thin as hell.”

She couldn't help but to laugh at his words, “I was eating a bit earlier, i'm not that hungry”

“They have real mangos here-”

“Mangos?!”

He lets out a rare chuckle and ruffles her hair as they start walking out the tent, “Yeah they do. Though I haven't tried them yet.”

Her head snaps in his direction at his words, “What?! You're telling me you've been here for months and never tried the mangos?!”

Bakugo hums and intertwines his hand with hers. She can feel her cheeks heat up as the people around stare at them with shock.

“Didn't want to have the mangos” he grumbles as he leads her to the building.

“Why not?” she says tilting her head in confusion.

“They reminded me of you.”

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“O-Oh… I see” she says softly with new found happiness. “Um Bakugo, why is everyone staring?” she whispers to him trying to change the subject.

“Hah? Oh…. well I don't really have the nicest reputation here. The extras are probably shocked I'm holding your hand or something” he mumbles as his ears turn pink. But he doesn't let go of your hand. She doesn't mention it, thinking it's cute.

Eventually they made it to the canteen, and all eyes were on them. But one glare from Bakugo caused everyone to look away and go back to their private conversations.

Y/N follows him to a private room for the both of them, sitting down as he orders soldiers to get “the best mangos” they had. They sit in that room for hours. Both of them giving updates on the time they were away from each other. Happily eating a countless amount of the tropical fruit. The sweet taste rejuvenates both of their taste buds.

“Um so about back then… I think about the last time I saw you everyday. Thinking about how I should have done things differently. I have many regrets in my life, but my biggest regret was not saying it back” he mumbles as he stares at her, not breaking eye contact.

“Huh? Say what?”

“I love you”

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“I love you too” she says shyly looking at him and resting her hand over his hand.

He rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Yeah I know nerd. Now give me that rest of your mango if you're not gonna finish it!”

“What?! No way!” She tries taking another piece yet she only sees Bakugo steal the plate.

The two start going back and forth, stuffing their faces with fruit. Completely content with where they are right now. Now safe behind these walls, together.

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