#help to begin with. AND OTHER THING!!!!!!!

[maskedbyghost]

cw: friends with benefits, angst, smut, mild possessiveness

It was supposed to be simple. That’s the part that pisses you off the most when you think about it. Because you weren’t trying to fall in love. You didn’t want a relationship, not after the last one. You were still a little bit fucked up from it, if you’re being honest. Still not sleeping great. Still carrying all that heavy stuff around that no one really talks about after a breakup. And then he showed up.

Simon.

You didn’t even like him that much at first. He was quiet, and kind of a dick honestly. Always had this hard look on his face like he didn’t care about anything. But then again, maybe that’s why you kept looking. He didn’t flirt with you like the other guys did. He didn’t compliment you or joke around. He just stared sometimes. Stared like he knew things about you that you hadn’t even said out loud yet.

And somehow, that made you feel safe. In a really stupid kind of way.

He didn’t ask you questions. You could sit next to him and say nothing, and he wouldn’t try to fix you. He’d just… be there. And that made it easier. Being around him felt like pressing pause on everything in your head.

You both agreed it would just be sex. That’s all. You said it first. Told him straight up you weren’t in the place for anything real, and he just shrugged like it didn’t make a difference either way. He wasn’t looking for more, either. No expectations, no feelings, no “what are we” conversations.

And in the beginning, that actually worked. You’d hook up after long days, or when you were lonely, or when you just needed to feel something. He’d come over late, sometimes not say more than a few words, and still end up with his mouth between your legs like he belonged there. He was rough, kind of mean about it, but it made your head go quiet, and that’s all you wanted. You didn’t need soft. You just needed to forget.

And Simon was really good at helping you forget.

It was simple, for a while at least. No cuddling, no texting unless one of you wanted something, no sleeping over unless it was late, and neither of you felt like getting up. You never kissed him unless it was during sex, he never called you baby, and you never touched his face.

But then, little things started to change. He’d linger longer after, or light your cigarette for you without saying anything. You started to recognize the sound of his boots on your stairs. And sometimes, he’d show up without texting first, but you wouldn’t mind.

You told yourself it was fine. You still weren’t asking for anything. You weren’t falling.... You weren’t hoping.

Until one day you were. And it was too late.

Because Simon? He never changed the deal. He still kept his walls up, still kept everything at arm’s length, and still fucked you like you were just a warm body and not someone who looked at him like he hung the moon.

And the worst part? You let him.

You didn’t talk much during sex. It was just a thing you both did, like it was part of the routine. Sometimes it was at his place, sometimes yours. Sometimes after a night out when you were drunk and touchy and didn’t want to sleep alone. You’d cling to his arm, pull him into a dark corner, whisper something like “Come back with me,” and he always would. He’d follow you home without hesitation.

He never smiled during it, never said sweet things, nor asked what you liked. It was like flipping a switch, one second he was just standing there, and the next his hand was in your hair and he was pushing you down on the bed without saying a word. No soft kisses. Just heavy hands and rough thrusts and that low sound he’d make when you moaned his name, like he hated how much he liked it.

He was rough in a way that made your whole body ache after. Hands on your throat, teeth on your skin. Sometimes he’d grab your face, push it into the pillow so hard it felt like he wanted to fuck you straight through it. His voice was always low, wrecked, barely there, like he was losing his mind but trying not to show it. And when he came, he’d bury himself so deep and still not stop moving, chasing something that never felt like enough.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sweet. But god, it felt good.

Too good.

You weren’t supposed to want someone like that. You weren’t supposed to need it like that. But every time he fucked you like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to admit.

And you liked it, you liked it even when it made you feel worse after.

You didn’t fall for him all at once. It happened slowly and stupidly. In the kind of way where you didn’t even notice it at first, because you were too busy pretending it was still casual.

It was little stuff. Like how he always stood behind you in a crowd, not touching you or anything, just close enough that you could feel him, like a wall at your back. Or how he’d rest his hand on your lower back when you crossed the street, not saying a word, not even looking at you. Just doing it like it was natural. Like he cared without meaning to.

Sometimes, he stayed the night. Not every time, or often enough for it to mean something, but still it happened. He never cuddled, never reached for you after. He would just lay there, breathing heavily like he was thinking too loud. He didn’t sleep much, and you didn’t either. You’d stare at the ceiling, both of you pretending the silence didn’t feel like it was screaming.

You wanted to believe that meant something. That even if he couldn’t say it, he felt something. That he kept coming back because he needed you, not just your body. You started reaching for him more, after, during, even before. Just little touches. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on his chest, or a soft press of your lips when he was still inside you.

But the more you gave, the more he pulled back. Like he could feel you slipping, and it scared him. Like he already knew where this was headed and was trying to stop it before it got worse.

He started fucking you harder when you tried to kiss him slow. Rougher, meaner, almost. Like he was trying to shove the feelings out of both of you. Like he thought if he could just fuck the softness out of it, it would go back to the way it was.

And he’d leave faster. No lingering, talking, or sitting on the edge of the bed while you pulled on your shirt. He’d zip up his hoodie, say something stupid like “I’ll see you around,” and disappear like it didn’t mean anything.

But it meant something to you. And you think, deep down, it meant something to him, too.

He just didn’t know what to do with it. So he did what he always did... he ran.

That night felt different before anything even started. You don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was quiet, but not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. Just this weird silence sitting between you like something waiting to be said. You didn’t say it, of course. You never did. He was already pulling your shirt off, already undoing his belt, already pushing you back like it was routine.

And it was. That was the thing. It had become routine.

But you couldn’t keep doing it like this anymore. You were tired. Tired of feeling used even when he wasn’t trying to use you. Tired of pretending it didn’t matter that he never looked at you when he came. Tired of giving everything and getting nothing back.

So you tried something different.

You didn’t moan for him the way he liked. Didn’t arch your back or scratch at his shoulders or whisper how good he felt. You just… touched his face. Softly. Like it was something you’d been wanting to do for a long time but were scared he’d push you away.

Your fingers brushed his cheek. Your thumb barely touched the scar near his jaw, and you just said, “Slow down.”

That was it. Just two words. And he snapped.

His hand went around your throat so fast it made your breath catch. His other hand grabbed your wrists, shoved them into the pillow, and held them there like you’d done something wrong. And then he started fucking you harder, rougher. Like he was trying to erase what you’d just done.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. His hips were slamming into you like he was mad, but not at you. Like he was mad at himself. Or maybe the world. Or maybe just the way your voice sounded when you asked for more than he could give.

“Don’t,” he growled into your neck, and his voice didn’t even sound like him. It sounded like someone scared.

You didn’t cry. Not right then.

You just lay there and took it. Let him fuck you like he always did, let him pretend it didn’t mean anything, even though it did. You felt it, how desperate it was, how shaky his breath was when he finally finished, how his hands didn’t let go even when it was over.

But you knew. You finally knew.

He couldn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. Not the way you needed.

And something deep in your chest cracked open. Just enough to let the cold in.

You didn’t say a word after. Just rolled over when he got up. Pulled the blanket up to your chest and stared at the wall, blinking too fast, trying not to let the tears win.

And he left like nothing happened.

But everything had.

The next time you saw him, you already knew it would be the last. It felt different the second you let him in, like there was something in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You didn’t smile, he didn’t kiss you. You just walked back into your room in silence, still wearing the oversized shirt you’d borrowed from him weeks ago, the one you never meant to keep, the one that smelled like him no matter how many times you washed it, and you stood there with your arms crossed like you were trying to hold yourself together, like saying what you were about to say would physically hurt.

And it did.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. You didn’t look at him because you knew if you did, if you saw the way he blinked at you, or the way his jaw clenched, or the way he didn’t even flinch like he saw this coming, it would break you in half. So you stared at the floor, or the wall, or anywhere but him, and you just said it. Because if you didn’t say it now, you never would.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t ask why. He just sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, and the rise and fall of his chest was shaky, like he couldn’t catch his breath, like your words had knocked the wind out of him but he was too proud to show it.

“I knew this would happen,” he said finally, and his voice wasn’t cold, it wasn’t empty—it was just tired. Like he was mad at himself. “Eventually.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and you could feel your throat starting to close up, feel the sting building behind your eyes, and your whole body felt heavy. “I wanted to pretend it wouldn’t,” you whispered, your hands twisting in the hem of his shirt, your voice cracking even though you were trying to stay calm, “but I can’t. I love you. And you don’t—or you won’t. And I can’t keep asking for something you’re scared to give.”

That made him look up.

His face was blank at first; he was trying to process it, trying to understand how it had gotten to this point, even though you both knew exactly how. And then he stood, slowly, like he was afraid too sudden a move would scare you off, and he walked toward you with that careful look he only got when he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing but was still trying anyway.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, at first, because he wasn’t sure if you’d let him. Maybe he thought you’d push him away. But you didn’t. You kissed him back even though you knew it wouldn’t change anything. You let him press you into the wall, let his hands slide up under the shirt that technically wasn’t his anymore, let his mouth find your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, and none of it felt like the usual heat, it just felt sad and desperate.

You let him fuck you because you knew this was the last time. You let him take you to bed and pull your underwear down and slide inside like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

His hands were rough like always, his teeth scraped your skin, his thrusts were deep, a little too fast, a little too rough—but there was a shakiness in the way he held you, like maybe he already hated himself for letting it get to this point. He didn’t know how to say any of the things you needed to hear, so he fucked you instead.

And then, just when you thought that was all it was going to be—just another night, just another goodbye—he slowed down.

He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, and he didn’t move. Just held you there, skin to skin, and everything about him felt different all of a sudden... softer... scared.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him.

Your chest tightened, and your voice broke when you tried to answer. “Then why didn’t you—”

��Because if I let myself love you, I’d lose you anyway,” he said, and his voice was raw now. “You’d wake up one day and realise I’m not enough. That I can’t be what you need. That you deserve better than someone like me. Someone who’s barely hanging on. Someone who doesn’t know how to hold you without wondering if he’s gonna fuck it all up.”

You touched his face slowly. Like you were afraid he’d flinch away. But he didn’t. He let you, for the first time, he really let you.

“I don’t want someone else,” you whispered, and your thumb brushed his cheek, and your eyes were wet even though you were trying not to fall apart. “I wanted you. I still do.”

And when he started to move again, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep. Like he was trying to give you everything he’d held back for so long. His hands ran over your body like he was learning it all over again. His lips pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth. He looked at you the whole time, like he didn’t want to forget your face.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice shook, and his thrusts stayed steady, “I love you, I love you....fuck, I love you.”

You cried into his kiss. Your hands wrapped around his neck and your body trembled as he whispered all the stupid, sweet things he never let himself say before. You’re mine. I’ll do better. I need you. Please don’t leave.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between your broken sobs and his desperate kisses, he grabbed you tight, pulled you against him, and whispered it like a promise, like a threat, like a man who was finally ready to fight for something.

“Fuck that,” he growled, his voice suddenly shaking with something angry and scared and real. “You’re not leaving me. You’re mine. I don’t care how bad I am at this. I’m not letting you go.”

You were still crying. He was still shaking. And everything was still so goddamn complicated.

But he stayed, and that was a start.

---------------------------------------------

idk what this is honestly ...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

[mwphisto]

It takes you a while to accept Sylus’ praise.

He notices this, of course, because each time he offers it you get this little crinkle in your nose.

As if you are wary of seeing it as real praise. He doesn’t take offense, no of course he doesn’t. He’s had time to come to terms with the current situation he has been presented with when it comes to you.

You don’t remember him. Not your past lives nor the childhood you two spent together. As hard of a pill as it was to swallow, Sylus tries to look at it positively.

As odd as it sounds. He’s been given a third chance at winning your heart all over again.

It may have started off rocky, he had let his emotions get the better of him during that initial meeting. Then continued to stew on it during the days he held you “captive” in the N109 Zone.

Of course you wouldn’t be all that accepting of his praise. Granted, the hostility had stemmed from both sides. Looking at it with a clearer head, Sylus recalled how stand offish he came off to you. Especially since you had known him as nothing other than the leader of Onychinus.

He equated it to getting mad at a feral kitten for scratching him when he attempted to pet it. So, he worked on reigning things back. Swallowing his own upset in order to truly regain the trust he craved so dearly.

“You did very well, kitten.”

And there it was again. The hesitance in your eyes, the slight scrunch of your nose, and the wary “…thanks.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, he made the bed so he’d just have to sleep in it. “I mean it.”

There was the smallest of tremors in his tone, one he prayed you’d miss. “Are you alright?” He should have known better. Of course you’d pick up on it.

“Yes, sorry. Something got caught in my throat.” But you weren’t satisfied with that sort of response.

“Did I do something wrong?” And Sylus swore he could fall to his knees then and there. Your eyes, the eyes he had loved through countless lifetimes, seemed to see right through him despite everything.

“No, nothing at all, kitten. It’s…” but he trailed off, it was so unlike him that you stepped a little closer. “But it’s something.” You murmur, a hand on his forearm.

“You don’t trust me yet.” Sylus starts, he’s always been straight forward. There is no reason to stop now. “I understand our relationship can be a bit touch and go. We didn’t really make great impressions on each other in the very beginning but…” he looks away, inhaling deeply.

“My praises for you are genuine. The way I’ve come to care for you is also genuine.” Truth is, he never stopped. “I can see that hesitance in your face whenever I praise you.” And you feel like your chest is frozen, full of air you can’t seem to exhale. You had hurt his feelings.

“Sylus, I’m so sorry.” And his mouth immediately opens to hush you but you keep talking. “I have been guarded, and I know you can’t blame me for that. But the least I could do is give you some grace. You’ve been nothing but kind to me after we got over our differences. Your reputation proceeds you, just as I’m sure mine has proceeded me.”

You swallow, tightening your grip on his arm. “Thank you, Sylus. For the praise. For your faith in me. For continuing to help me despite my difficulties.” And if he could have kissed you stupid right then and there? He would have.

“Thank you, kitten.”

[complete]

And here’s how they realise they’ve got a problem, and start moving out of burnout and into something more healthy.

They recognise (only to themselves at first) that "I'm just tired" has just been their way of managing exhaustion for far too long.

They recognise that their ghosting, distractions and numbness are signs of burnout, not laziness or personal failings.

They admit they’re miserable, and realise they have nothing to lose except their misery, so they might as well try something small, something new that may be better than their current way of dealing with things.

They pick something they’ve enjoyed in the past, and just try it again, in a bite-sized chunk, just out of interest.  No pressure, no need to “achieve” anything, just engaging in it out of curiosity and for the possible joy of just doing it.

They choose one day to reply to a text instead of just ignoring it.  They say something like. “Sorry I’ve not replied sooner, things are pretty tough at the moment, but I’ll aim to reply properly once I can.”

They block arseholes (on tumblr, and elsewhere), no warnings, explanations or apologies needed or given.

They notice they’re falling asleep whenever they stop in the daytime, so they decide to get ahead of it and properly nap / rest when they’re able.  Soon they begin to look forward to these naps, and after sometime they realise, “It’s ok to stop when I need to”.

Soon after this, they decide to do some of the “stupid” things they enjoyed when they were a kid, like playing around with doodles, or just sitting watching the clouds.  They figure they’re exhausted anyway, they might as well be exhausted doing something fun.

They extend this to giving themselves a day off.  They noticed they weren’t completely outraged when a colleague had a day off for sickness or personal reasons, and figure maybe they could try this too.  They call in sick, just for one day, and take the day to be kind to themselves, no guilt, no shame, just a day to start to make space for recovery.

They’re honest with themselves, and admit it’s not (just) about the soup. 

They start making lists of things that piss them off about their life, and life in general, and then they start answering these lists with the same good advice they’ve been giving out all this time.

This feels hard, and humbling, but it reminds them that they do know what they need, and they can be a friend to themselves, and kind to themselves as well as others.

They notice that they’re “always on”, and get triggered really easily when they feel like they “have to” respond, so they stop caring so much about performing for others, and start looking after themselves a bit better, extending the same grace that they offer friends to themselves.

They look out for signs of grace from the universe: a smile, a helping hand, someone checking in with them.  

After a while, they start tentatively responding, smiling back, offering help to others (within what they can genuinely manage), and replying honestly when others ask how they’re doing.  

They may even ask for small favours here and there, the kind that they would be happy to offer to others.

They can’t afford therapy, and don’t know where to start, so they look for apps that might help.  

They find an app called “healthy minds program” that offers them an easy way into this thing called wellbeing.  It’s free, advertised as helping them learn the skills for wellbeing and lessening stress.

They enjoy the 5 minute lessons and meditations, particularly the emphasis on whatever they’re feeling being alright, and being able to “meditate” while getting on with their daily life.

They realise that the key to making life work for them is slowing down, bit by bit.  Learning to enjoy the simple things again, and slowly achieving progress, day by day. https://hminnovations.org/meditation-app (links at the top and  towards the bottom of the page)

Ways I Show a Character is Emotionally Burned Out (Before They Even Realize It Themselves)

I love writing characters who think they’re fine but are actually walking emotional house fires with bad coping mechanisms.

They stop doing the things they used to love and don’t even notice. Their guitar gathers dust. Their favorite podcast becomes background noise. Their hobbies feel like homework now.

They pick the path of least resistance every time, even when it hurts them. No, they don’t want to go to that thing. No, they don’t want to talk to that person. But whatever’s easier. That’s the motto now.

They’re tired but can’t sleep. Or they sleep but wake up more tired. Classic burnout move: lying in bed with their brain racing like a toddler on espresso.

They give other people emotional advice they refuse to take themselves. “You have to set boundaries!” they say—while ignoring 8 texts from someone they should’ve cut off three emotional breakdowns ago.

They cry at something stupidly small. Like spilling soup. Or a dog in a commercial. Or losing their pen. The soup is never just soup.

They say “I’m just tired” like it’s a personality trait now. And not like… emotionally drained to the bone but afraid to admit it out loud.

They ghost people they love, not out of malice, but because even replying feels like too much. Social battery? Absolutely obliterated. Texting back feels like filing taxes.

They stop reacting to big things. Catastrophes get a blank stare. Disasters feel like “just another Tuesday.” The well of feeling is running dry.

They avoid being alone with their own thoughts. Constant noise. TV always on. Music blasting. Because silence = reckoning, and reckoning is terrifying.

They start hoping something will force them to stop. An accident. A missed deadline. Someone else finally telling them, “You need a break.” Because asking for help? Unthinkable.

[archivesctrccio]

natalie scatorccio x sensitive!gf

✎ᝰ.jinx notes just a few hcs i thought of randomly. my first time writing something here that isn't bots, i hope you like it <3

☪— If you have trouble letting things go, and always get nervous when it comes to getting a haircut, Natalie offers to always cut your hair at home. she always does everything very calmly, stopping every now and then to kiss away your tears and whisper that everything is okay.

☪— You once cried because you lost your favorite hair clip, and Natalie (having memorized which hair clip it was) immediately goes to buy you a new one. She doesn't try to pretend it's the same one, because she knows you hate lies and would notice the difference, and just tries to comfort you while giving you the new hair clip.

☪— Holds you at night because she knows you hate being cold/hate feeling alone while you sleep

☪— Loves to bring you flowers when she gets home from work on ordinary days, without a specific reason, but always gets worried when you start to cry with emotion at the affectionate gesture

"what's wrong, baby? you don't like it? :(" she always says with a tone full of concern, placing the flowers delicately on the table in the doorway and immediately going to gently cradle your face.

☪— After a complicated or stressful day, you two like to spend time together in the evening, when the world slows down. perhaps watching something quiet or just lying side by side, where natalie, with her more closed posture, finally allows you to come closer. you don't talk much, but there's a feeling that, in the silence, you understand each other completely.

☪— Natalie isn't one for words, so she communicates with you in very subtle ways. sometimes a touch on the arm, a longer look or a simple gesture like preparing her girlfriend's favorite coffee. you notice these details and respond with gestures of affection that make Natalie feel loved in a unique way. This creates a dynamic where your love is silent, but deep and very real.

☪— Natalie tends to be much more impulsive, aggressive and even withdrawn, while you are calm, more introspective and concerned about other people's feelings. This contrast between you makes for a perfect balance in the relationship: Natalie helps to bring out more intensity and passion, while you help to soften the sharper edges of Natalie's personality. you complement each other perfectly, almost like a yin and yang.

☪— Natalie, as tough as she is on the outside, has a deep vulnerability that you can touch. you help her to open her heart, to talk about her insecurities and her traumas, things that Natalie usually keeps to herself. you, with your empathy, never push, but over time, Natalie begins to trust more and more, showing that, as much as she wants to appear strong, she also needs someone to lean on.

(bottom divider by @strangergraphics)

[knightjpg]

third tempo

tags: yearning, handjob, unprotected piv sex, sylus gets shot (he's fine), physical hurt/comfort, alcohol mention

The bows trill low; the waltz begins. 

Tonight is balmy, early summer, and the darkening sky still has violet curled around its edges. There are no clouds tonight; instead the air is filled with snatches of music drifting out of an open window. Above, stars gaze down at this world with their cold, impenetrable silence. 

Sylus would know. He's spent a lot of time up there with them. But although he traversed them extensively, plundering the worlds surrounding them left and right, they never told him what he really wanted to know. What he was really looking for. They just blinked at him, silent. Those stars became his ever-present company as he travelled in his stolen space ships, one even lonelier than the company filling the ballroom below him. 

Sylus surveys the scene under the chandeliers and thinks of that distant past. 

If he squints his eyes just so the golden lacquer coating the pillars rising to support the upper balcony look like a mountain of coins; the people twirling around in ornate dresses and glittering suits become the gems, ever-shifting in the flickering candlelight. Plush armchairs, sofas, paintings in gilded frames. The eye jumps from one treasure to the other, and that's not counting the jewelry adorning necks, fingers, and wrists. 

Your presence completes the scene, and there Sylus doesn't want his vision to blur anymore. He intends to drink his fill of you whenever he is able. 

And you look especially beautiful tonight, here under the gleam of the chandeliers. The open-back dress you're wearing accentuates your figure perfectly, as he knew it would. Whenever you move your muscles shift, throwing soft shadows on the planes of your back, and Sylus isn't the only one who looks at you tonight. 

It's the price he must pay in order for you to accept his gifts. If it's for a job, a mission, a deal, you'll wear the dresses he sends you, the heels he wishes he could put on for you, gems around your neck that he'd like to see you keep on while wearing nothing else. On any other occasion you refuse his presents. 

You have plenty of excuses; you don't want to be indebted to him any more than you are, you can't accept such extravaganza from anyone, you dislike wasting money on pretty things that serve no real purpose. As if you deserve anything but beautiful things to surround yourself with. As if Sylus ever expects anything in return for his gifts save for the pleasure of giving them to you. 

But that's not the real reason. Sylus has been watching you very carefully, trying to untangle this new beloved version of you. He can feel you skirting around the truth. If you don't want to tell him, that's fine. He'll find out one way or another eventually. 

For now, it means that he's resigned himself to sharing the vision of your naked back with the undeserving public. 

The song ends. The dancers scatter to the sidelines, helping themselves to expensive champagne and finger-food. You mingle with the crowd, slowly making your way to the stairs and then, finally, you look up at him and catch his eye. 

Sylus tilts his head, one eyebrow raised. You give him a nod, then move up until you reach the upper floor. Sylus is already there, waiting, one hand outstretched for you to take. 

“I don't think anyone saw me,” you tell him, fingers curling in his. “I left it where you told me.” 

“Good,” says Sylus. He checks his watch; old, vintage, a hobby project gifted by the twins. Five to midnight. Kieran and Luke are positioned outside, ready to quietly follow the tracker's signal as soon as it starts moving. A little treasure hunt—and Sylus does so love treasure. Especially so when it comes with the added bonus of ridding the world of another miserable sack of shit.  

He reaches for a glass and presents it to you; you accept it with a half-smile.  “What now? Are we leaving?” 

“Would you like to?” 

You take a sip of your champagne. “I'm not tired, if that's what you're asking. Either way is fine.” 

“Then would you like to dance?” 

“In these heels?” You laugh a little, but when Sylus coaxes you with him to where the upper balcony leads to an outside one, removed from the immediate vicinity of the degenerates below dressed up in their pretty suits, you don't resist. 

You let him take your hand and place it on his shoulder—then flinch when his other hand touches the bare skin of your back. 

A step forward, a step back. There is an invisible line. He knows it's there. He wants to cross it. Some days he thinks you'll let him, and then, suddenly, you pull away. He never knows just what spooks you, what causes you to flinch, to hesitate, to hover, warily. Ill at ease. 

Sylus works very hard to keep from frowning. His hand hovers just over your back, close but not touching. He looks at you. Waiting. 

You reward his patience. You swallow, and your shoulders untense. You lean back a little, pressing into his hand lightly, and Sylus exhales. His thumb strokes carefully, gently, over your spine, and then he starts swaying. 

One, two, three; front, side, back. The balcony doors are wide open, letting through enough of the music to keep an easy pace. You were the one who introduced this pastime to him, so long ago. Now it's Sylus who takes the lead; when he lifts his arm you go with him, stepping, then spinning, and back again. Front, side, back. 

These rare, precious instances of happiness, of wholeness, of the past repeating the present repeating the past, are ones where Sylus feels—in so long—content. No matter the skittish look you gave him last week. No matter the invitations you sometimes accept, sometimes refuse. No matter that you avert your eyes when he holds your gaze for a little too long. You're smiling, now, and the world is good. When you stumble—these heels , Sylus—you do so into his chest, and Sylus holds you against him longer than necessary. 

“Steady now, kitten,” he teases. “Have you forgotten how to land on all fours?” 

You huff, squeezing down on his shoulder. “I think you can be a little more generous given how you've handicapped me tonight.” 

Sylus' brow creases. “Are the shoes not to your liking? You said they felt comfortable when you put them on.” 

“That's because they're made for looking pretty, not for sneaking around backdoors of secret crime syndicates.” When you see the face he's making you smile a little. “Don't worry. They're not hurting me.” 

Sylus nods, but internally the brand name of your heels has already been crossed out on the list and replaced by another, one that will be subjected to even greater scrutiny when browsing online reviews. 

“Sylus.” 

“Hm?” 

“Come on,” you tug at his hand when he starts slowing down. “Why are you stopping? Aren't you always the one telling me I can take it?” 

He does, it's true. His adoration for you couples with unshakeable belief that you can do anything. Accomplish anything. Whatever you desire, he believes you will find a way to get it. You're so strong, and so smart, and so beautiful. There's no reason for him to ever doubt your abilities. 

But that doesn't mean he will ever allow you to hurt. Even by something as innocuous as the glittering heels on your feet. 

He looks at his watch again. The twins have sent him the OK; they're on the move.  

“Let's call it a night, sweetie.” 

Your anticipatory smile falters, and you look away, letting go of his hand. A step back, again. Sylus lets you, mourning the loss of your closeness like he does every time you pull away. Had you really wanted to dance more? If so, you deserve to have a much nicer scene next time. Without the guise of a mission he'll dance with you as long as you desire, in comfortable shoes you pick out yourself. 

You don't protest when he offers his arm to escort you outside. Perhaps you really are more fatigued than you let on; perhaps you're relieved tonight is over. Perhaps you'll let him take your heels off for you when he takes you back to the base, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, thumb pressing into your sole— 

Sylus quickly tamps down the thoughts that immediately follow this last one. 

He walks slowly, measuring his steps to yours down the stairs, through the doorway, over the crunch of the gravel path, all the way to his car. 

Here, in the cool night air, away from the busy murmur of the party, he breathes. The music follows you outside, curling around your feet as though reluctant to see you go. When he gets home he knows just the vinyl he'll play. Something soft and melodic, so that if you want to sway with him again you can. On bare feet, on slippers, on top of his shoes... 

He allows himself to get distracted in these plans. Tonight, by all measures, was a success. You wore the dress he bought for you, you smiled at him, and you danced with him. The tracker chip is secured. Soon enough the host of tonight's extravaganza will cease to be, and Sylus will get to see you and your fellow Hunters clean up the blood he leaves in his wake. A win-win-win all around. 

Really—up until someone tries to assassinate him Sylus is having a great night. 

He senses their presence, of course. But there's lots of people here, and you and him aren't the only ones outside. Also, he's busy. You're allowing him to stroke his hand along your back, to open the car door for you, to lean down and inhale the scent of your shampoo. 

Besides—who would hurt him? Who can hurt him, apart from you? His pain is a privilege that belongs to you alone. 

And so when a shadow passes behind his back he thinks nothing of it. He thinks nothing of it until your eyes widen and you shove him aside, violently, and he has to catch his balance on the car roof, turning around just in time to see you kick a man in the stomach. Hard. 

Not hard enough: the man stumbles but doesn't lose his footing and, wheezing, lunges for you again. There's a glint of something sharp, cold and biting and not allowed anywhere near you, and Sylus’ Evol reaches out to stop it—but finds his assistance is not necessary. You wrest the knife-hand away and grab the man by the collar, forcing his face down while your knee comes up with a crunch and a cry of pain. 

The man's hand instinctively flies to his face, but you don't let him recover. You have a blade of your own, tucked away against your leg in the holster Sylus had made for you, and you rip it over his throat. 

The man gurgles, arms flailing, then slumps to the ground. Your hairdo has come loose, and you throw it over your shoulder with a flick of your head, catching your breath. There's blood smeared on your hands. 

Sylus watches, mesmerized. Turned on.  

He remembers to close his mouth. 

“Ruined my dress. Asshole,” you bite at the soon-to-be corpse at your feet. Then you look up with wide eyes, like you're remembering Sylus is there, too. “Are you okay?” 

“What sharp claws you have,” he murmurs, adoring. “I'm fine.”  

You relax at his assurance and reach for the knife the assailant dropped. “Don't touch that,” Sylus says sharply, and grabs your wrist. He takes it with his Evol instead; through it, he can feel the poison coating the blade. It's a step up from bullets and the occasional grenade, but it appears his opponents continue to be horribly misinformed. 

Good. 

Sylus examines your hands carefully for cuts, but aside from drying blood he finds none. He thumbs over your calluses, then places a kiss on your knuckles. 

“Let's get you cleaned up at home,” he says. When you stay quiet, looking at your hand in his, he gently squeezes your fingers. “Kitten?” You jerk and blink up at him, eyes coming back from somewhere far away. Now worried, Sylus frowns and asks, “Did you get cut? Are you hurt?” 

“No,” you shake your head. “No, just thinking. Sorry. Let's go.” 

Sylus looks at you for a beat longer and then releases you. He drives slowly on the way home; you're quiet, head turned away from him to look out the window into the dark. He can't see your expression. 

He lets you have your silence until you get back to the base. The first thing he does is click a medical bracelet on your wrist and start a full body scan. The poison knife is put away securely to be tested later; Sylus would love to know what new concoction they've come up with to try and kill him this time. 

But right now there are more pressing matters at hand. You sit down on the sofa with that same glum look on your face, and Sylus won't have any more of it. 

“Tell me what's wrong.” 

“Are you angry that I killed him?” you ask, eyes downcast. 

Sylus blinks. It baffles him to think why you would come to such a conclusion. “Have I ever truly been angry at you?” he counters. 

You shrug a little. “Just... you know. If he was still alive you could've asked him who sent him. Maybe he had valuable info.” 

Sylus sinks down next to you, offering a blanket you can drape over your shoulders. He checks the bracelet; loading at 60 percent, no anomalies so far. “People like him know as little as possible to get the job done precisely to avoid situations like that. Besides,” he says, “I already have an idea who sent him.” 

You nod, but you don't look entirely convinced. Or rather, you still look sad, and just like when you flinch from him there is this feeling of something-else. Sylus thinks of his hand, waiting at your back for you to press into. Of that split second where he's afraid you might leave him there, pulling away from him entirely. Disappearing. Again. 

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, half a question, half not. It’s something he wonders often. The few times you've resonated he can feel your trepidation, the tensing up of someone who's readying themselves for the incoming hurt. 

He thought it was because of how he reacted to first seeing you again. His hands around your throat, the barrel of your gun against his heart. He scared you. He hurt you. He regrets it, deeply. 

He has since given you space, time, holding out his hand, patiently, waiting and waiting and waiting until you're brave enough, curious enough, comfortable enough to sniff his fingers. Hoping that one day you'll climb into his lap of your own accord. To let him stroke you and pet you and kiss you like he's wanted to for so long. (So long.) 

But even though you've let him come closer and closer the tension remains. You keep it tucked tightly against yourself, behind thick walls he doesn't try to pierce through. He won't force you again. But he feels enough, sees enough, to sense your conflict. To go or not to go? To say yes? No? Maybe so? 

“I'm angry,” you say finally, and this makes Sylus look up from where he's absentmindedly taken your hand in his lap. “That this kind of thing happens. That this is your life. But then I—” 

You fall silent, and Sylus squeezes your hand encouragingly. “Then you?” 

“I don't know,” you mumble, faltering. You duck your head to avoid his eyes. 

“Are you angry on my behalf, kitten?” Sylus says, and he smiles slightly. “I’m honoured. I was very impressed with how you slit my assailant's throat.” 

You nod along with his words, but you're clearly not convinced. “Sorry, um. For being so violent.” Sylus blinks, and then he laughs—hearty and low. You're finally looking up at him, part relieved and part offended at his amusement. “It's not funny,” you protest. 

Sylus wants to kiss you so badly his body hurts with it. “Sweetie,” he says, thoroughly enjoying the flush rising on your cheeks, “Why are you apologising? I'm finally starting to rub off on you.” 

It's only fair. You've shaped his entire heart. His soul. He wants to—needs to—leave a mark in return. He tucks your hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on a particular spot on your neck. 

“You sound way too happy about that,” you mutter. 

“Do you dislike it?” 

He would understand, if you said yes. This you is so different, changed by time and pain and circumstance. You don't enjoy killing. You criticise his work, heavily, even when you come back to him again and again. But your occupation isn't all sunshine and rainbows either. He knows this. He knows you've killed before, that tonight wasn't your first. 

He wishes it had been. He wishes he could have witnessed that first death and held you in his arms after. Whether you were sad or angry or proud, whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. He hopes that you didn't suffer by yourself when he wasn't there. That you never had to suffer anything while he was still looking for you. 

“No,” you say carefully. “But I don't like feeling like that.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Like...” You've clasped your hands on your lap. The bracelet beeps at 100 percent; no injuries, no poison detected. Sylus can breathe again. After this, a shower. The blood smears on your skin are bothering him. “Being so angry, I guess. He tried to kill you, and I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him.” 

Sylus’ heart swells with something like hope. “It won't be the last time,” he says gently. “After all, you're keeping company with a bad man like me.” 

He watches you cautiously. He's leaving the door wide open for you. You can come and go as you please. He'll do anything in his power to keep you returning, but ultimately, you'll have to step through the door on your own feet. One, two, three. 

“But you're not,” you say simply. 

“You're full of surprises tonight,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.  

“Okay, well. I did think that you were bad at one point. Which, by the way, that was kind of on you.” You give him a pointed look and Sylus smiles, even though you might as well have driven a knife in him. He knows. It hurts to remember what he did. He'll take this pain along with everything else you're willing to give him. “But I haven't thought that way for a long time. I thought you knew that.” 

“I didn't dare presume.” 

“You can dare to presume a little.” 

“Don't you think that's a little dangerous?” he asks, voice low. “I'd rather you tell me, instead.” 

You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders. “I thought you could read minds. What do you need me to tell you anything for?” 

You mean his eye? “I can only see so much,” he says. “Desire. Lies. Definitely not every passing thought.” And he would never use it on you again, anyhow. 

Your eyes flick to his, down to his mouth, then up again. You wrinkle your nose, frowning, and turn away with pursed lips. “Maybe you should see an optometrist,” you mutter. Then, at normal volume, “Is it okay if I wash up here? The blood is starting to feel icky.” 

“Of course,” Sylus says immediately. “You know where to find clothes.” 

You unclasp your heels and leave him there, sitting on his sofa. Listening to the shower water run. 

You decline his offer to stay the night. You have yet to say yes, but he keeps trying. He tells himself they're little reminders for you, just so you know that the offer still stands. That it always stands. Yes—reminders. Not his own desperation surging up his throat and spilling out over your feet. 

The dance continues. 

Sometimes a step forward, sometimes a step back. You disappear for a while after that night, and so Sylus has to content himself with watching you through Mephisto with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. He watches you work, eat, come home, and then the curtains are drawn shut. The line, materialised. 

Sylus waits with hand outstretched. And every now and then, he holds out a treat. 

He sends you flowers, balm for your aching feet, and an invitation to attend an orchestra performing Tchaikovsky. It's old music, fancy and obscure, a private performance for rich music snobs like Sylus except they don't have a private booth reserved year-round with the best seats in the house, and he does. 

“Will there be any dancing?”  

“No dancing,” Sylus tells you through the phone. “But if you want, we can dance after. They'll play a song I think you'll like—I have it on vinyl. The Waltz of Flowers.” 

“Are we the flowers dancing to the music? When did your roots grow legs?”  

“Just a few days ago,” Sylus says. “Since you've been so busy recently I had no choice but to grow legs so I could come see you.” 

You laugh, and Sylus closes his eyes so he can better imagine the way your lips part when you do. “It sounds like you went through a lot of effort. You're making it difficult for me to say no.”  

“So you'll come?” Sylus asks eagerly. 

“Hmm. Should I?” you ask, but you're teasing him. You're not hiding the smile in your voice, and Sylus feels his heart lighten.  

“Yes. You should. Or I'll have to do something more drastic. Perhaps I'll grow wings next.” 

A beat, and then: “Alright. I'll come. I'll feel lonely if you fly away by yourself.”  

Your tone has shifted a little, just enough for Sylus to pick it up over the poor reception ever-present in the N109 zone but not quite enough to place it. Surely you don't really believe he'd have any interest in flying if it meant parting from you? “Good. I'll pick you up so you can get dressed here. I ordered a dress for you. And new shoes—I had them custom fitted for your size this time.” 

This time there's a longer silence. Sylus resists the urge to tap into Mephisto's channel so he can see your face. “You don't have to do that every time,” you say finally. “I have dresses of my own, you know.”  

“You should wear whatever you like,” Sylus agrees. “I just want you to have options.” 

“And if I show up in a suit? What'll you do then?”  

“Then I'll make sure we match.” 

“Mr. Qin, you really have an answer to every question,” you say with resigned amusement. “Okay. I'll be waiting for you.”  

“So will I,” Sylus mumbles once the line goes dead. 

When the day of the concert rolls around Sylus picks you up at the agreed time and, once you're back at the base, shows you the things he's prepared for you tonight: a dark dress that glitters like the river reflecting the night sky, with shoes and accessories to match. He's pleased to see your lips part in quiet delight once you set eyes on it. 

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” you ask, then shake your head before Sylus can answer. “Actually, no, I don't want to know. I'd be too scared to wear it if you told me.” 

Sylus tuts. “A few numbers are enough to scare you? Where's that famous Hunter courage I've heard so much about?” 

You carefully remove the dress from the hanger, running your fingers over the silky fabric. “Strange rich men with their strange rich hobbies have no business judging people working normal nine-to-fives.” 

Sylus arches a brow. “Strange rich—?” 

But you're already stalking to the bathroom, and the door clicks shut behind you before he can finish his mock-offense. He takes the time to put on his own clothes; a simple suit with dark accents matching yours. The river and the stars. Reflected in your eyes they lose their indifferent coldness; as long as Sylus knows you're at the other end of them he can bear even their silence. When it comes to you he thinks he can bear anything. 

“Um. Sylus?” You poke your head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly flushed. “Can you... Sorry. I can't get the zipper all the way up.” 

...Alright, so maybe there are some things that are a little harder to bear than others. 

Sylus ignores the discomfort in his too-tight pants and steps forward, gesturing for you to come closer. You do, gingerly holding the front pressed against your chest so the fabric doesn't slip. It's a sleeveless design that shows off your shoulders and arms; when you turn around Sylus sees the zipper is stuck just at your lower back. 

His fingertips brush over your skin briefly, and you fail to suppress a shiver. His eyes dilate at the expanse of smooth skin before him. The soft valleys and ridges of your spine are begging him to leave behind marks. His teeth ache with want. 

The zzzip is very loud in the quiet room. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathlessly, and turn around. “Okay... Shoes. Where—?” 

Sylus procures them silently, and you slip into them. “How do they feel?” 

You take a few steps, testing your balance. “I think they can handle a Sylus mission or two.” 

“Only two?” Sylus says, one corner of his lips curling up. “You're hard to please, kitten.” 

He holds out his arm for you to take, and you squeeze down briefly. “You're so eager to find fault with the other,” you complain. “You should reflect on what this says about your lifestyle instead.” 

There's something wrong with her.  

Do you think about those words still? He hopes not. He fears yes. Sylus continues walking and holds open the door for you to step through. “I don't see the problem. You always keep up with me, after all.” 

“That would be because it's do or die with you,” you say, ducking your head to get in his car. Sylus fastens your seatbelt for you, then gets in on the other side. He doesn't turn his keys yet, however. 

“I don't die easily. And I won't let you, either. So doesn't that mean, as long as it's us—” Sylus reaches his arm out across the console, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek, “we'll always make it through?” 

A deep flush spreads from where he touched all the way down to your neck, and you quickly turn away from him under the guise of readjusting your seatbelt. “...You should start driving or we'll be late.” 

Sylus pulls away with a hum, pleased, and drives you to the concert hall. The ride there is smooth, and soon Sylus is opening the car door for you again and helping you step out. The evening sky is starting to dim; faintly between the purples and blues Sylus can spot stars starting to peek out. Normally, on days where he doesn't see you, this is around where he wakes. 

Just a little to your right is the concert hall, its evening lights washing the building in warm golden hues. 

“Ready?” he asks, smiling.  

When you open your mouth to answer him a gunshot rings out across the parking lot. 

Sylus grunts in surprise and pain, abdomen tensing against the foreign object trying to pierce through flesh, and he pulls you away from the direction of the shooter, low to the ground, while the tendrils of his Evol shoot out to find whoever just fucking shot him. 

Maybe he should reflect on his lifestyle. Or rather, maybe he should reflect on his tunnel vision whenever you're involved. He's never thought of himself as reckless; he's daring, yes, takes risks, loves the thrill, loves to play the stakes, but every move is thought through. Calculated. He plans— 

—but you have a way of surprising him. One, two, three, and the cards reshuffle. 

He's always had shit luck. 

“Sylus," you say, voice high, "you're bleeding.” You rip off your gloves, pressing them firmly against where a bloodstain is very rapidly forming against his nice blouse. 

“I'll be fine,” Sylus says, though he can feel the sweat collecting at his nape. It hurts. It always does. His body is already reacting, mending the torn muscles, urging the blood to clot and sending through new blood cells to stimulate the repair process. It pushes against the bullet lodged in his side, making the pain flare up and out like a flame licking over flesh. He grits his teeth. 

Crack! A dent sizzles in his car door, way too close to your heads for comfort. You need to move. “Come,” Sylus says urgently. He half-crouches, half-runs with you to the other side of the car, shielding your body with his bigger one. Another bullet zips past him, grazing his cheek. Good aim. Shame they're using their skills for the last time today. 

His Evol has found the shit responsible for ruining his very nice evening with you and quietly snaps their neck. He's not in the mood for theatrics today. He'll page the twins to pick up the body and find out who it was this time that wanted him dead so badly later. 

And more importantly, how they knew where he'd be. Where he'd be with you, no less. The last thing he needs is for you to become their next target, because that would mean they've found the one way to actually hurt him. 

“Get in,” Sylus urges you. He's panting; his body is working overtime, heart thundering to support the extra flow of oxygen to his wound. He needs to get the bullet out. 

You climb in, knees knocking painfully against the console as you shift over to the shotgun seat to make room for him, and Sylus quickly follows. The car tires screech against the asphalt when he makes a fast turn, forcing the car into high gear to speed away. Where there's one, there's more, and he doesn't want to take any chances with you here. 

“Sylus, oh my god,” you say, aghast. “At least let me drive!” 

Sylus’ Evol pushes you back against the seat so it can click the belt in place, and then Sylus steps on the gas for real. “You can drive,” he says. “Once we're somewhere safe.” His voice is strained; it feels like his body's regeneration is both pushing the bullet out and pulling it back in, trying to recreate life around the metal in a way that is starting to hurt really fucking bad. 

“You just got shot. Are you trying to bleed out behind the wheel? ”  

“No, which is why I'll be needing a nurse in a moment. First aid kit in the glove compartment.” 

You click it open and take the kit out after putting aside sunglasses, mints, two glocks, and several ammo casings. “I'm not a nurse, Sylus.” 

“But you've got plenty of experience, haven't you?” 

“Thanks to you, yeah,” you mutter. 

Sylus presses the comm interface while he drives, eyes darting over the road to see if there's any other fools that want to die tonight. Luke picks up after one ring. 

“Boss?”  

“Ran into trouble. On the way out now, but I need eyes on this place.” Sylus sends the twins his coordinates and changes lanes; if there's still someone following you he wants to shake them before changing course and heading to one of his safehouses nearby. 

“Got it. We'll be there.”  

The line goes dead. “Pull over,” you say firmly. “ Now. I swear to God, if you pass out while driving and crash the car with us in it—” 

“As you wish.” It should be fine—Sylus doesn't see or sense anyone following. He retracts his Evol with no small amount of relief and slows the car, pulling into one of the abandoned warehouses at the side of the road. The N109 Zone is riddled with these. They're wonderfully useful for all sorts of things; Sylus himself is partial to using them as smuggling sites, torture grounds, and, just like right now, temporary hiding places. 

He exhales when the engine goes dead. The brief adrenaline rush ebbs away, leaving more pain in its wake, and it's now that he's starting to realise that the bullet in his body isn't a standard one. This one comes in the fun grappling hook edition, where once it finds purchase in the body it lodges itself in there with mean little pegs that dig into the flesh. No wonder his regeneration can't get it out. You're going to have to cut him open again, and something tells him you're not going to be any happier about it than you already are. 

You're unbuckling your belt the second the car stops, leaning over and pulling on the pin that reclines Sylus’ seat with a jerk so it can serve as makeshift operating table. He grunts, eyes squeezing shut briefly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you say hastily. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to hurt. Hold still, okay?Gonna touch you now.” 

Sylus turns his head and watches you cut through the blood-soaked fabric with scissors, ripping it open further when you can see the entry wound. “The bullet has hooks,” he says hoarsely. “You'll have to cut it out.” 

You let out a shaky exhale. “Wonderful.” 

“I trust you.” 

“Please tell me you have more than just painkillers in here.” 

Sylus smiles a little, though it comes through more as a grimace. “I'm afraid you'll have to improvise.” 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. You soak wipes in disinfectant and try to clean the bloodied area as gently as possible, but Sylus still hisses at the sting. “It's going to hurt a lot worse than this,” you warn, and he nods. 

“I know. It's okay.” 

“It's not fucking okay,” you snap, and Sylus closes his mouth. Then you deflate, sighing. “Just—here, bite on this. Tell me if I need to stop.” You tug his belt free and offer it to him. Sylus bites down on the leather. It tastes bitter. 

The bullet isn't deep, but the knife cutting through his flesh is agony. Your brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Sylus tries not to think of a time where he was the one holding the knife, clutching at his skull as broken pieces of himself grew back despite his best efforts. 

“Almost there.”  

Sylus breathes hard, nostrils flaring when you start to tug at the bullet. He can take it. This is nothing. He thinks of the pain on your face when his hand closed around your neck, and this is nothing. He remembers the years spent in a vast, endless river of stars, alone, and this is nothing. He's had worse. Everything, until you showed up, was worse. 

The relief when the bullet is finally tugged free is so intense his eyes sting. There's blood absolutely everywhere, soaking your hands, his pants, the seat, the console. Courtesy of his body working overtime to supply the constant loss. His head feels dizzy. His jaw aches; you have to dislodge the belt by cradling his cheek, tugging the leather free with your hands. It comes out with deep, sharp teeth indents coated with saliva. 

You hand him a bottle of water and painkillers, and Sylus drinks it down greedily. He's parched. 

“Thank you,” he says once he's swallowed the last drop in the bottle. His body is exhausted, and he focuses his remaining energy on patching up the re-opened wound. The offending bullet is tossed carelessly to the side, and you bandage him with careful fingers. When you're done you slump back against your seat. 

“Kitten?” he asks when you stay like that, silent, eyes closed. 

Your eyes open slowly. There's blood smeared on your cheek. His. This time it doesn't bother him so much. “Don't make me do this again.” 

Sylus looks at you, your beautiful, tired face framed by messy hair. The flutter of your lashes, the downward slant of your mouth. His beloved is upset. “Do you hate it that much?” 

“No. Just don't get hurt.” You press your hands against your face. “I don't want to see get hurt.”  

Your voice is tight, and Sylus’ heart squeezes. “I'll be as good as new in a few days,” he promises. 

You lower your hands just enough that he can see your eyes. They're tinged red. “Does that make it hurt less?” 

He deliberates his answer, but eventually, as always, settles on the truth: “No.” 

You close your eyes again, hiding them behind your hands. When you remove them it's to wipe at your cheeks, and Sylus belatedly realises through the haze of painkillers and blood loss that you're crying. 

“Sweetheart?” he asks, alarmed. 

"I'm fine,” you say thickly. “I'm going to call Kieran to pick us up.” 

Sylus watches you dial the twins silently. Your voice is quiet and tense, though no longer as frantic as when you were trying to press down on his side to keep him from bleeding out. Neither of you says anything while you wait, though Sylus doesn't take his eyes off you.  

This is the first time you've shown him your tears. He wants to understand them. Stress? Shock? But you're used to this. You've been trained to be used to this—and this is hardly the first time you've played nurse for him. Anger he can understand; it's an emotion as familiar to him as breathing. And you are angry, he thinks—there's also just that elusive something-else. A smile that falters. A step back. Eyes tinged red, averted. 

Sylus keeps mulling over it until Kieran arrives. He's feeling much better, if more fatigued, and he could probably make it home himself by now. You refuse. You tell him that if he dies after your hard work you'll resent him for the rest of eternity. Also you prefer riding in a car that isn't splattered with his blood.  

Kieran serenely twirls his car keys around his finger, leaning against the hood while his boss and his boss’ beloved argue. 

It doesn't take long for Sylus to give in. Not because your threat scares him; you'll already haunt him for the rest of eternity whether he dies or not. He just feels sorry for the night you've had so far, and guilty for the tears you shed over him. As Kieran helps him into the back he resolves to plan things more carefully next time. He'll take you somewhere remote for your next outings, places his adversaries don't know to look for. You told him not to make you do this again. He'll do what he can to make your wish come true.  

To his surprise you climb in the back with him, holding out an arm for him to lean into. “Lie down,” you say. You sound tired. “You should rest.” 

Sylus wordlessly complies. You don't protest when he puts his weight on you a little more heavily than he normally would, and you don't say anything when he takes your hand and laces your fingers together. If you'd asked, he'd have told you it helps with the pain. 

The quiet hum of the car is peaceful. Kieran asks you if you need anything and you shake your head, and after that no one speaks until you return to the base.  

Sylus realises barely two hours have passed since you left. It feels like much longer. His body is heavy, but he declines Kieran's offer to support him as he walks. You'll feel better seeing him on his feet by himself. 

“You wanna go home after this? I can take you,” Kieran says. You glance at Sylus. 

“Thanks, but I've got a patient to look after.” 

“Okie-doke. Let me know if you change your mind. Luke's on his way back, by the way,” Kieran adds, jerking his chin at Sylus. “Got the guy. Didn't find anyone else there, but we'll keep looking.” 

Sylus nods. “Page me with updates.” 

Kieran salutes, then turns around on his heel and marches off, humming to himself as he does. Just another day on the job. 

“You should lie down,” you tell Sylus once the two of you have watched Kieran disappear through the door. “You lost a lot of blood... Don't you have IVs here somewhere? I'll—” 

Sylus stops you by taking your hand. “Stay with me,” he says. 

You consider his demand. “I will if you lie down.” 

Easily done. Sylus walks to his bedroom, your hand still in his, and carefully lies down on the bed. When he tries to pull you down with him you swiftly slip out of his grasp and instead start to unbutton his blouse. “You're getting blood on everything, you know.” 

“Doesn't matter. I'll just replace it later.” 

“Wasteful,” you tsk. Your eyes have gone dark again, quiet and thoughtful as your fingers slip the last button through its hole. You lightly fan your fingers over his naked skin. “It's so easy for you to discard things.”  

Your mouth sets, suddenly bitter, and your touch disappears. Sylus watches you closely. Are you coming closer, or are you backing away? You're off-tempo, moving along to a rhythm he can't follow. “I just know how to distinguish between what's important and what isn't.” 

Your gaze flits up to his for a moment, and then away again. What little he can glimpse is unknown to him. “Do you need help getting clean? Or do you want something to drink?” 

“I want you to tell me why you cried earlier,” he says. 

“You're a very demanding patient.” 

“Well?” 

You sigh. “The average person doesn't enjoy being shot at and then having to cut through someone's abdomen to fish out bullets in a car. Seriously, and you ask me to work for you. I'd quit after a day.” 

"Does that mean you're still considering my offer?” Sylus asks, lips curling up. 

You shake your head. “Didn't you hear what I just said?” 

What Sylus hears is the bluster of a kitten caught in a corner, and none of it is an answer to his original question. He considers what you've told him so far. You don't want to see him get hurt. You wanted to kill the person that tried this stunt on him previously. You did kill him, in fact, and you're angry.  

“Sylus.” He blinks out of his thoughts when you call his name, and he looks at you. You’re wary again. He wishes he knew why. “Did you know this would happen?” 

He didn't expect this question; his brows rise, then furrow. “I didn't. I suspected there was a leak somewhere,” he says, “and tonight confirmed that. The good thing is that we can now trace who it is, and after that they'll be no more.” He takes the hand you pulled away, and you let him. “But I didn't know it would happen tonight.” 

He does his best to sound sincere because he is, and he doesn't want you to think that he'd go through the trouble of involving you just for tonight to end the way it did. You're silent for a while, studying the hand holding your own. “You must have really rotten luck, then.” 

He smiles. “You think so? Then what should we do? Will you share your good luck with me?” 

“You can have all of it if it means people stop trying to kill you.” 

Sylus’ breath stops for a moment. Your eyes are downcast, still on his hand cradling yours. Both are smeared with red. A blood pact. 

As long as he's alive, this is one of the few things he can't promise you. There will always be people hunting him, and he takes this in stride. This is just his life. The bullet-proof windows, the base that is really more like a fortress, with locks and cameras and double walls and secret exits. The gun on his nightstand. Do you hate it? 

“I'll start to think you care about me when you say things like that,” he says softly. 

“I told you,” you say. Your voice is trembling a little. A step forward. “You can dare to presume a little.” 

Sylus laughs—then winces, because ouch; the pain in his abdomen flares. He doesn't let it deter him. “Only a little? What else will you let me do?” 

You open your mouth, then close it. You shake your head, already turning your body away from him, getting ready stand up, to leave. “We should talk about this some other time. Right now, you need—” 

No, no. No. His hand waiting at your back. Your fingers digging into his flesh. You can't leave him now. Sylus tightens his grip on you. “Right now I need you. Tell me what you were going to say.” 

“There's—I don't know,” you protest. But you don't tug free from him. “Sylus...” 

“How else will I know?” he asks. “Tell me. Please.” 

Tell me I can touch you. Tell me I can kiss you. Tell me I can take your shoes off for you, take your clothes off for you, tell me I can love you with my heart and my hands and my body.  

“I already gave you all of my luck,” you chide. “And you still want more? You really are a greedy man.” You push the hair that’s fallen over his brow away with gentle fingers, and your voice softens. “Why are you asking me things you already know?” 

He doesn't know. Or rather, he dreams. He hopes. He wants; a delirious, despairing desire. He's afraid. Terribly so. If he's too forceful, if it's too soon, too heavy, too much, you'll leave again. You won't pick up his calls, won't answer his texts. You'll disappear again, wink out like the stars glimmering on your bloodied dress. 

You spare him from answering you by lifting his hand and pressing it against your cheek. It's the first time you've invited his touch, and Sylus burns with it. He dares to thumb over your lower lip, and you part them for him. 

“Come here,” he says, low and beckoning and desperate, and then he waits. He waits then for your eyes to search his, waits for you to hesitate, to weigh your own stakes, and he waits for your lashes to flutter as you lean down, guided by his hand, and press your lips against his. 

You're so very soft. 

A groan rises in Sylus’ throat. You kiss him so, so gently. Your hand mirrors his, on his cheek, stroking so carefully over his jaw. Like he's precious. Like he's something to be cherished. You pull away much too soon and Sylus chases you, lifting himself from his lying-down position. You deny him by placing a hand on his chest. “Your wound—” 

“Is fine,” he supplies, and tries again. You push down a little harder. 

“No,” you say firmly, though the effect is greatly diminished by the flush on your cheeks. “Rest first. Please?” 

Ah. The trump card. 

Sylus sinks back into the mattress with an unhappy frown. “For how long?” How much longer must he wait? He has you here, now, and his side is mending up nicely now that the bullet is out. He could fuck you like this, if you'd let him. 

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Until you're all better.” 

“My love,” he complains. “Must you torture me like this?” He expects a laugh; a teasing remark. You'll tell him that he likes it. That he deserves it. That it's your job to torture him, because who else will take him down a peg. That you're the only one who can do this. That you're the only one. 

Why does he keep being surprised when you don't act the way he thinks you will? 

You don't smile, and you don't tease. You lean down to press your forehead against his, eyes closed; your breath is warm against his lips. 

“I was scared for you,” you say quietly. “And angry. I'm still angry. And that kind of scares me, too.” 

He thinks he understands. “There's nothing to be afraid of,” Sylus says gently. “We're here together.” 

You draw back far enough to look into his eyes. He looks back into yours. Then, finally—a smile. 

“Okay.” 

Sylus relaxes. “Kiss me again,” he says. He tucks your hair behind your ear, stroking gently over your head, your ear, the back of your neck. This is torture, too. Having you hover so close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. The sweetest kind. When he reads the hesitation on your face he adds: “I won't move.” Then once more: “Please.” 

You oblige. You kiss him with your soft lips and your sweet breath and a shiver when you sigh into his mouth. Sylus does as he promised and stays still, although his hand presses gently against the back of your skull to keep you from pulling away just yet.  

When he bites at your lip you make a little noise that has his cock twitching and he presses you into him a little harder, coaxing your mouth open with his, giving you his tongue and inviting yours in return. You whine, a high, needy sound he files away carefully, and he digs his fingers harder into your hair.  

“Sylus—” you try to say against his mouth. He swallows the words and pulls you into another kiss. He's breathing hard; so are you. You've fisted your hands in his ripped-apart blouse, fabric bunching between your fingers. 

“Wait, wait,” you say, and this time he reluctantly lets you go. “We should—slow down.” 

“Do you want to?” he asks. He enjoys the way your eyes drift down his neck as he speaks, his Adam's apple bobbing around the words. 

You push yourself upright from where you'd been leaning over him. “It's not about wanting. It's about not hurting you.” 

“I'm feeling great,” he says with no small amount of cheek, because he is feeling great. This night is working out wonderfully for him. No matter the blood, or the bullet, or the ruined date. Who cares about a concert when he can hear you making sounds straight out of his dreams? “I'm sure I'd feel even better if you kept going.” 

You laugh and poke his cheek. “Why are you making me be the responsible one here? Is this what blood loss does to people?” 

“No,” he sighs. “This is just what you do to me.” 

You shake your head, smiling. “We should get cleaned up first. And change clothes. And sheets, probably. Also, you need an IV, like, yesterday. I'm worried your wound will get infected.” 

“Then at least stay until I recover fully.” 

You give him a look. “You know I have work, Sylus.” 

“Not tomorrow you don't. And may I just say that Onychinus offers excellent work hours? Very flexible. Working remotely is an option, too—” 

Exasperated, you clap a hand over his mouth, but you can't stop the smile from tugging at your lips. “Okay, okay. Enough. I'll stay.” 

Satisfied, Sylus licks your palm and laughs when you yelp and snatch it away. 

You clean each other up. 

It's foreign and a little odd, to be cared for like this. To have you peel off his socks while he lies on his bed, skin damp from the rag you used to clean the blood away. You help him into clean, comfortable clothes, and then do the same for yourself. Sylus watches with dark eyes as you turn your back to him, unzipping your dress and letting it pool at your feet. He traces the curve of your ass, your thighs, and thinks of his big hand splaying out over your flesh. Squeezing. Holding. All his. 

It takes a little more coaxing for you to sleep next to him, but Sylus is quickly finding out that he's not the only one with weaknesses. You falter when he says my love. Your mouth softens when he says I need you beside me. You stroke your fingers through his hair when he asks you to touch him, and you curl up like a kitten at his good side when he dims the lights. 

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” your voice says in the dark. 

“Quite the opposite.” 

It's quiet for a while, then. Sylus lets himself drift comfortably, anchored to you where his fingers lace through yours. Your warmth presses against him like a perfect puzzle piece. 

He is content like this. Watching your breath even out, chest rising and falling slowly. You've put on one his shirts, much too big for you, and it slips over one of your shoulders. He ignores the way his cock stirs at the sight. There'll be many more nights like this, many more opportunities to have you here every which way in his bed wearing things he's carefully collected in a locked dresser.  

He slips in and out of dreams, of memories, of wants and needs. In between that line of waking and sleeping he'll feel for you, squeezing your hand, assuring himself you're still there, and then his body's fatigue pulls him under again. 

When he wakes for real he's dismayed to find the bed empty. 

Sylus pushes himself upright. His side throbs, but it's muted. He knew you'd do a good job. He stretches to test his range of motion and flexes his fingers, Evol dancing forth with a crackle. His reserves aren't back up to full yet, but what has been restored is buzzing, new and alive and impatient to move. To be used. 

He's just about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when the door opens, and you step through holding a glass of water and a bowl of something that smells warm and sweet. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

You still in surprise, lips parting, and then you're hurrying over to him. The bowl and glass are placed on his nightstand, and you push against his shoulders. “You shouldn't be up yet,” you frown. “Lie down. Rest some more.” 

Sylus goes with your touch, but not without pulling you onto his lap. You flail, hands and knees pressing into the mattress so you don't put your weight on him. 

“Sylus—” 

“Is that for me?” he asks, glancing at the dishware. 

You settle for placing your palms on his shoulders, looking down at him from your seat. “Maybe. Only obedient patients who listen and rest when they're told get my special recovery oatmeal.” 

Sylus laughs. It doesn't hurt much anymore; just a dull throb. He drags his hands up your bare legs and squeezes at your hips. “Really? Then tell me. Have I been a good boy?” 

You flush. “Let me check your injury first.” 

Sylus gestures with his hand. “Be my guest,” he says, amused. He already knows what you'll find, and then you'll tell him what he wants to hear. One way or another. You shuffle back on your knees and peel away the bandages, chewing at your lip. Your gaze darts up when Sylus brushes a thumb over it. “Don't bite,” he says. “That's mine.” 

You sputter, half-heartedly smacking his hand away. “That's—well—stop that. Let me focus.” 

The blush has spread from your cheeks to your ears, but otherwise you make a valiant attempt at appearing unruffled as you inspect the entry wound. You keep your teeth from your lip. 

“...Your body really is remarkable,” you say. You gaze at Sylus’ skin, looking fresh and new and pink. On his side sits a puckered scar that on any other person would have taken several weeks to form; tomorrow, there will be no trace left that it was ever there. “Does it hurt?” 

“Barely.” 

Your shoulders relax, and you give Sylus a real smile. He drinks it in greedily. “Good. I'm glad.” 

“So?” Sylus asks. “Am I your good boy?” 

You laugh a little, hands fanning out over his chest. It feels so incredibly good to have you touch him. “Yeah,” you say, amused. “You're a good boy, Sylus.” 

Sylus’ hips buck up instinctively; he can't help it. A groan is trapped behind his teeth. “Then give me my reward,” he demands. 

You look down at him, cheeks flushed, smile fading into surprise and arousal. “The oatmeal? Let me—” 

“Forget the food,” Sylus says impatiently. “I want you. Kiss me. Touch me.” 

For a moment you look like you want to argue with him, but then you lean down with a shaky exhale and press your lips to his. He bites down on them like he said he would, and you make a needy sound that immediately has him doing it again. You taste so sweet, lips sliding over his own, letting him palm your skull to kiss you deeper. You're still hovering over him, so his hands move to your hips, lifting you over his clothed cock and pressing down. 

You gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don't know if—I don't want your wound to reopen.” 

“Is that the only reason?” 

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “You're overestimating my self-restraint.” You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “If I didn't have to be so worried about you I'd let you do whatever you want. But I am worried. So...” 

Whatever he wants. Sylus is going to make good on that promise to the fullest extent possible. Your concern is endearing, but it seems like you're the one who's overestimating his self-restraint if you keep saying things like that. If he can take whatever he wants he'll take it all. Everything. 

“Doesn't hurt,” Sylus says, voice rough. He bucks his hips up again and groans when your nails dig into his chest. “I'll tell you. Trust me?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, and finally you stop resisting when he coaxes you down again. “I do.” 

Sylus hums into the kiss. It's a pure sound, a relief, a want, an invitation. This is what he needed. This is what he's been needing for lifetimes.  

He palms your thighs, digs his fingers in your flesh when you rock against him, and drinks from you. You shudder against him, making wanton little sounds in the back of your throat that encourage him to press harder, kiss deeper. The shlick of spit against spit is loud and wet in his ears; the good kind of drowning. His cock aches, the friction of your clothed cunt against his sweatpants sending little zaps of pleasure through his body. You said whatever he wanted. He wants more. 

He slips his hands under your—his—shirt and groans when he realises you're wearing nothing under it. Your skin is hot to the touch, soft and toned. His strong Hunter. He runs his hand over your naked back, and you don't flinch from him. He presses his fingers against your spine, swipes down, and you arch against him when he grips the fat on your hips. 

You break the kiss, saliva clinging to your lips, and press your forehead against his shoulder. His name, moaned softly in his ear. You rock against each other while your wet little mouth slides over his neck. He hisses in pleasure when he feels teeth against his pulse. “Yes,” he rasps. He threads his fingers through your hair, pulling you against him. “Again. Harder.” 

You bite down and Sylus shudders on a gasp turned moan. His other hand roughly palms your ass. He's leaking, rock-hard and aching, and he breathes your name when you nip his ear. 

“Still okay?” you ask breathlessly. You push yourself up, resting your weight on your forearms. 

He laughs. His pupils have dilated fully, and his teeth feel sharper than normal. Your scent, your arousal, is thick in his nose. “More than okay.” He dips both hands back under your shirt. “Can I take this off?” 

You lift your arms in silent assent, and Sylus sighs when your skin is bared before him. Yes. Finally. Everything. He tugs at your shorts. “This too.” 

You have to sit back for that one, swinging your legs over his for a moment to shimmy it off. You hesitate when it's just your panties left, eyes flicking to his, and then, cheeks burning, you slide those off too. You hold his gaze while you do, and Sylus swallows. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Yes. Everything. 

His Evol neatly catches your underwear when you drop it, tucking it away somewhere you can't see. You crawl back over him fully naked, a little shyly now, like he isn't about to bust with just the sight of you on hands and knees over him. He moans when he feels you settle back into his lap. You're wet enough he can feel it through the dark spot on his sweats, and his cock twitches again when he wonders how much of that is yours and how much is his.  

He kisses you again, palming your breasts, and he marvels at their softness, how perfectly they fit into his hands. You mirror him, hands traveling over his chest, down his stomach, fingers playing with the faint white hair trailing down his pelvis as they go. You pause when you reach his waistband. “I want to touch you, too,” you murmur. “Can I?” 

Sylus lifts his hips, and you help him slide down the clothes you put on him just hours ago. You sit there on your knees in front of him, gazing down with dark eyes. Your hand reaches out tentatively, feather-light, and you stroke over his leg. 

“Acceptable?” he asks, lips curling up. 

You smile, too, face soft and open, and a weight swings loose in Sylus’ chest. You could ask him for anything right now. His money, his men, his bike, his card. The world. His eye. You could take a knife and cut out his heart and hold it in your hands, and it would only be right. 

“Do you really need me to tell you? You know what you look like.” 

“I want to know. Tell me what you see, when you look at me.” 

You lean down and kiss his abdomen, carefully, just a little to the side of his entry wound scar. “I see someone who is strong and proud and beautiful,” you say against his skin. “On the outside, too. Every part of you is.” 

Sylus brushes the hair out your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Come,” he says softly. “Come here.” 

You go, settling yourself across his lap as you were before. The silken heat of you right on top of his most sensitive parts is divine. He watches you open your mouth, spit in your hand, and wrap it around his cock, and that's about where the hindbrain takes over the wheels and he stops thinking about anything else. 

Your hand is warm, callused, wet. You work him slowly, squeezing down gently while you swallow down his ragged breaths with wet kisses until he has to clamp down on your wrist to stop from coming. 

“I want to feel you,” he rasps. “Can I? Inside?” 

You whine against his mouth. “I want to. I want to, just—don't wanna hurt you. Don't want you to hurt.” 

“I know,” Sylus says roughly. “I know. My sweet girl. You're not hurting me. Really. I promised you.” 

“Okay,” you say, finally, a whisper against his cheek. “Okay, Sylus. I want you.” 

That's all he needs. Sylus reaches down and works his fingers in you, curling and stretching and languishing in that wet heat, burning with the anticipation of feeling it elsewhere. Of being inside you, of sharing himself with you as deeply as possible. To become one being with you again, two halves of the whole, for a little while. 

You tremble above him, fingers digging into his hair, rocking your hips against his touch. “Good,” he encourages. “Good girl. Perfect for me. Shall I make you come like this? Just like this, on my fingers? I can feel how tight you're getting. Just a little more. Good, yes, just like that...” 

Your body gives out on you with a choked moan. You collapse on top of him, pulsing around his fingers, and Sylus works you through it until you go limp and swat at his arm for him to stop. He puts his arms around and squeezes tight enough for his side to hurt. 

“More?” he noses against your hair.  

He can feel your laugh more than he hears it. “Impatient,” you tease, and Sylus snorts. Can you really blame him? He's waited so, so long, and he's been so good all this time. He thinks he's allowed to be a little impatient. 

You push yourself up with still-trembling arms and reach behind you, line his cock up with your sex, and then you sink down slowly. Sylus’ fingers squeeze your thighs hard enough to bruise. He grits his teeth. It's like sinking into a hot bath, wet and warm and welcoming, except this bath squeezes down on him like a tight little vice and pulses against his cock when he shifts. He wants to roll you over and mount you, fucking you into the bed until you forget everything but his name, but you told him he's a good boy. He'll stay like he is now, indulging your worries and your concerns. He'll make you come on his cock as many times as you let him to make up for it. 

“Doing okay, sweetie?” he manages, brushing over your cheek. You're panting, eyes gone a little glassy, and his hips buck without thinking. You whimper when he does, eyes squeezing shut. 

“'M okay. You're just— ah. You're huge, holy shit, give me a minute—” 

Sylus would laugh, but it's all he can do to keep from fucking up into you. Instead he circles his thumb over your clit to encourage you to take him deeper until you finally sit down on him fully. His head nudges against your deepest spot, and every time you so much as breathe it sends pleasure up his spine like lightning. 

You start moving, slowly at first, then faster, aided by his hands and his hips. He kisses you messily, hungrily, biting down on your neck, your shoulder, right over that little spot that's always been his alone to have. He claims what is new and reclaims what was lost. Everything that's his will always be his. He'll never let you go after this. He's never losing anything ever again. 

He keeps touching you, stroking your sides, your breasts, your hips; your clit, too, until you begin to shake and your movements start to falter. “Sylus,” you moan against him, sweaty forehead pressed against sweaty forehead. “I need—please, little more? Feels so good, you feel so good—” 

Sylus wraps his arms around you and presses you flush against him, drawing up his knees. He moves his hips again to fuck you for real, now, the slap of flesh against flesh loud and wet. He grows rougher as his pleasure builds, teeth sinking into your skin, eyes wild, a low rumble in his chest. His side throbs as an afterthought, but it's washed away by the feeling of your body curling around him, clenching, straining, that soft heat burning through his restraint until he's coming with a desperate whine high in his throat. He rolls his hips without thought, reduced to the animal want of release. He buries it deep inside you until eventually his breath evens and you slump into the sheets, together.  

Sated. 

Sylus breathes. He turns his head and presses kisses where he can reach: your hair, your temple, your nose when you lift your head to look at him. You kiss him, too, gently on his lips, then his cheek, down to his neck where he asked you to bite him. His marks match your own, a trail of teeth down your neck, your shoulder, and your chest. 

“My love,” he murmurs. 

“Was that okay?” you ask him. “How does your side feel?” 

“Perfect. Let's do it again.” 

You laugh and quickly slip away from him before he can try to roll you over. And let your oatmeal get cold? Absolutely not, you tease him.  

He eats; you clean up. He coaxes you back into bed; you agree, as long as he holds you and you get to pick what you watch. 

You never have made him an offer he can refuse. 

The bows trill low; the flowers dance. 

Sylus gently releases the tonearm. The flutes pick up with a slight crackle through his record player; then they're carried away by the violins. He hums along with first notes, off-key, then turns around to hold his hand out for you. 

“I like it. Is this what you were taking me to hear at the concert?” You put your wine glass down on the table and drift over to him, placing your hand in his. You're barefoot, wearing his shirt again, and it keeps sliding off the shoulder no matter how many times you readjust it. You've refused offers of other (appropriately sized) sleepwear. 

Sylus draws you closer, placing one hand on your lower back and dipping his head down for a kiss. It's impossible to stop doing it now that he can. “Correct. Though you are by far the loveliest flower partaking in this particular waltz.” 

You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder while you sway together. One, two, three, slowly and off-beat.  

“I couldn't let you be the only one who grew legs out of roots. I have to keep up with you somehow.” 

Sylus hums. “I'd never go without you, beloved. We dance together or not at all.” 

You curl your hand over his heart. “...It's going to take some time for me to get used to you calling me that.” 

“That's alright,” Sylus murmurs. “I've got time.” As much of it as you like. Everything you can't accept yet will be here waiting for you until you do. 

He, too, can wait. As long as you let him hold you like this in the meantime he thinks he can bear a little more patience. And then, when you're ready, he'll tell you how much he adores you. How much he needs you. He thinks you already know, but he also knows his kitten is skittish.  

That's alright, too. He's happy to keep holding out his hand and let you come to him. He'll show you over and over that you don't need to flinch from him. That for all the violence and anger that soak his hands red he will still cradle you in them gently.  

You stay there, swaying together in the dim evening light, long after the waltz has ended.

[pxpecxdy]

Just thinking about if Robby takes a viagra sometime in the last hour or so of work because you guys have Big Plans but something happens and he cannot take you right home and there’s a lot of teasing and sexual tension in another setting (that does not compromise patient care. Or we could suspend fictional reality and keep it at the hospital. I’m up for anything).

YES YES YES YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSSS

TRAFFIC JAM

I've been thinking about this ask since I got it and just haven't had time to write it. I've done something similar to this and/or encouraged Rue to write something like this so my apologies if it's repetitive.

It's been a long day for the two of you. Multi vehicle pile up on the expressway. Both of your shifts ended three hours ago but right as you thought you were free to leave another patient coded. Finally everyone is stable and admitted and the two of you can go home. You both need that stress release. Robby jokes and teases as you walk to his car together that he's already taken one of those little blue pills. The rush to get home is even greater now.

However, one thing neither of you thought of was the detours caused by that never ending mess on the expressway. Normally, it's only a fifteen minute drive from the hospital to your shared place. But everyone has been rerouted to the side streets that makes your commute reaching the forty minute mark with stand still traffic. Robby keeps shifting in the drivers seat. At first you think he's just annoyed with all the traffic. Then you notice he's rock hard underneath his cargos.

You can't help but smirk at the sight. Your hand slips from your lap into his. He groans at the contact over his pants. His eyes snap from the car ahead and over towards your face. If looks could kill, you'd be buried six feet under. Your fingers work to undo the buttons and his hands tighten on the wheel.

"Let me make it better." You hush as you lean over the center console. His eyes are darting back and forth at the cars around them.

"Fuck..." He grunts as your hand pulls out his throbbing cock and your lips press against the tip. Robby can feel your smile against his dick and it's unfair. You slide your tongue up and down the length of him. He watches as you take him fully into your mouth, wet lips parted around his girth. Traffic is the last thing on his mind.

A car honks and he tenses up, only to realize he needs to move up more and he does. You begin to bob your head up and down his length. Vibrations from your moans buzz through him. It's not often that he lets you blow him, not when he wants to make the pills last. One of his hands stays white knuckled on the steering wheel. His other hand covers most of your head. His eyes are moving everywhere. He looks to his left and the driver next to him is looking at him.

"Stay down." He shoves your head down all the way. You bite back a gag. You try to pull away but his hand is holding you down. "There's people looking. Be good to me and swallow it all." He whispers like the other car can hear him. You hum in response, not able to do much else. His hips shift. He's lifting them up to your mouth. He's fucking your face. It's not long before he's cursing and grunting and filling your throat with his seed.

[ihavenoideahowtodream]

life lessons I've found applicable to 98% of people

- if they cant change it in 10 seconds dont mention it (their fly being down vs they havent showered in five days)

- assume ignorance before malice untill you have an obvious reason not to. Never expect to have a chance to assume malice because you likely wont get it.

- you are not aware of how upset you actually are till after you have had food, water, shower, and sleep.

- be specific about why you are upset. "you are creepy" does nothing. "i dont like how much you hug me" is a conversation starter that doesnt assign morality to those involved. usually this is the difference between gossip and confirming other people have the same negative feeling as you: usable action.

- When there is Big Shit use a predetermined structure to find your offence boundaries. I use baseball's 3 strikes cause its a game i know well. I give people 3 individual times to have a conversation with me about something specific before i begin considering pausing, leaving, or majorly adjusting the friendship. You will not use this very often. If you are, find away to change your emotional and physical scenery. thats how you determine if its just you or your environment.

- if i think the words, "these damn kids, these days" i am not allowed to say it out loud it untill i list minimum 3 things i did that made adults say that to me when I was younger. I've never made it past a second reason before I'm laughing about whatever those things were and sometimes texting the childhood friend who was with me to see how they are.

- Make yourself less miserable to start with by organizing your mental health: have a list of triggers to reference so you dont relive all them while trying to decide if you can watch a movie. find out the most miserable time of the day for you and plan as much nothing for that time that you can. if you dont like how you feel in a garment for more than an hour get rid of it. doing it with friends helps too: John hates being awake before 10 am. only call/text him before 10 if someone is coming into the world or leaving it.

- you have unconscious biases. it is physically impossible not to. Stop kicking yourself about them. Just treat it like a mental trick knee: double check why you are leaning negatively from the person/situation who fits your bias and if it still checks out keep going. The people around you have them too. thats fine. its only bad when a person intentionally acts on their bias. which is the fault of the person not the bias.

- no one remembers what is said in a moment but their body remembers how they felt. you wont say the right thing and neither will they but if y'all leave the situation happy you both will remember the moment as happy

- you never will get the emotional satisfaction you expect. For anything. Thats fine, no one else is either. The small everyday emotions will feel better anyway because they are the ones you get the most. I promise.

- the party is a marathon, not a sprint ✌️

i think one of the most important things you learn about making connections with others is that a significant portion of the time people just do not know theyre doing what theyre doing

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part four: "I, the one who dimmed the Sun" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: Joel returns your necklace. And slowly, curiosity begins to take hold of him, sinking deeper into his body. Inevitably, he tries to pull away—but you push him to the edge once more. This time, with brutal blows and power games. At night, he remembers. wc: 17k

TW!!!: This chapter contains mild and graphic violence, graphic depictions of murder, mentions of blood, death, and other sensitive themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised!!

A/N: I hope you like this one. Please don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson’s greenhouse. Evening.

Soft light pooled through the glass panels, catching on floating dust and the gentle sway of hanging vines.

Joel’s hand hovered over a yellow bloom, fingers nearly brushing the petal—then pulled back, abrupt, as though it might burn at his touch.

He lifted his gaze, instinctively sensing a shift in the air, and there you were, stepping inside. Not alone.

Zach walked beside you, his voice low, easy. He was good with people. Mid-thirties maybe, helpful, always around, always offering help when there was construction to be done or someone needed a second pair of hands.He was good at patrols too. A reliable man. 

Joel didn’t move. His gaze flicked back to the greenery in front of him. Rows of herbs, delicate flowers, sun-wilted basil and half-wild rosemary. He’d come looking for lavender. He liked the smell. Said it helped with sleep. But now he couldn’t quite remember what he’d needed it for.

Instead, he found himself tracing the edges of memory—gardens he used to walk past on his way home from work, backyard flower beds neighbors took pride in, places where he’d knelt in dirt with aching knees and the weight of normal life pressing warm against his back.

That was before. A different world, a different version of himself. 

Past tense. Past gone.

He straightened his back, and a quiet sigh slipped from his nose, barely audible, but enough to feel like a release. His spine ached, and so did something else.

When he looked up, you were there.

Just a few feet away, standing with a kind of ease that made his chest tighten. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not with a glance, not even a flicker of recognition. Your focus was entirely on the herbs in front of you—rows of thyme, mint, maybe basil. You reached out with the backs of your fingers grazing the leaves, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the world itself hadn’t fallen apart in pieces and rebuilt itself into something quieter and violent.

Then, gently, you leaned in. He watched you breathe in the scent like it could fix something.

You looked—peaceful. That was the word that kept circling in his mind, irritating and impossible. How could you look like that? 

Joel stayed still. Watched you as if from far away.

That morning, he’d thought about it more than once. Not on purpose. Just flashes. Your face, the way you spoke like you didn’t owe anyone an explanation, the way you didn’t seem afraid even when you should be.

He knew you were hurt. Not visibly. But inside, somewhere in the place where people carried the real damage. Everyone who had survived this long carried something. That wasn’t a mystery. But you... You carried your pain like it didn’t belong to you. Or like it did, but you had made peace with it in a way that left him uneasy. There was something almost reckless in how your attention drifted toward ordinary things. Like the scent of herbs. Like sunlight filtering through dusty greenhouse glass.

He didn’t get it. Not even a little.

You smiled.

It was faint, genuine. Like the scent of those herbs, faint as it might’ve been, was something worth smiling about. And for a second—just one second—it looked like none of it had ever happened. Like pain wasn’t a language you spoke fluently. Like you weren’t made of the same brittle, exhausted material as everyone else here. As him, here.

How?

Something about that expression stopped him. Froze something inside him just long enough to hurt.

And then, your eyes lifted. They met his.

For a second, Joel didn’t breathe. Then he looked away too quickly, like he’d been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to see. Guilty.

He let out a tired sigh and dragged his hand through the soft scruff on his jaw, the gesture half out of habit, half frustration. He was ready to head out. Enough of this. He’d come for lavender, maybe, or just a reason to be alone for a while. Either way, he was done standing around smelling plants.

He turned to leave, but didn’t make it far.

“Joel,” you said, right in front of him now. With that familiar, disarming smile and a cloth bag cradled in your arms like you’d just picked it up from the market or packed it with something for someone else. For a moment, he thought you might hand it to him. “How are you?”

His body responded before his mind had the chance to intervene; eyebrows tightening, posture stiffening, a flicker of irritation or confusion crossing his face before he could stop it.

“Fine.”

You kept smiling. Your gaze swept over him, noticeable enough to make his shoulders tense slightly. He was suddenly aware of how he looked—dust on his shirt, sweat near his collarbone, the ache in his back he hadn’t paid attention to until now.

“Everything felt kind of empty today without you,” you said, light, almost teasing. “There was no one giving me dirty looks.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “Kind of empty doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “If you weren’t right here, I’d think you were avoiding me. Are you?”

He gave a soft shake of his head. “Too much effort.”

The truth was that ever since that day at the school, he’d been more careful. Just enough to feel it. 

In the mornings, he made himself useful and nothing more—spoke only when required, kept his eyes fixed on tasks that didn’t involve you. But it got harder when you kept being you. Open. Friendly. Effortlessly warm, even when you weren’t doing anything at all.

And so he kept circling—choosing lunch tables two over from yours, stepping off the sidewalk when he saw you walking ahead, finding excuses to linger somewhere else entirely. The same way he had stepped back from that yellow flower earlier, like touching it might burn it.

Avoidance wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t noble. But it was quiet. And Joel had always been good at quiet.

You opened your mouth like you were about to say something but then Zach’s voice cut through the greenhouse, calling your name from across the room.

Your head turned instinctively toward him.

Joel watched you shift your weight, caught in that half-second of indecision. Then you glanced back at him, your expression unreadable for a moment, like there was something else.

Zach raised a hand in a casual wave. His posture was easy, unbothered. A half-smile played on his face. Joel nodded in return, barely lifting his chin.

“Well,” you said, adjusting the strap of the cloth bag in your hands, “I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

You smiled again, like it didn’t cost you anything. And Joel didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a quiet nod. And that was it. 

He stood there, watching as you walked away.

Then he exhaled and shook his head, faintly annoyed at himself.

He could’ve asked what was in the bag you were holding. He could’ve told you he’d finished fixing the necklace, that it was ready now, resting in the bottom drawer waiting to be returned.

But, as always, the words stayed where they were. 

Jackson’s office. Morning.

Joel was ignoring you.

No—he was really, really ignoring you now. You were sure of it.

It had been a week and a half since that morning at the school. Since your voice had nearly cracked in front of him and Erin, and he had reached for your necklace without saying much, promising he'd fix it. Since then, you'd kept your mouth shut about it. You hadn't asked once. Joel was good with things, fixing them. You trusted that. What you didn’t understand was the way he’d started acting around you after that.

As if being near you was even more unbearable than before.

He barely stayed in the office anymore. Came in, glanced over the patrol schedules as if he didn’t already know them by heart, shuffled some papers, made coffee, left. Sometimes tea. Always something hot. Always with his back turned.

When the two of you had to work together, he walked ahead without a word. Then, the moment it made sense to split up—he did.

“If I need you, I’ll let you know,” he’d said once, over his shoulder.

And that was it.

At lunch, if you entered the dining hall, he’d move. Subtly. Quietly. Two tables over. No eye contact, no words.

It didn’t even feel rude anymore. Just… quiet. But it was still rejection. Still confusing.

And, worst of all, it made you want to know him more.

It wasn’t logical. He was avoiding you, and your brain knew what that meant, but your body—your instincts—kept watching him. Noticing how he walked with that worn-out kind of weight in his shoulders. How he kept his gaze low until it wasn’t, until he looked out of the corner of his eye and something flickered there.

There was something he wasn’t saying. And you felt it every time he entered a room.

Joel was a mystery you had only secondhand clues about. People in Jackson talked, but always in shorthand.

Tommy’s brother. Used to run with dangerous people. Quiet, but decent. Helpful, if you caught him on the right day. Polite, in that old-fashioned way.

He had favorites, apparently—people he looked out for more than others. And he had a reputation for doing the right thing when it really counted. But still—there was a heaviness to him. And you wanted to know why.

You took the stairs to the second floor, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath your boots. Voices floated down the hallway before you reached the office. When you stepped inside, the room was already occupied.

“Why? What are you doing tonight?” Joel’s voice came first, slightly exasperated.

Ellie was standing in front of his desk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor. She turned her head when she heard you come in.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, her mouth twitching into a grin that softened her whole face.

“Ellie,” Joel called again, firmer this time, but she didn’t respond.

You paused for a second, catching his eye briefly before moving past them to your desk, placing your bag down with more care than necessary.

The weather had been kinder today. Cool in the morning, with just enough sun to warm your sleeves. You’d left the house without a coat, letting the air settle on your skin like linen. But you knew it wouldn’t last; by the time noon arrived, the sun would be sharper, unforgiving.

“How are you?” you asked, your voice light as you turned back to Ellie.

“Just heading out,” she replied, adjusting the straps of her bag. “Just came to ask Joel something.”

Joel stood from his chair, already halfway through whatever caution he was about to issue. “Ellie, I need you to—”

“Jesse’s waiting,” she cut in, breezing past him. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything reckless. Don't worry.” Her tone was playful but practiced. She reached out and gave him a quick, familiar hug before heading toward the door.

She smiled at you once more, and then she was gone.

Joel was still in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the spot where she’d just disappeared. He was wearing a cream shirt today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark jeans that hung low on his hips.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

He blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and took a small step back, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped.

You nodded, turning your attention to the notebook you’d been holding. It felt oddly heavy in your hands. You flipped it open to a page filled with rushed notes and meandering doodles—lines drawn out of boredom or nerves, hard to say.

You let your eyes skim the paper, pretending to search for something important. Then you looked up again.

Joel had moved back to his desk. You watched him open a drawer, his broad shoulders turned to you.

Your gaze drifted to the back of his neck; a few strands of silver curling against his skin. The contrast was startling, beautiful in an accidental kind of way. You didn’t look away. Not immediately.

He turned around just as you dropped your gaze. You cleared your throat, a sound too sharp in the quiet.

Then he crossed the room. No words, just the measured sound of his boots against the floor until he stopped in front of your desk.

You looked up.

Joel was standing there, holding a small wooden box between his hands. Rectangular, maybe the size of a glasses case. His eyes flicked to yours for only a moment before he placed it gently on the desk in front of you.

“I finished it yesterday,” he said.

You reached for the box. The wood was smooth under your fingertips, clearly sanded with care, varnished until it caught the light. In the center of the lid was a carved heart, filled with tiny flowers, winding vines. You recognized the pattern instantly. It matched your necklace exactly—every curve, every petal.

Your thumb traced the edge of the carving, and something inside you stirred, something quiet and warm that made your chest feel full all at once.

You lifted the lid with care, your fingers almost reverent.

Inside, nestled on a small black pillow, your necklace lay fixed. The silver chain gleamed faintly, polished to a brightness it hadn’t had in years.

“I polished it a little,” Joel said, already turning back toward his desk. “It’s silver, so it wasn’t complicated.”

You leaned in, opening the heart. Your brows furrowed.

The paper inside was now sealed beneath a delicate layer of something transparent, almost invisible. It held the content in place, protecting them from air, from moisture, from your clumsy fingers.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you gently laid the necklace back inside the box, careful not to disturb the arrangement. But you didn’t close the lid. You didn’t want to.

You stood, chair scraping softly behind you, and walked toward him. He had his back to you, hunched slightly over some paperwork or maybe just pretending to be busy.

“Joel,” you said. Your eyes stayed on the box in your hands. “This is beautiful.”

He paused, then straightened up and turned. He looked at you.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Did you make the box?”

He gave a short nod. There was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Not quite embarrassment, but something adjacent. A flicker of self-consciousness that made you want to reach for him.

You blinked quickly, feeling the sting behind your eyes. You swallowed it down.

“It’s beautiful,” you said again, running your thumb over the wood. “You did a beautiful job. Thank you so much for this.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, quicker this time. “I just thought—you could keep it in there when you’re not wearing it. If you’re not gonna wear it. I mean... at some point.”

You smiled, nodding, letting his words settle between you.

“I am going to wear it,” you said, lifting the chain gently from its place. “It turned out perfect. I can’t even tell where the break was. And it’s so clean now, it looks brand new.”

“Do you want me to put it on for you?”

You looked at him. Instantly, he seemed to regret saying that. 

“Or not,” he added quickly, already backpedaling.

But you reached out anyway, holding the chain between your fingers, offering it to him without a word. There was a brief pause before he took it, his hand brushing yours.

Then you turned around and gathered your hair, lifting it off your neck.

You could feel him hesitate behind you—not visibly, not audibly, but in the charged stillness that settled between your bodies. And then, he moved closer. He hadn’t touched you yet, not really, but you could feel him. The warmth of his presence.

“You’ve touched my neck before,” you said, voice light, teasing. “No need to be shy now.”

Behind you, Joel clicked his tongue. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

You laughed.

He brought the chain around your throat, his hands steady as he lined up both ends at the nape of your neck. When his fingers finally made contact with your skin, you felt it—an involuntary reaction that started in your spine and bloomed outward. Your cheeks went warm.

“Done,” he said, his voice softer now.

You turned back around slowly, letting your fingers find the charm resting at the center of your chest. You looked down at it, tracing its familiar shape, then looked up again.

“Thank you. Really. It was kind of you to do this for me, Joel.”

“It was nothing.”

But you kept your eyes on him.

“No, it wasn’t. In fact,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully, “I think I might reconsider breaking your fingers after all.”

A sound escaped from his chest. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What?” you asked, squinting at him. “What was that look?”

“What look?”

“That look. That face.” You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Don’t you think I could break your fingers?”

Joel shook his head slowly. “Didn’t say that.”

“Ah,” you said, your tone suspicious, “because I can.”

He mirrored your stance, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m sure of that,” he said with a nod. Then, after a pause, he narrowed his eyes just slightly. “How many fingers we talkin’? You got a record?”

You lifted your chin. “Enough. Why? You doubting me?”

“Not at all.”

You looked at him without speaking, your expression steady. Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disbelief—but underneath it, you could tell: he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he did, just not fully. Not enough to take the idea seriously. Not enough to imagine you actually winning.

Joel shifted his weight slightly, leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms still folded across his chest.

“Yeah, well. I don’t believe you,” you said, stepping closer. “I can see it in your face. You don’t think I could take you. But I could. I’m faster than I look.”

Joel tilted his head, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure you are. Though, correct me if I’m wrong, I found you bleeding in the snow not that long ago, didn’t I?”

You nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. I won. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Joel snorted. “Don't be smug.”

You rolled your eyes and took a small step back, still mirroring his stance with your arms crossed. You let your gaze rest on him for a moment, then sighed with exaggerated disappointment.

“Fine,” you said, shifting your weight. “Try me.”

“What?”

“Come on.” You uncrossed your arms and took another step back, as if you were clearing space between you. “Try me. You really think I couldn’t get you off me if I wanted to?”

He frowned, clearly caught off guard. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“I never said fight,” you replied with a shrug. “Just… see if you can hold me down. See if I can get you off me. That’s all.”

He raised a brow. “You said you weren’t gonna break my fingers.”

“I said I’d consider not breaking them.”

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. No.”

You exhaled, loud enough for him to hear it, and walked backward until your legs bumped against the edge of your desk. You leaned against it, arms folded, mirroring the posture he’d worn moments ago. Your eyes narrowed in challenge.

“What’s wrong? Afraid your knees can’t take it?”

Joel raised his chin. “Watch it.”

“Or is it your hip? Getting stiff with age?”

“I’m not that old.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’m a woman. That’d be disappointing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, standing up and brushing a hand down his face. “You were more tolerable when you weren’t talking. Go back to that.”

“If you win, I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Sure you will.”

“No, really,” you said, stepping away from the desk, slowly making your way toward him. “You win, and I’ll leave you alone. Cross my heart.”

Joel stared at you like you were some strange creature that had wandered in off the street.

“You’ve lost it. I’m not wrestling you in the middle of the damn day.”

“I’m not talking about a fight,” you said with a shrug, tone light, almost cheerful. “It’s just a matter of resistance. You keep me still, hold me down—I lose. Simple.”

His brow furrowed, like he was trying to make sense of what exactly you were proposing.

“And what exactly do I get out of this?” 

“I’ll leave you alone,” you repeated, stepping a little closer. “Peace and quiet for as long as you want it.”

Joel looked away, scanning the room, then glanced toward the hallway. He hesitated.

Then, without saying a word, he turned toward the open door, stepped forward, and shut it quietly.

The moment the door clicked shut, something shifted in the air. Your pulse kicked up, wild and uneven, like it had been startled out of rhythm. That familiar sensation swept over you again—not fear exactly, not anything close to it. This was the kind of tension that made your skin prickle, made your hands itch for contact. Not dread, but something closer to anticipation.

It reminded you of being sixteen, back at military school, all raw edges and unspent energy. Those stretches of time between lessons, when everything was too quiet, too orderly. When you and Frances would sneak out and throw yourselves into sparring matches with the girls—knuckles bruising, lungs burning, laughter catching in your throats between hits. There was something honest about it. Something beautiful, even. A release, like exhaling after trying not to cry.

You stepped forward. Joel had already turned, and when his eyes met yours, it was clear he’d made up his mind. He started toward you and you felt your mouth pull into a crooked smile, something sharp and giddy dancing just beneath your ribs. 

He took another step. You didn’t move.

And then, suddenly, he lunged.

His hands found your waist with startling precision, and before you could even breathe in, your body was twisting through the air. He tried to spin you, to pin you down, but you caught his shoulder mid-motion. Your fingers clung tight, and using the force of his own momentum, you dragged him with you.

You hit the desk together with a loud thud, his chest pressed to yours, his forearm braced against the surface just beside your head. His face was close, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His breath was rough against your cheek, and his skin was already flushed.

But you moved before he could settle into the hold. You twisted sharply, arched your back, and ducked beneath his arm. Your elbow connected with his side—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to throw him off. He grunted, body curling instinctively, and you shoved him back, planting your feet beneath you again.

Joel laughed. A real laugh, rough and surprised. His eyes flashed.

Then he charged again.

You moved to duck out of his reach, but Joel was faster this time. His fingers caught your wrist, and in one clean motion, he spun you around and pressed you against the wall. Your chest met the surface with a dull thud, your cheek flattened to the cool paneling. His hand splayed across your back, anchoring you there, and for a moment you were both still; breathing heavily, lungs working in tandem, hearts pounding hard enough to hear.

“Give up?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and hoarse with effort.

You smiled. Without answering, you slipped your leg behind his and kicked, a quick, precise motion that knocked him just off balance. He faltered. That was all you needed. You twisted out of his grip and turned, shoving him backward until his back hit the edge of the cabinet near the desk.

Joel caught himself before he could fall, but you were already on him. You grabbed his right arm and forced it behind his back. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to bend him forward, remind him you were quicker than you looked.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, breath catching.

“And you’re not keeping up,” you shot back.

That made him react. In a burst of motion, he twisted, yanked his arm free, and shoved you square in the chest with his forearm. You stumbled, landing on the floor with a thud. But you didn’t stay down long—you rolled onto your hands and knees, already scanning for your next opening.

Joel was coming at you again, but you caught him mid-stride. You swept a leg beneath him, throwing his balance, and before either of you could recover, you both hit the ground—him first, then you on top.

You tried to pin his wrists, aiming to lock him beneath you, but he anticipated it. He moved with you, not against you, using your momentum to flip the two of you over. In an instant, he had you pinned, one arm on either side of your head, your wrists trapped beneath his hands. His weight pressed into you, heavy and solid, anchoring you to the floor.

You wriggled beneath him, more out of instinct than strategy. Your pulse was wild, thrumming all through your body. It was overwhelming, how aware you were of every point where he touched you.

Joel’s face hovered above yours, his breath ragged.

“You giving up? Or do you want to walk out of here covered in bruises?”

You smirked, breathless. “Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

And just like that, while his grip loosened ever so slightly, you took your shot—wrenched one wrist free, slipped your fingers around his neck, not forceful, just enough to throw him off. Then you shoved up with your legs, wedging one thigh high between the two of you, pressing it into the space beneath his hips. He grunted as his balance tipped again. You felt the shift before it happened.

He was losing control. And you weren’t done yet.

Joel let out a low, breathy laugh as you scrambled to your feet, the sound rough around the edges. You caught a glimpse of him pushing up from the floor, a small groan slipping past his lips. Still, he moved after you, slower than you but with a steady, unmistakable intent.

You took a step back, your hands instinctively lifting as if to say easy now, but it didn’t matter—he didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. Joel lunged again.

You twisted, sidestepped him just in time, but he pivoted with you. The air between you turned charged, every motion a tug-of-war for control. His hand caught your arm. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you hard against his chest, spun you, and pressed you back—your front connecting with the wall beside your desk. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were pinned.

His body caged yours completely, your back flush to him, the heat of him impossible to ignore. One of his hands flattened beside your head, bracing his weight. The other gripped both of your wrists, holding them firmly above you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and uneven, the tension between you taut like wire. His jaw was clenched, and his proximity felt almost unreal.

“Is that really all you've got?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You parted your lips to say something back, something sharp or reckless, but the moment shattered.

The door slammed open without warning.

Tommy strode in casually, mid-thought, but stopped cold as soon as he saw the two of you. His brows drew together instantly.

You jerked away from Joel like the wall had burned you.

You reached up quickly, fixing your hair, trying to find your breath. Joel took a wide step back. He turned away, already halfway to the desk, picking up a stack of papers like nothing had happened.

“Tommy… hi,” you said, voice higher than usual, not quite steady. You didn’t dare look directly at him as you crossed the room and sank into your chair, pretending to shuffle through your notebook, your pulse still thrumming under your skin.

Joel said nothing. Tommy still hadn't moved. And your skin still tingled where Joel had touched you.

"I... I just came to check how everything was going," Tommy said, stepping farther into the room with a kind of casual purpose, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Joel didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, flipping through the same stack of papers he'd already looked at twice.

“So, everything okay in here?” he asked, letting his gaze rest on you before switching to Joel. “Joel.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said, sharper than necessary, like the words had been waiting behind his teeth. He stood upright and walked around the desk, lowering himself into his chair. “Ellie’s not joining us for dinner tonight.”

Tommy gave a small nod, then turned to you, his tone shifting into something warmer.

“That’s actually why I came by. Maria and I were wondering if you’d like to come over tonight. Dinner with us. And Joel and... Just Joel.”

You felt Joel’s stare, the weight of it—how pointed and immediate it was. Like he was trying to will you into silence with his eyes alone. Still, you smiled.

“I’d love to,” you said simply, letting the warmth reach your voice but not overdoing it.

Tommy beamed. “Great. We’ll see you at seven, then.”

“Seven o’clock it is,” you confirmed.

There was a moment of quiet as Tommy lingered, his eyes flicking between the two of you again. His lips pressed together in a half-smile. Then, with a small nod, he turned and left, the door falling shut behind him.

You let out a long breath, the kind that only comes after holding something in for too long. A smile, amused and quiet, tugged at your lips.

Joel made a noise—something between a snort and a sigh—and shook his head, not looking at you.

Tommy and Maria’s house. That same day. Evening.

Something had shifted.

Not entirely new, things had been off from the beginning. But now the strangeness had taken on a different texture. Joel noticed it immediately. It was in the way you didn’t look at him after lunch. Not overtly. You weren’t dramatic about it. But he noticed.

Hours after Tommy had wandered into the office and caught the two of you mid-wrestle, you were both in the dining hall. Joel stepped backward without checking his surroundings and collided with you.

He winced. You smiled. You both startled, your shoulders brushing.

“I’m sorry,” you said at the same time.

He turned to you, already bracing for your annoyance. But you were smiling—kind of. Your expression was hard to read, like you were caught off guard too. And your cheeks—he swore they were flushed. He turned to look at you again, a crease between his brows, but you were already walking past him, quiet.

Later, out in the stables, he stood beside Tommy, brushing dust off his jeans, watching Shimmer paw at the ground. Tommy was mid-thought about something else entirely when he changed course.

“So what’s going on with Snow?” he asked casually, resting both arms on the fence.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He hoped Tommy would just let it hang there, floating into nothing.

“What’s going on with what?” he asked anyway, noncommittal.

“You know,” Tommy replied, shrugging, not looking at him.

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy hesitated, as if trying to phrase it more gently, but then gave up.

“Okay, look—I don’t really know how to dance around this, so I’ll just ask. Why the hell did it look like you had her pinned against the wall? Is this... is there something going on? Or has this weird tension finally morphed into something we should be having an official discussion about?”

Joel shook his head immediately. “Forget it. It was nothing.”

“So you admit it’s something weird.”

“There’s nothing weird.”

“Then what was that?”

Joel squinted at him. “I told you to assign her somewhere else.”

Tommy let out a laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You didn’t look too bothered about it earlier.”

Joel turned toward him. His jaw tightened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tommy grinned, unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile back. Or maybe he just didn’t get it. Or maybe he did—and didn’t want to.

Now, hours later, Joel straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, posture stiff, pretending to do something useful. The front door had opened—he heard it. And then your voice. Light. Warm. Cheerful like you didn’t know how to be anything else.

He closed his eyes briefly. That voice had become a kind of headache lately. Persistent, impossible to ignore, and entirely your fault.

He lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. But eventually Maria came into the room, arms folded, one eyebrow lifted.

“What are you still doing in here?” she asked, not unkindly. But the subtext was clear: Move.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, dragging his feet into the living room. You were there, sitting, mid-laugh. Your eyes flicked up when he entered, and the conversation stopped immediately.

Joel took the armchair by the window, the one slightly turned away from the others. He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

There was a stretch of silence, not uncomfortable exactly.

“So,” Maria said eventually, turning toward you with a smile. “How’s work going?”

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable. Part of him—some petty, irrational part—wanted you to say it was terrible. That you were miserable. That working with him had become so unbearable you were ready to quit.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you smiled.

“Great, actually,” you said brightly. “I think I’m doing really well.”

There was a pause. You tilted your head toward him, your tone still pleasant but edged now. “Of course, I might not be the best person to judge that. Right, Joel?”

He stared at you, caught. Opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again.

“If I were you,” he said, finally, “I’d keep my options open.”

Maria blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tommy jumped in before the silence got heavy again.

“Snow’s doing a good job,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “Right, Joel?”

Joel looked down at his hands. Said nothing. Pretended there was something under his fingernail that needed attention.

You exhaled a short laugh, not quite amused.

“He’s not going to admit it. He never does. He’s only vocal when I mess something up. Otherwise, he’s quiet. That’s how I know things are okay—because he doesn’t say anything at all.”

Maria laughed, the sound easy. “Well, communication is pretty key to keeping any machine running. Like gears, you know? If one’s silent, it’s usually broken.”

Joel felt your gaze on him then, like heat against the side of his face. He didn’t look up. Didn’t give you that satisfaction. He avoided your eyes, even when you all moved to the dining table.

Unfortunately for him, that didn’t matter, it didn't work.

You sat directly across from him anyway.

Dinner began easily enough. The conversation, at first, revolved entirely around Jackson—its people, its systems, its small, hard-won triumphs. You listened intently, asked questions with genuine interest. Joel could see it in the way your eyes lit up, your posture leaning just slightly forward, your voice rising when you spoke to Tommy and Maria.

You admired them. That much was obvious. It came through in everything you said; how you referred to the town, how you seemed to understand its structure without needing it explained twice. Joel had suspected, in those early weeks, that your endless curiosity was partly performative, a subtle way of getting under his skin. Now he saw it differently. It wasn’t about him. This was simply part of you.

“I know I’ve said this before,” you began, your plate empty now, your voice quiet but sure, “but I really am grateful you opened your doors to me.” You were looking at them when you said it. Only them. Not at Joel. “I honestly never imagined a place like this could exist in the kind of world we live in.”

Maria smiled at you. “Well, it’s very nice having you here. You’ve really blended into Jackson beautifully.”

You tilted your head slightly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at your lips. “Do you think so?”

Joel caught it—the hesitation behind your question. The need for reassurance. You were good at hiding it, but not from him.

“Of course,” Maria said. “At first I thought it might take you longer to settle in. Actually, I assumed you wouldn’t want to start working right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh no, I had to. I couldn’t let myself stay here without contributing something. It wouldn’t feel right. I needed to earn it.”

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “No, but it makes sense. Your situation was... well, it wasn’t easy. Needing some time would’ve been perfectly natural.”

Maria looked at you then, more closely. Her tone softened. “But you’re okay now, right?”

You took a sip from your glass before answering. There was a pause—brief, but thick enough for everyone to notice. You set the glass back down carefully, then smiled.

“Yeah. My days are about as peaceful as they can be.”

Maria nodded, still watching you. “If you ever want to change jobs, just know you can. That’s always an option.”

Joel looked down at his plate then, his fingers resting against the fork but unmoving. Something about the offer scratched at him.

Tommy, sensing the shift, jumped in lightly. “It’s just a thought. Personally, I think you’re great where you are.”

Joel lifted his eyes toward you then, just in time to catch your moment of hesitation. It was brief. Still, he saw it.

“She’s fine,” he said, his voice level but faintly defensive. “I’m not a monster.”

Maria waved him off with a gentle smile. “It’s not about that, Joel. No one thinks that. It’s just important to make space for choice. Because, Snow, I was thinking—maybe there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Something you haven’t told us. Now that you’re feeling stronger, it’s worth asking.”

The table went quiet for a moment. You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes widened slightly, a reflex, and your eyebrows lifted in thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” you said. A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as your hand moved, almost unconsciously, to the delicate heart charm resting against your collarbone. You touched it with the tips of your fingers. “But I’ve always liked children.”

Across the table, Joel shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the wood and clasping his hands together. His gaze remained fixed on you.

“Really?” Tommy asked.

You nodded, still touching the charm.

“There’s always a need for volunteers at the school,” Maria offered gently. “Would you be interested in something like that? Teaching, I mean?”

Your smile wavered. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d need time to prepare. I mean, I don’t really know how to teach anything. I was under twelve when everything changed, so... I guess I missed most of what school used to be.” You laughed softly, almost apologetically. “I do like kids. I just don’t know if I’d be any good with them, not in that way.”

Tommy leaned back slightly. “Benji really likes you.”

Your head tilted, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “You can always tell with kids.”

“They’re transparent,” Maria added, nodding. “That’s the thing about them. You always know where you stand.”

You smiled then, brighter, a flicker of genuine happiness. “Yeah. They are. They're... really honest. Sophie is always very—”

You stopped. The brightness faded just enough to leave your features bare. The air seemed to catch in your throat. You looked down.

“I’m sorry,” you said, adjusting slightly in your seat. You cleared your throat, like that might undo the moment. “Sophie, my kid—she was really honest. Transparent, too. All the time.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was watching you now with a quiet intensity, and though he said nothing yet, he caught the way your eyes dropped, your fingers retreating from the charm at your chest.

Tommy and Maria didn’t speak for a beat. The silence wasn’t awkward, just careful.

Tommy smiled eventually, voice warm. “Sophie’s a beautiful name.”

You looked up again, the gratitude in your eyes unmistakable. Your expression shifted, something between relief and sorrow, and you nodded.

“It is,” you said quietly. And then, after a breath, “I’m sorry. This is... the first time I’ve said her name out loud.” You looked down at your plate. “I—I—”

“You’re pretty transparent,” Joel said, and his voice surprised him. 

You looked at him, eyes wide again, but different now. He didn’t falter.

“And honest, too,” he added. “I’ve seen that. It’s nice that Sophie brought that out in you.”

You held his gaze. There was nothing performative in your silence. Then you smiled.

Joel didn’t look toward Tommy or Maria. He didn’t need to.

You nodded slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “It’s nice to think that.”

“That’s right,” Joel murmured, reaching for his glass again. He took a sip and looked down at his plate.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice quieter now. Joel glanced up at you, expecting the apology to be aimed at him, but you were looking at Tommy and Maria instead. “I didn’t mean to make dinner uncomfortable—”

“Oh, please,” Maria interrupted, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. You felt safe enough to say her name. That’s not something to apologize for. That’s a gift.”

You nodded. Joel could tell you were trying to end the moment there.

But then your voice returned, softer now. “Thank you. I just think about her all the time. About how much she would’ve liked it here.” You smiled faintly. “I mean, I’m still freaking out over everything. She would've been ten times worse.”

Tommy chuckled. “Anything in particular?”

“Movies,” you said instantly, and your face changed. Something brighter flickered through you. “I love movies. Always have. When I was a kid, I’d spend whole summers watching them on this tiny little TV with built-in VHS. And with Sophie, I used to tell her about them. She didn’t get to see many, but every night I’d describe one to her like a bedtime story.”

Maria’s eyes softened. “What kind did she like?”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Romantic comedies. Mostly because they were so bizarre to her. The idea that the worst thing that could happen to you was getting your heart broken by some guy? She thought it was hilarious.”

Joel noticed the way your mouth curved to the side, revealing the smallest dimple in your cheek.

“I remember once I told her the plot of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Sophie thought it was absurd. She was like, ‘That’s her biggest problem? Who to kiss?’ Meanwhile, we were running from infected. She said the people in those movies were weak and lame.”

Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “She wasn’t wrong. Unfair.”

“Totally unfair,” you agreed, your tone playful. You rolled your eyes dramatically and looked down for a moment, like you were laughing at your past self.

Joel sat very still.

There was something in the way you were telling the story, open, light, even funny, but with something fragile just beneath it. Like you were holding the memory in your hands, carefully, so it wouldn’t crack.

“How old was she?” Joel asked before he could stop himself.

The question caught the air between you like a thread pulled too tight. His own voice sounded strange to him.

He regretted it instantly.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink.

“Twelve,” you said.

Joel didn’t say anything. He met your eyes, and something in his chest gave a quiet, private ache.

You held his gaze, your expression unreadable. Not guarded, just... steady.

Then Maria spoke again, gently breaking the quiet.

“I’m sure we’ve got some rom-coms tucked away, if you ever feel like watching one.”

Your head turned to her, and the smile that returned to your face was genuine. “Really?”

Tommy started listing the titles they’d collected over the years—things they'd found in the ruins of forgotten living rooms, in cardboard boxes in basements, in abandoned stores where dust clung to every inch of hope. The rom-coms had been surprisingly easy to find. People used to keep them everywhere.

Joel didn’t say another word.

He sat back, the conversation moving on around him, but his mind stayed anchored to a single name.

Sophie. Twelve years old. Gone.

And yet, somehow, still part of the way your voice softened.

When dinner ended, Joel stood without thinking. He hadn’t said much—he realized that now, in hindsight—but it didn’t feel strange. Words hadn’t felt necessary.

Tommy said something as Joel moved toward the door. Something friendly, about the patrol schedule or maybe the new fencing around the east perimeter. Joel nodded automatically, barely absorbing the words. His attention had drifted elsewhere.

You were already at the door, arms wrapped around Maria in a warm, familiar hug. Then you stepped back and smiled at Tommy, and he smiled at you, and the exchange—though simple—was soft in a way that made Joel look down at his hands.

He followed your lead, hugging Tommy, murmuring something kind in Maria’s direction. It was automatic, habitual.

By the time he stepped outside, you were already moving. You descended the porch steps, boots touching the ground with quiet rhythm, and walked ahead, your silhouette folding easily into the stillness of the air.

The night was beautiful. Mild, hushed, the air washed clean by an earlier rain that left everything smelling of cedar and damp earth.

Joel started walking too.

Not after you. That wasn’t the idea.

His house was in the same direction. That was all.

Still, as your shape shifted through the soft shadows in front of him, he found himself watching. Not intentionally. Just… observing. The swing of your arms. The way your hair moved when a breeze caught it. The way your head tilted slightly, as if you were listening to something he couldn’t hear.

He felt curious.

The word landed inside him like something unfamiliar, or maybe something long-forgotten. And he wondered... strangely, stupidly, if curiosity made him more like you. If that was something you felt all the time. If that’s why you spoke the way you did, asked the questions you asked, looked at the world like it still held mystery.

Then you stopped. Just like that. No warning.

He stopped too, instinctively.

You turned around, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral.

“Are you following me?”

Joel blinked.

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “My house is this way. I figured you knew that, since you’ve already been there—against my will, I might add.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh. Right.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, with one eyebrow raised, you asked, “But did you have to walk behind me like that?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitched. “What was I supposed to do? Jog ahead and pass you like we’re racing?”

You didn’t laugh, but your eyes flickered.

“Why? Would you like that?”

Joel let out a sharp breath that sounded vaguely like a laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, then turned and kept walking, brushing past you without looking back.

“I think we’re done with all this nonsense of yours,” he said, his tone flat. “Will you leave me alone now?”

He could hear your boots scraping against the ground, you followed him. Of course. Not ready to drop it. You picked up your pace until you were walking beside him again.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I beat you,” he muttered, eyes forward.

“You beat me? At what?”

Joel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. “You said you’d leave me alone if I beat you. And I did.”

You laughed. “You didn’t beat me at anything, Tommy came in just as I was about to—”

“What?” He glanced sideways at you, eyes narrowing, though he didn’t stop walking. “Beat me? You weren’t going to succeed.”

You smirked. “I was being kind to you, Joel. I could’ve gone hard if I wanted.”

Joel let out a sound, something between a scoff and a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Sure. You, kind. That was the story you were sticking to.

He didn’t say anything. Just months ago you’d been barely able to walk. A knife wound under your ribs, barely stitched together, and a body that refused to bend or stretch without complaint. And him... he was easily twice your weight and all of it muscle and scar tissue. If this was a joke, it was a good one.

“Well,” he said eventually, “I was being pretty gentle too. Wasn’t exactly trying.”

“Why?” you asked, cutting in quickly.

His eyes flicked toward your house, which was coming into view just a block ahead.

“Don’t tell me it’s because of my accident,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but the silence between you sharpened.

“I don’t need your pity,” you said quietly as you approached your street. Then, abruptly, you stopped walking.

Joel took a few more steps before realizing, then turned to face you. 

“Seriously,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your porch. “Don’t you have anything else to do besides follow me around and pick fights? Go home. Rest. You’ve done enough for one day.”

You tilted your head, the smallest curve of a smile forming on your lips.

“Don’t play dumb,” you said, stepping toward him, the distance between you shrinking.

He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you enjoyed this,” you said, voice softer but no less certain. “You had fun today.”

Joel stared at you like you’d said something entirely out of touch with reality. 'Cause you did.

“You laughed,” you said, your voice almost playful. “More than once, actually. It’s obvious you find something funny about all this—fighting and pinning me down. Am I wrong?”

The way you said it—light, teasing, like it didn’t matter at all—made something in Joel itch to start another argument.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” he said, his jaw tight. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It’s what people do to survive. What’s so damn amusing about that?”

You didn’t answer right away. He saw the pause in your face, the moment you looked off to the side, maybe trying to find the right language for something that didn’t quite fit into words.

“Nothing about surviving is fun to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still clear. “But there’s something… I don’t know. There’s a kind of satisfaction in realizing you’re strong. That you can hold it, use it, control it. Especially when everything else feels impossible to control.”

Joel exhaled through his nose and looked away, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was still standing here listening to this.

“You get all poetic and shit,” he muttered. “But you’re not convincing me.”

He turned and began walking again, putting space between you without ceremony. Today, for some reason, you seemed harder to tolerate than usual. Maybe it was the look in your eye when you said things like that—like you wanted him to unravel everything he spent years refusing to look at. And sure, he understood the point: control, strength, power. All those big abstract things. But he had lived long enough to know they were just words, sometimes. 

He’d used force his entire life. And though he never liked admitting it, there had been a time when it came easy—when his body knew exactly what to do and didn’t hesitate. When each punch took something out of him, sure, but also put something back in. A brief quiet. An emptiness, even, that felt better than rage. But that was before. 

You caught up to him, your steps quicker now, passing him with ease as your house came into view.

“Okay, but just so we’re clear—you didn’t win,” you said, glancing back at him with a smirk. “No matter how badly you want to believe that, cowboy.”

Joel stopped walking. Something about the way you said it, the way you tossed it over your shoulder like a challenge, made him freeze.

You were already climbing the steps to your porch. He watched the sway of your hips, the certainty in your walk. And then—

“Hey,” he called out. His voice came out louder than expected, sharp in the quiet street.

You stopped instantly and looked back at him, one hand on the railing. The look on your face was unreadable.

Joel pivoted sharply and moved toward you, his steps clipped and purposeful, each one heavier than the last. He climbed the porch stairs, and you took a small step back.

He didn’t stop until you were nearly pressed against the wall, your shoulders brushing the wood. His chest rose and fell with restraint.

“Open the damn door,” he said, his voice tight, almost too loud.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

He gestured toward the door behind you. He was practically radiating frustration now.

“Open it. You want to do this? Fine. Let’s do it. Right now.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Joel could feel his irritation gathering at the back of his neck, crawling into his jaw. But then you tilted your head slightly, and your mouth curled into something that looked dangerously close to a smirk.

He hated that look.

Just as he opened his mouth to snap again, you cut in with faux sincerity: “Wow, Joel. I’m… flattered. But I don’t think this is the time—”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, practically groaning the words. His face twisted into something caught between disbelief and pure exhaustion.

You laughed quietly, then gave a small nod. You stepped aside, brushing against his arm, and turned the doorknob.

But Joel didn’t wait. He crossed the threshold before you could, brushing past like he couldn’t stand being outside one second longer.

He was done—done with the quips and the constant back-and-forth. The way you seemed to enjoy needling him, like every interaction was just another chance to poke at his patience and see what came loose. And yet, there were moments where you were soft-spoken and startlingly sincere. Where your eyes stopped dancing and looked at him with that... damn look. That contrast, that unpredictability, it drove him mad.

He didn’t understand you. And that might’ve been the most irritating thing of all.

When Joel stepped inside, he walked into the living room and stopped abruptly, his boots pausing on the rug like they’d landed somewhere unfamiliar, even though it wasn’t. Not entirely.

He scanned the space—his eyes moving across the room, over the furniture, toward the corners. The last time he’d been here, the place had been empty. Just walls, half-painted. A mattress leaning against a wall. Tools scattered near the back door. That had been weeks ago, before you'd moved in. Before the place had turned into yours.

He remembered working on the cabinets in your kitchen, running his fingers over the fresh grain of the wood, smoothing it down until it felt good enough. He’d spent a full day polishing the doors in your bedroom and bathroom, fixing hinges that didn’t align properly. He wasn't going to tell you about it.

Now, the room looked like someone lived in it—really lived in it. There were clothes draped over the arm of the couch, a sweatshirt with one sleeve nearly touching the floor. A mug sat on the coffee table, the ring of dried tea barely visible from where he stood. On the side table: an unlit candle, a closed paperback with a bookmark jutting out crookedly, like you'd walked away mid-paragraph. And the air carried something —something that was distinctly you. Not perfume, not any of the herbal scents you brought home from the greenhouse. Just your home.

“Would you like something to drink?” you asked as you walked around the couch, your voice soft, a kind of hospitality that made him uncomfortable.

He frowned, his body stiff. “No. Can we just get this over with?”

You laughed under your breath. “Sure.”

You didn’t move right away. You just looked at him. There was no aggression in your expression, but the intensity was worse. You watched him like you were trying to figure something out. And he hated that. Hated the way your gaze landed on him and stayed.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You sighed, not dramatically, just tired. Then you started walking toward him, your steps easy, measured. Joel’s shoulders tensed as you closed the space between you. Instinct made him shift back a little.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging. “You go first. Like before.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward.

His movements were sharp at the start, measured, like he was solving a problem in real time. His hands came up—careful, open. He watched how you adjusted: the slight movement of your feet, the line of your shoulders, the angle of your hips as you leaned to the side and dodged.

He was analyzing you, trying to anticipate the next second before it happened.

So, the first move came from Joel—a firm hand, angled toward your shoulder, an attempt to push you back and gauge your footing. It was measured, controlled, a test more than a threat. But you caught his wrist midair, your fingers curling around bone and tendon, and with a swift pivot of your hips you tried to twist his arm behind him.

He didn’t let you.

With barely a shift in expression, he anchored himself lower, grounding his weight like a reflex. Then, in one smooth, practiced motion, he turned, used his hip as leverage, and sent you flying backward onto the couch.

You landed with a soft thud, your spine bouncing slightly against the cushions. A quiet laugh slipped out of you—quick, breathy, involuntary. Not mockery. Not quite amusement either. 

You aimed a kick toward him from where you lay, a low sweep meant to startle or provoke. Joel stepped easily out of its path. Your smile, small and visible just for a moment, told him everything he needed to know: this wasn’t sparring anymore.

You launched yourself forward, your whole body pushing into him with sudden momentum. Your hands met his chest with a shove, driving him backward—once, then again—toward the coffee table. Joel’s boots scraped against the rug. He adjusted, recalibrated, eyes locked on yours. You hooked your leg behind his knee, tried to tip him, take him down.

He caught you mid-motion.

His arms closed around you, arms that felt like steel wrapped in something deceptively human. You could barely breathe. For a beat, you were suspended there—weightless in his grasp—and then he let you fall.

The floor met you hard. Your back hit the rug, air punched from your lungs in a quick gasp. He hadn’t thrown you with cruelty, but there was nothing soft in it either. 

Joel knelt above you, one arm braced on either side of your ribcage, his body practically vibrating with effort. His face hovered close, unreadable but not distant.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. His voice was flat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, jaw clenched. The burn across your back was fading already, replaced by something sharper, something electric. In one swift motion, you twisted your hips and drove your weight upward, catching him off balance. He tipped sideways with a grunt, landing against the floor.

And then you were up again—standing, poised, heart drumming in your ears.

Across from you, Joel rose too, with a grunt. His movements quicker now. Tension in his shoulders. His eyes alert.

The second round was messier.

You met in the middle of the room with force, your bodies colliding as if trying to prove something to yourselves rather than each other. Every movement felt sharper now, every breath louder. Joel caught you first, backed you up against the wall by the fireplace, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder, the other gripping your wrist tight. His forearm pressed against your chest, pinning you just enough to provoke a reaction.

You gave him one.

A hard jab of your knee to his side—angled just enough to throw him off. His grip slipped. You shoved him, palms flat against his chest, and he staggered back, nearly lost his balance. His heel clipped the side table and sent it lurching, books and a candle crashing to the ground.

But he didn’t fall.

He righted himself, eyes locked on yours, face flushed, jaw tight. There was something fierce and unsaid behind the way he moved now, something past irritation, past play.

He lunged again, his hands finding your waist this time, lifting you clean off the floor like it cost him nothing. You weren’t prepared for it. You beat your fists against his back as he carried you across the room, ignoring the hits, setting you down roughly on the floor near the armchair.

Your bodies tangled again, your elbow against his chest, your foot hooked behind his knee, trying to trap, to flip. You fought dirty but Joel was solid, grounded. More than you could match. He slipped free of the hold and rolled to the side, then caught you again before you could get to your knees.

His left arm curled around the back of your neck, firm enough to hold you in place. Your torso twisted against his, your breath catching as your spine arched, trying to create space between your body and his.

“You’re holding back,” you whispered, your voice rough from the effort.

Joel didn’t reply. His jaw tensed. His arm didn’t loosen.

You went still for a beat—your head pressed to the carpet, one knee bent beneath you, the other leg outstretched. Beneath him, your muscles ached with resistance, but you didn’t move. It wasn’t surrender. It was calculation.

Because seconds later, you twisted again, harder this time, using the floor, your hips, your momentum. And Joel had to shift with you, adjusting his grip, holding you down with more certainty.

Joel felt the shift in your body before he fully registered it; how the tension in your muscles softened just enough beneath him. Not surrender. Nothing that definitive. Maybe a pause. 

His forearm remained braced under your neck, steady and measured. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to hold. Your faces were so close that your breath mixed with his, hot and uneven in the narrow space between. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest. Hear it. And for a second, he frowned, unsure what to do with the closeness, unsure why it felt like something he hadn’t prepared for.

But before he could react, you moved.

Your legs snapped around his waist, and with a sharp twist of your hips, you flipped him. It happened so fast it startled him; not the force of it, but the precision. His back hit the carpet with a muffled thud, and a grunt escaped him, less from pain than sheer disbelief. His arms went instinctively to brace himself, but it was already too late.

You had him.

Your hands closed around his wrists and pushed them to the floor above his shoulders, pinning him with confidence, not strength. You straddled his torso, knees planted on either side, anchoring yourself with perfect balance. It wasn’t aggression. It was control. And worse: it was calm.

He tested your grip, pulling at his arms just to see how far you’d let him go. You didn’t budge. Your grip held firm, fingers tightening in response. You didn’t gloat. You didn’t grin. Your face had gone quiet, intent, almost studious. Your eyes scanned his like you were watching something inside him move.

Joel stared back, expression hard, unmoved. That was his default: blankness under pressure. But inside, something caved. He was impressed. Admittedly. Unwilling to say it out loud. But it was there.

You shifted your weight a little, subtly lowering your upper body toward his, enough to narrow the space again. Your hands were still locked around his wrists. Your forearms strained. But your face—your eyes—seemed to be reading him like a puzzle you were getting closer to solving.

And then he felt it.

The change was small. Barely there. A faint pressure from your knees against his ribs. The slight turn of your hips, not enough to throw him, just enough to unnerve. Just enough to let him know that whatever this was it wasn’t finished.

Joel twisted his leg, aiming to catch yours and throw you off balance. But you read it before it happened. Without hesitation, you released one of his wrists and reached for his face, pressing your palm to his cheek and shoving his head sideways, pinning him harder against the floor. Your other forearm slid across his neck.

He grunted, his breath catching in the space between effort and disbelief.

“Is that all you’ve got, Miller?” you asked, panting slightly, voice frayed from exertion but still unmistakably amused.

Joel felt his teeth press together, not from anger. It was something closer to provocation. Your words didn’t come laced with arrogance, but with heat. A challenge. And it worked. Not just physically. Mentally. You were inside the fight, and inside his head, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He shifted under you again, muscles contracting as he tried to use the momentum of his torso to knock you off. You responded immediately, adjusting your weight, closing your legs around his middle, anchoring yourself deeper. You moved with precision, resisting every attempt he made to gain leverage.

Joel let his head drop against the floor, exhaling hard through his nose. Not giving up. Just calculating. Resetting.

“You’re not staying up there all night,” he growled, voice low and tight.

You leaned down slowly. Your hair spilled across his face, brushing his temple.

“I can try,” you whispered.

He felt your breath skim his skin. Warm. Barely there. And something sharp lit up in his spine. Not pain. Not entirely desire either. Something deeper, lodged between the physical and something else.

Joel closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not in surrender. In preparation.

You were winning. You knew it. And still—he let you believe it.

He softened just a little. Let the fight drain from his arms. Let his body settle into the floor. It wasn’t defeat. It was strategy. He shifted his weight, exhaled loudly through his nose, let out a frustrated snort that sounded convincing enough. He angled his gaze to the side like maybe he was checking out of this.

You adjusted. Not fully, not foolishly, but enough. You lifted your body slightly, changed the grip on his wrists. A tiny recalibration. Subtle. A misstep.

Joel waited. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he moved.

Clean, practiced, inevitable. His arm snapped free, hips twisting as he planted one boot against the ground. He grabbed your waist with both hands before you could retreat. Your eyes widened, he felt it in the shift of your weight, but it was too late.

He had you.

With a sharp twist of his torso, Joel flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the carpet hard, the impact blooming across your shoulder blades. Before you could react, he was already on you—one knee wedged between your legs, anchoring you in place. His arm slid under your neck again while his other hand kept your wrist pinned above your head, fingers tight around your pulse.

You exhaled sharply, chest rising in uneven gasps. You tried to shift, to push upward with your core, but he pressed you back down. He was in control again. The tide had turned, and he wanted you to feel it.

Your eyes locked with his, the heat between you immediate and impossible to ignore. There was frustration there—yes—but also something wilder.

“You were letting me win,” you said, voice tight with effort, your breath threading through clenched teeth.

“Maybe,” he replied, unfazed.

“And now?”

Joel leaned down, close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the hum of your shared breathing.

“Now I have you.”

You twisted beneath him again, instinctively, as if your body refused to accept the words. But his weight shifted subtly, his thigh pressing in. He knew how to keep someone still. Knew the angles, the pressure points, the silent language of resistance. You felt it in every inch of him: the calculation, the restraint, the knowledge of exactly how to hold you without crossing a line.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. His, too. The rhythm of your exhales mingled in the quiet room, ragged and metered. The lamplight softened everything it touched, gold at the edges, and the night outside pressed gently against the windows, waiting for none of it.

“You’re heavy,” you muttered, panting.

Joel didn’t respond. He just looked at you, eyes locked on yours.

And still, he didn’t move.

You could feel every part of him. The press of his thigh. The tension in his grip. The way his body curved just slightly above yours, not crushing, not hovering—just there. Held at that thin, dangerous line where dominance turned into something unspoken. 

He released your wrist slowly, letting your arm fall beside your head. But he didn’t shift away.

Not yet.

He remained above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling against yours. Your gazes never broke. Not when his fingers loosened. Not when the fight paused.

You kept looking at him like you were daring him to try again.

Eventually, Joel sat up. He planted his palms flat on the carpet, pushed himself to his knees, and rose, his body creaking in quiet protest. He was older, yes, but intact. He glanced down at you. You were still on the floor, your chest rising in fast, measured bursts under your fitted T-shirt, jaw clenched like you refused to give him even the satisfaction of breath. 

He didn’t say anything. Just reached forward and grabbed the collar of your shirt, his hand rough as he tugged you upright with a single, ungraceful pull.

But you didn’t let him finish the motion. You growled—a low, primal sound—and shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. Joel stumbled back, barely catching his footing before you launched forward.

You collided in the middle of the room, bodies slamming together like something inside had finally snapped. It wasn’t a fight anymore. Not exactly. It was pressure meeting pressure. Frustration meeting friction.

Joel tried to get a grip on your arms, but you twisted, lowered your stance, slid beneath his hold. You were quick. Too quick. You collided again, arms locking, torsos pressing, breath catching. The air between you was gone, replaced by heat, skin, movement. There was no room for hesitation now.

Joel caught you from behind—finally, solidly. His arm locked across your chest, pulling you back against him. His other hand wrapped around your wrist, anchoring it tight. You twisted instinctively, searching for leverage, but he adjusted, pressed his chest against your back, held you flush to him.

Your body bristled. You gritted your teeth, let out a noise between frustration and fire. You lifted both legs, planted your feet against the wall in front of you, using it like a springboard. Joel felt the tension ripple through your body a second before you kicked back.

The impact sent both of you stumbling backward. His boots scraped the floor, his center shifting—but he didn’t let go. Not even close. His grip stayed firm, like you weighed nothing, like you belonged there.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” he murmured, his voice brushing your ear. His tone was low, taut, almost tired. “You’ve been riding my nerves all day. I’m not about to let you go now.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

You writhed instead—elbowing, pushing, testing his hold in every direction. Every breath was a clash of bodies, your heart pounding in rhythm with his. Then, in one sharp motion, you drove your right elbow into his ribs. He grunted, the breath catching in his throat. It hit hard. Not hard enough.

In response, Joel shoved you against the nearest wall, his arm still wrapped across your chest, the full weight of him pinning you from behind. His breath was hot on your neck now; heavy, ragged. You could feel the way his chest moved with each inhale, pressed tight against your back.

Joel let go of your wrist, only to slide his hand into your hair, finding the base of your skull with practiced certainty. His fingers curled tight, and he pulled—firm, controlled, a line of tension drawn through your spine. You arched in response, instinctively, your throat exposed, lips parting with a soft exhale. The movement wasn’t violent. But it was unmistakable.

It was a message.

You tried to twist free, but he had you locked between his chest and the wall—one arm looped tight across your middle, anchoring you in place. It was a precarious hold; if either of you shifted too far, the moment would fracture. But right now, Joel had you. 

He could feel your pulse under your skin, thudding like a warning. The space where your bodies touched radiated warmth, unbearable and magnetic. He tightened his grip, not to hurt, just to remind you—he’d taken back control. You had lost ground. And you knew it.

And then... you laughed.

Barely more than a breath. A soft sound, but sharp enough to break through the haze. Joel’s brow furrowed instinctively. He tilted his head down, tugged at your hair to shift your face toward his line of sight, to see what this was. What the hell you were thinking.

You were smiling.

Not a smirk. Not sarcastic. It was quiet, honest—like you were exactly where you wanted to be, like this tension, this stalemate, was some kind of private victory. Not over him. Just… for you.

Joel felt something tighten in his chest, deep and unplaceable. Something not entirely rational.

What the fuck is she doing? The thought came quickly, then repeated, distorted, like a static hum in the back of his mind.

The uncertainty unsettled him more than anything you'd done physically.

And then you moved.

Sharp. Certain. Not hesitation—decision.

You turned your head just enough. Lifted your face.

Found his mouth with yours.

The kiss landed hard. Not hesitant, not curious. It was purposeful, physical, urgent, full. Your lips crashed into his with the same force you used to fight him, teeth grazing, breath tangling, intention spilling out unchecked.

And Joel—froze.

For two full seconds, maybe three, he didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His body felt suspended, like his nerves had short-circuited and left him standing there, chest to back, absorbing the weight of your mouth, the taste of your breath. He couldn’t tell if he was resisting or simply stunned.

And then—something gave.

He let go.

All at once.

His hands left your body, dropping from your back, your neck, as if contact burned. He stepped backward, a full pace, the space between you reappearing in a sudden gust. His brow was drawn, eyes unreadable, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

He looked at you, lips parted like there was something forming behind them—but no words came.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was filled.

You didn’t speak either.

You just stood there, breathing each other’s air from a distance.

You turned fast, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud as you faced him again. It was instinct, mostly. Like you needed a barrier behind you, something solid to keep from unraveling. Your gaze met his as if daring him to move, to try again.

But Joel didn’t move.

He stood completely still, not even breathing, it seemed. His eyes were on you, unreadable, like he wasn’t in his own body anymore but watching from somewhere just outside of it. You saw the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. And then—he saw it too.

You braced.

And then you lunged.

But Joel moved faster this time. Faster than before. With nothing left of hesitation. His hands caught your shoulders and slammed you back against the wall with enough force to steal the air from your lungs. A rough sound escaped you—part shock, part surrender—but it was swallowed by the way his body moved in close, claiming space you had no time to defend.

You struggled again—your legs shifting, your arms jerking. But he adjusted. His hands dropped, locking your wrists against the wall beside your head. His leg slid forward, pressing firmly between your thighs, anchoring you with terrifying precision.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your cheeks flushed, chest rising unevenly, eyes locked on his.

You should’ve let go. That would’ve been the logical thing. The safe thing. But you didn’t.

Your body stilled, except for your breath. Your eyes held his, and Joel felt it cresting between you like a wave he could no longer stand against. He should’ve stopped. But he didn’t want to.

He leaned in.

And then his mouth was on yours.

No preamble. No question. Just contact. Firm, fast, overwhelming. The kind of kiss meant to silence. And it did. Your moans flattened against his lips, swallowed whole. He braced for resistance—prepared for you to shove him back, to spit something bitter into the space between you.

But instead—you opened. Your mouth tilted, your head angled, and you kissed him back. Fiercely.

His leg pressed harder between yours and the sound that escaped you—low, helpless, involuntary—nearly undid him.

Everything else fell away.

Joel released your wrists, and your hands flew to his hair, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. He matched your urgency, one hand grabbing at your waist, dragging your hips tighter against him, the other finding your hair and pulling hard enough to make you gasp. You didn’t pull away.

You moaned again.

And then he felt your tongue, bold and certain, slipping into his mouth like a dare. He welcomed it without hesitation, kissing you harder, deeper, everything in him crashing forward like a dam finally split open.

You moved your hips against him, a slow grind that answered every inch of pressure he was giving, and then—this time—it was Joel who moaned. The sound came from deep in his chest, unfiltered, raw. His body pressed you harder against the wall, like he needed you closer than physics would allow.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Something in him broke.

Joel reached for the waistband of your jeans, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, anchoring there as he dragged you closer. You pulled away from his mouth with a sound that was slick and breathless. Your chest rose sharply against his, and then his lips were at your neck—open, hungry. The sound that escaped you was half gasp, half surrender.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. Not in a way he could name. His body moved faster than his mind, his instincts taking over in jagged flashes. He pressed himself against you like it would somehow steady the storm inside him. His fingers found the button of your jeans and flicked it open. Thoughtlessly. Desperately.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the ache still humming in his ribs, the echo of your elbow, the bruises from the floor. Maybe you’d knocked something loose in him—something he hadn’t used in years.

He didn’t pause.

His hand slid under your jeans, past the waistband of your underwear, until he reached skin—soft, hot, impossibly tender. He swore under his breath, just barely. Something about the heat of you, the way your body yielded to his touch, sent a shock straight through him.

And then he found it. That first wet trace of you.

Joel froze, lips still against your throat.

He lifted his gaze.

Your eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils wide and shining. Your mouth hung open, breath catching with every beat of his hand. Your skin glowed with heat and tension, cheeks flushed deep pink. And your hands—your hands had found their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, grounding him like a lifeline.

He pushed a finger inside you.

The warmth was immediate, overwhelming. You arched slightly, pressing your head against the wall, exposing your neck. He watched the line of your throat as you tilted your chin up, heard the way your breath stuttered in your chest.

Joel should have stopped.

He told himself to. More than once. He thought it with urgency—Stop. Stop. Stop.

But he didn’t.

He added another finger, easing deeper, and you responded instantly. Your hips shifted, rolling toward his palm. His thumb brushed over your clit, and you gasped—one hand tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, the other fisted in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd fall.

Your moans were quiet but insistent. They made his head swim.

Joel couldn’t think. Not clearly. Not the way he was supposed to. It had been too long, too fucking long.

Everything in him was unraveling—recklessly, selfishly. And he knew, deep down, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Which, somehow, only made him want it more.

Because it wasn’t allowed. Not you, not you.

And that’s exactly what made it feel like it was right.

You kissed him again, your mouth open, your breath tangled with his as you moved your hips against the rhythm of his hand. The moans you let slip found their way into his mouth, wet and uncontrolled, as his fingers worked inside you, steady, urgent, paced like something unsustainable.

Joel could feel it—how you clenched around him, how everything inside you seemed to pulse and tighten. His knuckles were slick with you, and yet all he could think about was how close you were, how impossibly warm your body felt under his hand.

You broke the kiss, gasping against his cheek, your breath hot and uneven.

“You’re a damn—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat. Your back arched. “Joel—”

Your head tilted back against the wall, mouth parted, eyes closed. Your chest rose sharply, then dropped again, a stuttering pattern. You barely touched the floor anymore.

Another thrust of his fingers and you fell apart—small, stuttering cries leaving your lips as your body shuddered against his. He felt the aftershocks inside you, spasms clutching around his hand, drawing him deeper into the heat he wasn’t sure he could survive.

And still he watched you.

Not just the way your face looked in pleasure, though that alone could undo him—but the way you held onto him after. Your hands slid shakily down his arms, fingers curling around his elbows like you needed something steady.

You stood there in silence.

The kind that arrives after something has changed.

Both of you breathing hard. Still pressed together. Still too close.

Joel slowly pulled his hand from your jeans, the wet sound between you both sudden and deafening. He looked at you, waiting for words that didn’t come.

“Joel,” you murmured, voice low. Maybe you were going to ask something. Or insult him. Maybe you were about to thank him? Maybe nothing at all.

But he didn’t wait.

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, like the heat of your skin had finally seared too deep. Then he turned and left—without warning, without explanation.

His boots were too loud on your floor. His hand on the doorknob was too fast. And when the door flung open, the night greeted him with too much softness—like it hadn’t just witnessed everything he’d done.

Warm air brushed across his face, lifting the damp curls at his temples.

He walked. Fast. Away. Away from you.

His mind was spiraling. A tight, circular storm of questions he couldn’t answer: What the fuck did I just do? Why? What is wrong with me?

His jeans were still uncomfortably tight, painfully so. He cursed under his breath, glancing once behind him to make sure no one was out on their porch, no one watching him try to disappear into the dark.

The walk home was short. But it felt endless. And when he finally got there, in the suffocating quiet of his bathroom, with water streaming down his chest and his forehead pressed to the tile, he gave in.

He wrapped his hand around himself like it was the only way to get your name out of his system.

But it wasn’t.

Because as he came—jaw clenched, eyes shut tight—it was you he saw.

You, and only you. 

And later, on his bed...

Your face.

Your face.

2013. Hollow Pines. Sometime after midnight.

“You fucking lied!” Joel said, voice rough and low, almost more breath than sound. His hands were pressed against the man’s chest, shoving him hard into the crumbling plaster wall. “You’re a goddamn piece of shit.”

Tess’s voice cut through the air like a match sparking against stone. “Joel, enough—stop. You’ll get us both killed.”

Suddenly, her arms were pinned by the other man, his grip tight, fingers curling like roots around her biceps. She twisted, not to get free exactly.

Joel didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did and chose not to care. His fist cracked across Declan’s face with a kind of ugly precision. The sound echoed around the decaying little house—short, brutal, like someone slamming a metal door shut.

The place they’d found was barely a structure at all anymore. Half the roof gone, windows eaten by moss and rot. But it had walls, and that was enough for shelter. Still, Joel had known that the most dangerous thing inside Hollow Pines wasn’t what waited beyond the tree line.

About thirty miles west of Boston, Hollow Pines was the kind of place people stopped talking about long before the outbreak. It hadn’t been a real town for years, just a scatter of empty homes tangled in brush and silence. Trees taller than buildings pressed close together like they were guarding secrets. You could barely see the next house until you were standing in front of it. It made the perfect place to disappear. Or to do something you couldn’t afford to be seen doing.

The job was supposed to be easy. Routine. They’d done it before. Joel could still list the steps in his head the way you memorize prayers even after you stop believing in them.

There were five of them in the group—two men, three women. One was visibly pregnant, the kind of detail you weren’t supposed to notice, let alone feel anything about. Declan and Jeremy had picked the target. Joel and Tess were just the hands that carried it out.

Declan had said it like it was nothing.

"They’re soft. They’ll cave the second they think they’re in real danger. We go in. We take what we need. We’re gone before they even think about getting brave.”

It was supposed to be clean. Functional. A transaction, not a scene.

And Joel, who had long since stopped mistaking instinct for conscience, had done exactly what was asked of him. Just like always.

With their faces covered by bandanas, they began the mission around midnight.

The cabin was two stories, built from sun-bleached wood and time. Its frame leaned ever so slightly to the left, as if the forest had been trying to reclaim it for years and the structure was finally thinking of giving in. Dry vines clung to the facade like brittle fingers, twisted and brown, while moss had crept across the base. The roof sagged under the weight of its own years, the shingles fractured in places.

A wide porch wrapped around the front, its wood creaking even in silence. On it, an old rocking chair sat tilted slightly off balance, one leg shorter than the others. It looked like someone had once used it every night and then, suddenly, not at all. A rusted shotgun hung from a nail on one of the porch columns. It was a warning, or maybe just the remnant of a person who once needed to be prepared.

The windows were boarded up from the inside, but between the slats, the edges of curtains could be seen. Yellowed, frayed, swaying just barely.

A little farther back, hidden behind tall weeds that looked like they hadn’t been cut in a decade, sat a collapsed shed. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of rust and forgotten things. There were dull tools scattered along the floor, broken car parts half-covered by dirt, a bucket full of something long hardened and gray. The kind of place that told you exactly what it was: unimportant, forgotten.

They didn’t enter the house quietly. There was no care to it, no sense of restraint. Declan fired at the door hinge, the shot tearing through wood and silence alike. The sound echoed off the trees like a warning bell, and then he kicked the door in with the kind of force that said he didn’t expect anyone to fight back.

Inside, Tess and Joel moved upstairs without speaking or paying atention to the loud voices inside. They didn’t have to. Declan and Jeremy stayed below, their voices sharp and rising—commands, maybe, or threats to the group living there. The rhythm of scuffling feet and broken furniture followed them up.

Joel reached the first bedroom. The door opened with a reluctant groan. It had the feel of a child’s room, or what remained of one. Faded wallpaper, small ghost footprints in the invisible air. On the desk was a bottle half-filled with clear liquid and a rag beside it. There was a nearly empty box of .22 caliber bullets tucked beneath an overturned chair. Next to it, a notebook with a handful of childish drawings on the first pages—trees with too many leaves, a sun far too close to the earth. Toward the back, the handwriting changed: more compact, urgent.

If we come back, take the river route. Not the highway.

He folded the page down and kept moving.

The second bedroom was larger. The master, he figured. The bed wasn’t made, but the sheets were still warm with the shape of someone who’d left in a hurry. On one side, clothes had been folded neatly, like someone had been trying to keep some sense of order, even here. The nightstand held three shotgun shells, a multitool, and a bottle of antibiotics that had been opened but not yet used. He checked under the mattress and found a map—creased and worn thin at the folds. Several routes had been marked and then crossed out with heavy pencil strokes. One was circled twice.

He didn’t pause to consider where it led. He didn’t have time. Voices were still rising downstairs. For now, everything sounded under control. But Joel knew better than most how quickly that could change.

He found Tess in the last room at the end of the hall.

The door was open, the hinges barely holding. Inside, the air felt warm and faintly sweet, the remnants of a candle still burning out on the nightstand. It had melted into itself, a soft pool of wax cooling into stillness. The blankets on the bed were tangled.

“Look at this,” Tess said, not turning to face him. She was crouched on the floor in front of a wooden box with its lid swung open.

Joel stepped closer. He looked down and saw them: four grenades, clearly handmade. A revolver with a full cylinder gleaming like it had been polished recently. Two pistols, their triggers untouched. Clean bandages rolled tightly, sterile gauze still sealed. A bottle of disinfectant, a box of oxytocin, latex gloves, a nearly full bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the label starting to peel.

He reached into the box, touching everything. His fingers hovered, pressed, moved on. He recognized the preparation. The intention behind each item. It wasn’t chaos. It was care.

“She’s going to give birth soon,” Tess said. She was holding a notebook, the spine bent and several pages torn out. It had been left open on the nightstand.

Joel stepped beside her and read over her shoulder.

Week thirty-seven. Contractions tonight. Gabriel wants to go out to find food, but I told him to wait.

Week thirty-eight. Bubs boiled water and we cleared the stove. If the baby comes today, we’re ready. There’s no turning back.

Week thirty-nine. It’s starting. There’s quiet now. We heard voices near the forest. If they come in, we’ll hide everything. Robert said don’t shoot unless we have to.

Joel let the words settle in his chest like stones. He looked at Tess. She had that expression she sometimes wore when she was trying to make sense of something human.

“It seems like—” she began, but her voice was cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of gunfire.

One shot. Then another.

They moved fast. Instinct more than choice.

Down the stairs, boots heavy on the wood, no time to ask what they were running into.

In the living room, Declan and Jeremy had their weapons raised. Their faces blank, unthinking, the kind of blank that meant they’d already made their decisions.

Two bodies were on the floor. A man and a woman. The blood was fresh, soaking into the wood like ink spreading through paper.

Near the wall, the pregnant woman crouched, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she could hold the baby inside by force if she had to. Beside her stood another woman, rigid with panic, her hands out like she could shield them both.

In front of them, a man was standing with his gun still drawn, as if daring someone to make a move he could answer.

Joel’s chest was heaving. His voice came out loud, rough.

“What the hell d—” 

The man raised his gun and fired.

The sound cracked through the room like lightning splitting a tree. The first bullet caught Declan in the leg, sending him staggering back—his face twisted in shock, not yet pain. Then another, but it didn't hit him.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. It was one clean shot, and then the man dropped, suddenly weightless, as if the air had been pulled out of him and he was only skin and gravity. A shot in the head.

Everything blurred after that. Time bent in on itself. 

Screams erupted—raw, panicked, human. Both women, their voices cracking under fear. Jeremy was already moving, his boots thudding against the floor, and he reached the pregnant woman first. The other woman threw herself between them, arms out, shielding her like instinct more than decision. It didn’t matter.

Jeremy grabbed her by the waist and yanked her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip, kicking, her fists connecting with his ribs. He grunted in pain, cursed, but didn’t let go. His arm tightened around her and the knife found her throat—sharp, immediate, threatening.

Tess moved toward him, yelling something Joel didn’t catch. She tried to pull Jeremy off balance, clawing at his arm. For a second, it worked—he lost focus. But then his fist landed hard against the side of her face, and she crumpled against the wall, her knees buckling. She didn’t stay down long. She pushed herself up again, blood on her lip.

Joel moved forward and hit Jeremy with everything he had. The force knocked Jeremy backwards. His body collided with the edge of the coffee table and crashed to the ground. The woman he’d been holding slipped from his grip, falling forward with a gasp. One hand flew to her throat.

Her fingers came away red. The knife had caught her, just barely, but enough. Enough to remind them that all that some things, once done, couldn’t be undone. 

Violence had claimed Joel’s life long before he ever had the chance to understand what else it might have looked like. Not in a single moment, not in one decision or act, but gradually, like dust gathering in corners, like a stain that spreads until you stop noticing it’s there.

Survival had become his answer to everything. The only one that ever really worked. He hadn’t chosen it in the way people choose jobs or partners or cities to live in. It had chosen him. And after a while, he stopped resisting.

In the beginning, Tommy had followed him everywhere—through ruins and quiet towns, across fields that once held crops, through buildings that smelled like rust and rain. But lately, he had pulled back. He didn’t say much anymore, but Joel didn’t need him to. He saw it in the distance between them. The quiet judgment. The disappointment Tommy wasn’t quite ready to name out loud.

Joel didn’t blame him. There was nothing admirable in what he’d become.

Because Joel had learned to fight like a cornered animal. He tore through threats with teeth bared, fury his only compass. He didn’t flinch at the sound of a neck breaking or a bullet piercing soft flesh. He knew how to steal what he needed, how to end lives without ceremony. Mercy wasn’t something he afforded anyone, not even himself.

He’d forgotten, somewhere along the way, what it meant to be gentle. Kindness felt like a language he used to speak fluently, but now couldn’t remember more than a few scattered words of.

There wasn’t a moral framework anymore. There wasn’t room for one. You ate or you didn’t. You lived or you didn’t. And Joel, despite everything, still wanted, or needed, to live.

But he would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked with his with sheer, paralyzing fear. Her mouth open in a scream that seemed to echo even after it stopped. Blood already coating the curve of her jaw, her neck almost sliced open, a hand lifted in one last, useless attempt to plead for mercy.

They left them both there. All of them. Dead and alive.

They shouldered the stolen ammunition, bags heavy against their backs, and walked out into the dark without speaking. Behind them, the house exhaled pain—shouts, cries, the quiet horror of what they'd done. Joel kept his eyes on the ground, tuned everything out. Tess’s voice rose and fell in argument with Jeremy, with Declan. Declan groaned in pain every few minutes, cursing each step like it was betrayal. The brothers barked insults at him, but Joel didn’t hear them. Not really. His head was somewhere else. Somewhere behind them.

And when they finally reached the half-collapsed house they were using as shelter, everything broke apart.

He ended it all.

And then, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up his rifle, told Tess to wait for him there and left.

There was no discussion, no plan. Just the unshakable certainty that he had to go back.

They had taken everything—guns, ammo, even the medical supplies. The women were defenseless, left behind with nothing but grief and trauma and the sound of death.

It took him over an hour to return. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else. As he crested the small hill near the house, he stopped short.

A sound carried through the trees: the thin, piercing cry of a newborn.

He froze.

His heart seemed to tighten in his chest as he approached the porch. The boards creaked beneath his boots. He stepped up, each movement cautious. The night was almos pitch black.

He stepped inside. His fingers curled tight around the gun, though a part of him already knew he wouldn’t need it. Not now.

The air inside the house was thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Four bodies. They were scattered in the living room just like before—two men, two women. Scarlett liquid under them.

The pregnant woman lay sprawled near the fireplace, her body twisted, her pants soaked through and torn in places that felt too cruel to be real. Blood pooled around her, catching the silver glow of moonlight filtering in through the broken window. Her eyes were still open. Still glassy.

Joel stood there, motionless, heart pounding beneath his ribs. The baby was still crying. 

And she was lying next to the body.

The woman held the baby against her chest, her arms curled protectively around the tiny, wrinkled form. Her face was caught in a state of suspended shock, as if the sheer weight of the last hour hadn’t fully landed yet. Her lips moved rhythmically, whispering something to the newborn in a voice so faint it sounded more like breath than words.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, again and again and again, like a prayer she didn’t believe in but had nothing else to offer. “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

Joel didn’t mean to move, not really. But his boot shifted a fraction forward, pressing into the wood. A creak cracked through the silence like a warning.

Her head snapped up.

Their eyes met.

“No, no—please, no,” she said, voice catching like it had been scraped raw. Her hands clutched the baby closer, cradling it with instinct, desperation, love. She started to push herself backward, heels scrambling for traction against the blood-slick floor. Her body shuddered as she dragged herself toward the wall, leaving red smears in her wake.

Joel didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

He just stood there and watched her try to put distance between them, her expression fractured by panic. Her skin was mottled dried blood, hair stuck to her face in wet strands. The baby cried—high-pitched, piercing—and she flinched with each sound, trying to shush it.

He would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked on him  with a terror so raw it seemed to consume her whole. Her mouth trembling, her arms shaking. Every part of her recoiled from him like he was the monster at the end of a story.

And maybe he was.

He was.

“Please don’t do it,” she said, her voice so quiet it barely reached him. “Please don't.”

Joel stopped moving. The sound of her voice—shaky, hoarse, already worn thin by everything she'd endured—wrapped around him like a wire pulled tight.

He lifted his hands, palms facing her, fingers slightly apart. A gesture he’d learned long ago to mean I’m not a threat. But he wasn’t sure it meant anything here. Not now.

She was shaking all over. He could see it in the way her mouth trembled, her chin twitching with the effort to stay strong. Her arms curled more tightly around the baby, almost as if she was bracing herself for a final blow. Her eyes never left him, not even to blink.

Joel took off the backpack. The motion was steady, calculated, every part of him aware of her watching. He dropped it gently to the floor and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped back, retreating a few feet. A silent offering.

He thought that would be the end of it. He could turn around, walk away, and leave her with whatever small comfort that might bring.

But something rooted him to the spot for a moment longer.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his pocket knife. It was a practical blade—small, sharp, well-used. Without a word, he crouched, placed it on top of the backpack, and straightened again.

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her whole body tense like a wire on the verge of snapping. And Joel looked at her through his covered face, like a coward.

He left.

Outside, the cold air hit his face like punishment. But it wasn’t enough.

Because the sound of the baby’s cry stayed with him, even as the house disappeared behind him. That thin, helpless wail—new to the world and already surrounded by grief.

And her face.

Her face.

He would carry the image of her forever. Eyes wide with horror. Skin raw and streaked with blood. 

He would remember her face for the rest of his life. 

Your face.

Your face.

divider by: omi-resources

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[whatifitis]

♡ to build a home - LN 4 ♡

Summary: You're beginning to build a life with Lando. One of the steps you were excited for the most was building a home with him. So when it's time to finally start furnishing the house... let's just say we're glad everyone got to keep their fingers.

WC: 950

CW: fluff, two idiots in love trying to use their shared braincell..., not proofread

-=+=-

It’s finally time! A chapter in your life you were waiting for for so long. Not just building a life with your favorite person, but building a home with them too. You and Lando recently bought a home together and were excited to finally decorate it after having renovated it yourselves. 

The two of you (mainly just you) spent ages on pinterest and various furniture websites, trying to put together an aesthetically pleasing home that could also make the environment feel homey and warm, something Lando had lived without for so long, well, at least until you joined his life. From the day you’d met, his life suddenly seemed brighter and warmer, like he’d been living in a plain, grey world prior. 

After some conflicts and adjustments to the mood board, you both had settled on some furniture that you both loved. Some things were ordered to the house while the others were picked up in the store by you and Lando. Lando, of course, insisted on helping because 1. It could be some nice bonding time since he’s away a lot and 2. He’s a “Big strong man” who can help you carry everything… In other words, he was afraid another man would come to your rescue and steal you away. But that would never happen. 

As you awaited everything you’d ordered, your home still only held a mattress, Lando’s gaming set up and boxes that were filled with various objects. One of those boxes held your collection of books. Your collection grew through the years as you got older, the collection expanding a lot quicker since you and Lan had started dating. Everytime he traveled without you, he would stop by a bookstore and get you a book. Whether it be a special edition of a book or just something he thought you’d like, he always came back with one to add to your collection. 

“Baby.” Lando called to you, jumping onto the mattress where you laid. 

“Baby.” you reply. 

“I was thinking-”

Sitting up fast and gasping, “You can do that?”

Lando’s jaw dropped, “Rude?! You know what? Nevermind.” begins to stand up to walk away, hiding a smile. 

“No! Come on, baby. I was joking. Tell me what you were thinking.” you say, pulling his arm so that he falls over top of you on the bed. 

“Fine. Only cause I love you so much.” the man says, receiving several kisses from you that scatter his face. 

“I love you too. Now, tell me.”

“Do you wanna go to ikea? I know we ordered most of the furniture or we’re going to some stores in person but we need to get some bookshelves for your books. We can get to building them today and putting away the books.” he says, moving to stand, “That way we can clear a few boxes and we’ll have more room for activities.” he says as he pranced around the room, twirling in the air as if he was a dancer. 

You laugh at the show before you, being eternally grateful for his existence and the chaos he brings with him, “That sounds amazing, Lan. We can go now. That way we’re not up late trying to put together the bookshelves.” 

“How hard can putting together bookshelves be?”

-=+=-

Lando and you took the opportunity to enjoy the day to the fullest. The sun was out so you guys drove with the windows down, blasting some Taylor Swift and singing your hearts out to each other. 

Although the drive was fun, the same can’t be said for the adventure in Ikea… The two of you got lost for 5 hours inside of the Ikea. And don’t ask how, cause not even God knows how the two of you got lost, though it might have to do with the fact that you guys share a brain cell…

Eventually, with the help of an Ikea employee, the two of you made it out to the other side, half tempted to kiss the ground once you saw the sun again. 

-=+=-

Finally, after a stop at Mcdonalds for some dinner, the two of you were safe and sound at home, cutting open the boxes that contained the pieces of wood to build the bookshelves. As Lando was unboxing the pieces, he began throwing things about, not paying any mind to what was going where. 

“Lan, calm down. We’re gonna lose the instructions if you keep doing that.” 

“Pish posh. Who needs instructions for bookshelves? It’s easy. I built that desk myself with no instructions.” he says, pointing to the desk that holds his gaming set up… the most basic table to have ever existed. 

You put your hands on your hips as you exhale loudly, “Lan, that table has 5 pieces total…”

“And? I still did it. Ya know why? Cause I’m super smart and super strong. I don’t need the instructions… Now… where do we start…?” he says as he rests his hands on his hips, squinting as the mess of screws and panels of wood he scattered on the floor. 

-=+=-

Building a bookshelf was NOT as easy and Lando claimed it would be. Not only were the instructions missing, but Lando kept insisting he didn’t need them. You tried to help him but it felt as if the pieces kept moving on their own. You felt like the boys in the Maze Runner, trying to figure out the pattern of the maze changes every night. 

It’s been two hours since anyones spoken… so it startles you when he breaks the silence, “How… is the bookshelf… inside out…?”

“It’s 9pm… and we still haven’t finished the first bookshelf… we have 6 more to build…”

“FUCK”

[starsinthesky5]

one on how would joe help y/n after sex (aftercare). how he would take care of her and just show his soft/cute/fluff side.

a/n: a non fic universe blurb <3

warnings: mentions of nsfw content below

the air is thick and warm after, clinging to their skin like honey, heady with the smell of sex and sweat and the faint trace of her perfume that still lingers on the sheets. their breaths are uneven, shallow and trembling, caught somewhere between exhaustion and bliss. the sheets are tangled beneath them, her thigh draped lazily over his, both of them glistening with sweat and slick and something deeper—something tender, something that buzzes beneath the skin even after the pleasure has ebbed.

joe is the first to move, brushing her hair back with the backs of his fingers, his touch featherlight but sure. his knuckles graze her cheek, and she instinctively leans into it, eyes closed. his voice is low and rough when he leans in, lips ghosting over her temple, still tasting the salt of her skin. "you okay, baby?" he murmurs, voice thick with the remnants of pleasure and love and something protectively primal. the question isn’t casual, it’s deeper, weighted with the care of someone who just worshipped her body and now needs to worship her heart, too.

she gives a slow nod, eyes half-lidded, lips curling into the smallest of smiles. the one she only ever gives him. the one that says i trust you. i’m yours.

he eases out of bed with a groan, every muscle protesting after what they just put each other through. there’s a lingering ache in his hips and thighs, and his calves are tight with the memory of how hard he held back, how hard he let go—how deep he was inside her, how many times she clenched and cried out his name. but none of that matters. he’s already tugging on his boxers, padding barefoot into the kitchen with that signature post-game limp that comes around even in intimate moments like these, because she needs something, and he’s going to get it.

when he comes back, he’s carrying a glass of water and a granola bar, his brow furrowed in that serious little way he gets when he’s in caretaker mode. "you need something in you that isn't me," he murmurs, holding it out like an offering, crouching at her side like she’s fragile and holy. "you were so good for me, sweetheart. let me take care of you." his voice is honeyed, dipped in devotion, still wrecked from the sounds she pulled out of him an hour ago.

she sits up slowly, muscles sore and trembling, legs still jelly-soft. she takes both with a quiet hum, teeth sinking into the bar while he watches like it’s the most important thing she’s ever done. he feeds her the last few bites himself—breaking off pieces, brushing crumbs from her lips, kissing them away when he can’t resist. his thumb traces slow, soothing circles on her inner thigh, his other hand traveling up her back to cradle the nape of her neck.

"that’s my girl," he murmurs into her temple, nuzzling close. "so sweet for me. did everything just right,".

he disappears again briefly and returns with a warm, damp washcloth and one of his softest shirts—her favorite, oversized and worn thin at the collar. he kneels between her thighs, cradling one with his forearm, careful and reverent, and begins to clean her up. he’s unhurried, precise, murmuring soft apologies each time she tenses or sucks in a breath. he kisses her ankle, her calf, the inside of her knee. tender, almost shy in his adoration.

then, he pumps a little of her favorite lotion into his hands, warming it between his palms before massaging it gently into her skin. starting at her thighs, he works his way down—slow, kneading motions, his hands large and sure. he murmurs under his breath as he works, praises and pet names and soft declarations. "you were perfect. always are. took me so good, baby. made me feel everything. i don’t deserve how good you are to me,".

then comes the rest. tender, instinctive. he brings the soft peach slices from the bowl he left on the nightstand, feeding them to her one at a time. the sweetness melts on her tongue, and he watches, thumb catching a drop of juice before it trails down her chin, bringing it to his lips as if even the remnants of her deserve every bit of vare.

he kisses her shoulder, her neck, the back of her hand, every touch a quiet devotion. "you're everything," he breathes against her skin, sleep-laced but full of awe. "everything to me. still can’t believe you’re mine. still can’t believe i get to love you like this,".

her eyes flutter closed, and she sighs, deep and contented. his fingers trail lazy, looping patterns across her belly, warm and patient, like he’s drawing a map of where they’ve just been. one hand drifts lower, curling over the curve of her pelvis just beneath the hem of the shirt—right where he’d been buried inside her. his thumb strokes slow, calculated circles there, like he’s claiming it all over again without saying a word, like his touch alone is enough to whisper mine.

her skin is soft and warm beneath his palm, still glowing with the aftermath of their fire. she shifts slightly, nuzzling into his chest with a sleepy murmur, and he feels it—that exact second when her body completely lets go. like a sigh unfolding inside her. like trust.

and joe just watches.

tender-eyed and still half-wrecked from what they made together. loving her in the quiet now, where it counts just as much. his fingertips keep moving in those gentle, grounding patterns, even when her breath goes slow and even, when her lips part in sleep, when the tension finally drains from her limbs.

he stays awake longer than he means to. heart full. body aching in the best way. every inch of him humming with gratitude. because this part—the closeness, the care after the chaos—is what does it for him. what makes all the roughness sweeter. what reminds him that she’s not just someone he loves in the heat of it all, she’s someone he’ll keep loving when the fire dims.

someone he’ll love every inch of, again and again.

soft. cherished. always.

[owlcafe]

Please feel free ignore my inane, barely-related ramblings

Perhaps the most memorable conversation of my life was with a bus driver, on the regular route I took home from university when I was a grad student. He and I had both landed a Tuesday graveyard shift, so I was the only person getting on this bus at 10pm or so. The week before, the bus had arrived late, while I was waiting, so this driver had come up to me and asked if I minded if he took his break now - apparently it was timed such that he would entitled to his break either now or after the return route. Without much thought I said something to the effect of "hell yeah brother rest up", for obvious enough reasons. The following week, it was raining, and I was scrambling to find cover in a place where I could still see the bus stop. The bus came early this time, and the driver rode up to the stop and let me on the bus early to get out of the rain. I didn't initially recognise him as the same driver, but apparently it had meant a lot to him that I hadn't flown into a rage insisting I be delivered home on schedule by an overworked and tired driver.

As you do, we got to talking, and the obvious course of the conversation was to ask what had gone wrong in our lives that we were mutually on this godforsaken bus at 10pm on a Tuesday night instead of doing literally anything else. His story was more or less what you expect - it was the best job available to him to make the kind of money you need to support a family these days. My story was simply that I'd signed on for a PhD, and with it a pretty good helping of teaching hours, including the occasional 5-9pm lab class (a process which, incidentally, more or less prevented me from having a driver's licence at the time. Don't worry about the details, but it's important to the story).

At this point, I had just begun the process of emerging from a series of self-loathing spirals - the one that stems from being an autistic child, then the one that comes from simply being 14, then the one that comes from being bisexual, then the one that comes from being non-binary, to the bonus round of growing up in a stereotypically male way while being non-binary and the unique way that makes you feel like your body is betraying you when your hair starts thinning at 19, and and fun and fresh ways these all bleed into each other. At some point in that whole whirlwind, I'd become quite convinced I wasn't going to make it out alive, despite never having any real risk to my life externally or even really internally, so my early to mid 20s were a period of discovering that I did indeed survive and now I needed a plan. This led to me falling into a lot of things just cause they sounded nice. I took a lot of odd jobs because they sounded interesting or paid well, I signed on to the PhD simply because I was asked to by my supervisor and I liked the idea of earning myself a gender neutral title, as if putting Dr [extremely common male name] on my mail was actually going to make people think twice about whether or not I was a man. This all to say, I was in the beginning of cultivating my "just a guy" self-image. It's easier, in that circumstance, to cut away the grandeur and the pompousness, because you can easily recognise them as fake. It's harder to cut away at the ways in which you undermine yourself, hate yourself, discredit yourself, because it feels like humility (and, especially in an emergent and incomplete social justice mindset, it's easy to invoke your privileges with the aesthetic of checking them, but the function of whipping yourself for "not earning" the things that you have, only further centralising your feelings as a member of the oppressor class).

To finally get to the point of all this, whenever you mention you're doing a PhD there's a pretty common social script that happens. The other person says that's very impressive, you bat it off, they say oh no I could never, and then you either make some joke about the absolute buffoons with PhDs you've inevitably met in your time in academia or just laugh awkwardly and move on. The bus driver starts the script normally, with an "oh that's very impressive" and I follow up with the canned response of "oh its not really all that, anyone could do what I'm doing". And then, I remember very precisely, he said "it seems that way to you because you can, the same way I think anyone could drive this bus because I can. But, I couldn't do what you do anymore than you could drive this bus."

And that pierced through it for me in a way that's really stuck with me. If I wanted to do the ivory tower academic thing, I could semantically dissect his statement - I could drive the bus and he could do my PhD, it's more accurate to say that the power structures surrounding us wouldn't have permitted it because I didn't have a licence to satisfy the local laws and he didn't have the educational background to pierce through the veil of graduate school exclusivity. I don't necessarily think it's literally true, what he said, but it was very powerful to me emotionally at the time. Because, in that moment in the bus at 10pm, we were both just some guy. We'd ended up in different places because of our circumstances, our identities, our choices, but we were still just some guy. In that moment, I had the same capabilities and limits as he did, just distributed differently. And for me, I'd spent most of my adolescence and much of my early 20s desperately projecting this ideal of like. A renaissance man, I guess? I needed people to believe that I was perfect, unlimited, infinitely skilled but also unflinchingly humble, lest they detect the parts of me that I assumed they would hate (because I hated them about myself). That someone I'd never really met before could so precisely and sincerely cut through it all, simultaneously denying me my instinct to degrade myself and reminding me that I am indeed subject to many and varied limitations, denying me even the privilege to bemoan that of course I can achieve these things because I'm white and middle class and so on, so I'm really not that remarkable. It really affected me. It brought me to a new level of being just some guy, and really helped me calibrate my vision of myself.

Obviously, it didn't fix everything in that single moment, but it helped me build a new frame I could use to look at things. If I started to feel shame or fear over not being able to do some particular thing that I wanted to do or felt compelled to do socially, I could remember that moment and how my path in life has given me limits as well as possibilities. And that's kept both halves of my ego in check ever since - I don't feel that I'm somehow entitled or should naturally have "lesser" skills on account of having access to "greater" ones (I can run advanced stats like nobody's business but I still can't drive a car), and I also don't feel the guilt and shame of not having certain skills that are considered basic because I have other skills that I've developed instead (yes I can't drive a car, but I can run advanced statistics).

I am once again just yapping with no real purpose but this idea really strikes a chord with me I guess. I just wanna say these things cause I want to. I don't particularly feel that there's untold wisdom or anything, it's a pretty milquetoast case of this whole thing occurring, but if anything I guess I feel compelled to pass on the wisdom I got from that bus driver that night. For better or for worse, we're all just some guy.

i really do believe that the answer to a lot of people's self hatred is not to try and reassure them that they are wonderful and okay and enough, but instead to remind them theyre a completely unremarkable regular ass person who is not the center of the universe or especially important so why would they expect themselves to be some superhuman savior. like there really is a kernel of out of control self importance at the heart of thinking youre an evil lazy piece of shit. because why would you expect you be anything but just like some guy. if you wouldnt expect the guy who works at the vape shop or your mailman or whatever to be able to do something then why would you expect yourself to? youre just some random ass person. its fine

[sheastri]

Valentine ft. Kimi Antonelli

Synopsis: In which she's Lewis's younger sister and there for a race. Maybe she can bargain for some extra credit for also catching the eye of another teams resident driver.

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x black!fem!reader

Genre: SMAU + Story

Warning(s): Teenagers

Facecast: Akira Akbar (for the most part)

────────୨ৎ────────

liked by kimi.antonelli, imanirowe, and 156,000 others

ynhamilton would i be wrong if i fed roscoe my hw (say no)

lewishamilton just to confirm, we're talking about MY dog?

username ok but in what world does a teacher need to assign a 50 page packet??

username literally like where is the lorax when we need him??

imanirowe i support women's rights and their wrongs!!

ynhamilton you get me

username my dog ate my hw once and i never looked back

kimi.antonelli only if you don't feed roscoe my hw too

ynhamilton don't worry, igu

lewishamilton who's hand is that on the 3rd slide?

ynhamilton nurse!! he's out again ⤷ lewishamilton y/n...

username are we just gonna look past the slide of the study date?

username right and kimi in the likes?? username ya'll wanna play detective so fucking bad, ppl can't be friends now??

landonorris kids these days, when i was in school i valued homework

ynhamilton this is coming from the guy who didn't finish highschool?? ⤷ oscarpiastri ouch

────────୨ৎ────────

The First Meeting

I've rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it, and damn it, It's kind of weird...

"Girl it's hot as fuck but lemme not do too much because at least I'm not at school." You say while doing your homework in the Ferrari garage.

"I just survived another long day of school without you, please find it in your heart to come home soon." Imani cried out.

"You say this now but when I show up you're cozy in your bed and I'm stuck in the classroom alone." You reply rolling your eyes playfully.

"I swear you choose the worst days to come like..." Imani says playfully annoyed.

"Is this a sign for me to never show up again?" You say laughing.

"Now you and I both know damn well lew and your dad would never let that happen." Imani says laughing along with her.

"They really irk me sometimes." I say sighing before Lewis enters the garage.

"So you're doing homework but your phone is in your hand and you're on a call with Imani?" Lewis says aloud.

"Oh girl, why did he lowkey clock you..." Imani says still on the line.

"You're an opp, bye." You say hanging up the phone before turning to Lewis.

"Ok.. Hear me out.." You say as you begin to think up an explanation for not actually working.

Lewis just stares at you with his arms crossed.

"Ok fine, I don't have an excuse but look sometimes a girl just needs to chit chat with her best friend! Please don't tell dad..." You say dramatically.

"Alright." Lewis replies.

"Wait really? You're the best brother in the..."

"If you confess to breaking dads antique and clear my name." Lewis says, finishing his sentence.

"I take it all back, you are sick and twisted." You say before groaning and throwing yourself down in a seat.

"Well, do you have anything you want to share with the class y/n?" Lewis says raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing, I'm innocent." You say rolling your eyes and packing up your things to go find somewhere else to work in peace.

Luckily for you Lewis's race engineer distracted him momentarily and you took that as a good sign to leave.

On your way over to hospitality you bumped into someone. Leaving some of the papers you had to fall out of your hands.

"My bad, I was rushing and..." The guy trails off as you look up at him.

"Oh, it's fine. It's just math homework. I wouldn't even be mad if a car drove over it a million times." I say smiling.

“I get what you mean! Lately to take the workload off of just me I’ve been having the team help with math since they basically live, breathe, eat, and sleep mathematics.” Kimi says, giggling throughout his speaking as he watches the expression on your face.

“You know what… That’s a pretty solid idea.” You say as you’re now fully cracking up. Kimi just stares for a moment as if taking everything in.

"You're really pretty... sorry if that's weird to say!" Kimi says his voice going up an octave and cracking when he panicked. You just laugh softly.

"Nah you're good, thank you. You're also very pretty..." You say now getting a bit flustered.

"Umm Kimi Antonelli... like that's my name." He says nervously while smiling.

"Y/n Hamilton, nice to meet you Kimi." You say smiling as you go to pick up your papers from the ground and he instantly bends down to help you.

He tells me I'm pretty. Don't know how to respond. I tell him that he's pretty too! Can I say that? Don't have a clue

────────୨ৎ────────

liked by ynhamilton, mercedesamgf1, and 231,000 others

kimi.antonelli Special thanks to Canada for p3

username ok it's one thing for him to like y/n's post bc shes literally that girl but her liking his post??

username damn a girl can't show a little support for her friend now??

mercedesamgf1 Congrats Kimi!!

username ok but who is he celebrating with??

ynhamilton go white boy, go!!

kimi.antonelli i can't just get a simple good job and a pat on the back? ⤷ ynhamilton do u need that??

georgerussell well done kimi!

username well this is one way to soft launch

username With every passing moment I surprise myself. I'm scared of flies. I'm scared of guys... Someone please help!

liked by kimi.antonelli, lewishamilton, and 187,000 others

Tagged: imanirowe, friend1, friend2

ynhamilton february means the summer is still light years away but at least I have my ppl

kimi.antonelli did someone ask you to be their valentine?

ynhamilton why does it concern you again??

imanirowe im already scared for those exams 😭

username thanks for the reminder that I’m abt to suffer through the day while everybody gets balloons and baskets

username it's actually so bad, I'm literally gonna stay home for it this year

username Is this hinting at her having a valentine??

lewishamilton you definitely wouldn't survive finals so it's good that you have more time to study

ynhamilton why do you hate me??

username so who we think her valentine is??

username 'Cause I think I've fallen in love this time. I blinked and suddenly, I had a valentine.

────────୨ৎ────────

Pre-race Shenanigans

What if he's the last one I kiss? What if he's the only one I'll ever miss? Maybe I should run, I'm only 18. I don't even know who I want to become.

You wanted to check on Kimi before the race so you abandoned Lewis in the Ferrari garage and went over to merc to try and find him. You had texted him and he seemed a bit stressed. Upon opening the door you saw him pacing back and forth.

"Kimi." You said uttering his name just loud enough to bring him out of whatever trance he was in. You closed the door behind you and smiled softly as he looked up at you.

"What's up? Talk to me?" You said walking towards him.

"I don't know. I'm not really nervous or anything, it's like my mind is creating problems that aren't even probable." Kimi says before letting out a heavy sigh.

"Ok deep breaths Kimi." You say as you guys go over the typical destressing exercises. You watch as Kimi calms down and then smile when he looks at you again.

"Thanks." He says softly looking directly into your eyes.

"Yeah, it's whatever. Good luck and break a leg and whatever else they say." You say breaking eye contact and moving to exit the room.

"You know what would prepare me for this race even more?" He says as your walking to the door.

"What?" You say raising an eyebrow as you angle your body to look at him.

"If you were my valentine." He says almost breathlessly, as though he's surprised he actually said those words.

"Impress me and maybe I'll consider it." You say smiling before you exit the room leaving Kimi standing there shocked in the middle of it.

The second you leave the room and the door closes you let out a deep breathe and mentally squeal while skipping back to the merc garage as your mind keeps circling back to the moment.

I've lost all control of my heartbeat now. Got caught in a romance with him somehow.

────────୨ৎ────────

liked by ynhamilton, imanirowe, and 379,000 others

kimi.antonelli la mia valentina (My valentine)

username so you think you’re better than me??

ynhamilton im going to find the absolute worst photos of you now

username IM SICKKKKK

username I feel like he js told me to go kms??

ynhamilton love you pretty boy

kimi.antonelli mrs rabbit has fainted ynhamilton your so cuteness olliebearman mrs rabbit has fainted again

lewishamilton im sorry, what?

ynhamilton well! imanirowe so basically...

username aww ya'll so cute…ᵃⁿⁿᵃᵇᵉˡˡᵉ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ

username I still feel a shock through every bone when I hear an "I love you" 'cause now I've got someone to lose...

liked by kimi.antonelli, imanirowe, and 289,000 others

ynhamilton cats out of the bag

username

lewishamilton ANSWER YOUR PHONE

ynhamilton im sorry who are you?? lewishamilton ok keep that same energy ynhamilton WAIT! NO! im sorry pls

username they just make sense together

username i need a written apology from everyone who called me crazy!!

username YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTE!!!…. ₕₒₑ

kimi.antonelli I can't believe I get to call you mine.

ynhamilton I blinked and suddenly I had a valentine.

[reminiscingthesea]

Part two of my stalker Phainon x nerdy reader fic!! You should be able to find part one just under this post!!

A/N- tysm again for the massive support and love on my last post, it’s honestly making me feel rlly happy and I’m genuinely considering making this a chapter by chapter fanfic (no promises tho idk what life may throw at me)

Synopsis- After establishing a friendship with you, Phainon simply can’t help but fall deeper in love with you. Yet, when an unknown variable- a pest- invades his peace, he feels as though things may take a dangerous turn for the worse.

Warning- Stalking, mentions of extreme violence towards another character, kidnapping, gore.

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Ever since you and Phainon became friends, the two of you would always be texting each other nonstop! Talking about silly things like teachers, cute videos, random drama, and also more in depth things, such as your shared interest of historical relics.

Because of this, the two of you would often set up dates hang out days to take each other to a local museum to research ancient relics or texts. Other days, when the two of you are both free, you’d each be cooped up in a corner of the campus’ library, reading literature and talking to each other with enthusiasm when an interesting point was reached. Albeit, not without the sound of angry shushing from the old, cranky librarian at the front desk. She could really hear everything..

However, when you reject Phainon on a day out to a relic site-seeing place, he feels confused, upset, dejected, but most of all, angry. Very angry, especially after finding out why you weren’t available.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Phainon. But I won’t be able to join you tomorrow on our little weekly day out. I have plans with someone called Mydei? You know him, right?” You spoke nonchalantly, flashing him a quick, apologetic smile as you watched him momentarily deflate at your initial rejection, before turning away just as quickly, not able to see his face morph into a look of wrath once you mentioned that name.

He stayed silent for a few moments, before beginning silently. His tone sharp and cold as he spoke, “Yeah, I happen to know who he is. Mydeimos, son of Gorgo or something. He’s a recent transfer student, isn’t he? What’s he hanging around you for?” He asked as calmly as he could, to mask his voice of envy and irritation behind his cool demeanour.

“Oh, uh.. yeah he is. He’s not very popular right now, so I was assigned to be his little study-buddy for the time being, sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s a bit stupid how they thought placing a quiet kid with another quiet kid was a good idea, but….” You rambled on about your school’s inadequacy or whatever, blissfully unaware that Phainon was indeed not paying any attention whatsoever, and instead, focusing on the numerous thoughts flying through his mind at 360mph.

‘Has she gotten bored of me now?’ ‘What does this Mydei have that I don’t?’ ‘I bet he’s really fucking ugly, he’s probably just a charity case in her eyes.’ ‘Who does this Mydei guy think he is?’ ‘Is he asking for a death wish?’ ‘Maybe I should slice him up into pieces, and serve his meat as meatballs for her-‘

Just as Phainon’s internal turmoil reached its peak, a quiet clear of the throat could be heard from behind the two of you.

“Oh, hello, [Name]. I was told you’d be here, should we get going?” A voice spoke. The pair of you, Phainon and yourself, turned around to the sound of the voice. You smiled brightly at the sight, waving at the guy with your hand. Phainon on the other hand, stood still in shock as he took in the other man’s appearance.

“Ah, Mydei! Hello! I was just finishing up with my friend here, Phainon. We can get going soon, I just need to fix something on my phone. The two of you can chat for a bit before I’m done!” You chirped happily, stepping to the side to fix whatever glitch was on your phone now. Shitty campus signal was really no joke.

Bulky, muscular, slight tan, short, golden wispy hair with slight red ends, enchanting golden eyes, not to mention, ridiculously tall, almost taller than Phainon.. he seemed to be a good contender for your love.

“..Are you just gonna keep staring at me or what? It makes you seem odd, y’know?” Spoke Mydei, his voice deep and rich, with a slight edge of aggressiveness to it. Stunning Phainon out his stupor, he laughed quietly and bowed a bit apologetically.

“Ah, I apologise, Mydei. I was just thinking about something, nothing more.” Flashing Mydei a quick, sweet smile, he was met with a questioning, curious look, that could almost be comparable to a glare. Phainon swore he could see a flicker of understanding and awareness through Mydei’s daybreak orbs for a split second as they darkened slightly, before a soft sigh could be heard from you in the distance.

“Still glitched out. I swear, this campus really does not care about their students. The signal is terrible! Anyways, Phainon, I need to get going with Mydei now. We can chat later!!”

You stood next to Mydei as the two of you began walking away, waving quickly at Phainon as you walked away. However, what you didn’t notice, was the death glare that Phainon was sending towards the two of you, especially at Mydei.

But Mydei saw. With the turn of his head, he saw those icy blue, once bright, now dark blue orbs cutting deep with their intense gaze. He didn’t shudder or tremble in fear, no. He simply kept a blank, unreadable look on his face, looking Phainon up and down with his eyes, as if scanning him carefully, whilst you’d talk about something random.

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“So, Mydei. You told me you like to bake, is that right? Would you like to teach me how to bake? I’m more-so good at cooking rather than baking.. I always make the desserts too raw, or too dry!” You were both now in his dorm as you ranted, placing your books and bags on his table, granted with his permission, as you joined him in his kitchen, which was so much tidier than most other student’s kitchens.

“Hmph. The art of baking stems from the heart. Even raw or over baked goods are still delicious if you know the person made it from their heart.” He declared respectfully, handing a small black apron to you, whilst putting on his own soft pink apron on.

“Uh, are you sure this black apron is for me? I’m pretty sure you should be wearing this one-“ You’re immediately cut off as he sends you a quick death glare, which shuts you up just as fast, but you could’ve sworn there was a slight flush to his cheeks, that matched his pretty pink apron for a few seconds.

“If you looked, you’d know that apron is clearly too small for me. Of course yours is the black one. What? A man can’t wear pink now?” He asked aggressively, but not without a hint of playful aggression laced into the threads of his serious tone.

“I-I never said that!” You waved your hands in front of your face in distress and apology

“Quit it, I was just teasing you.” He uttered again, a soft smile now on his face as he took in the utterly adorable pathetic sight of you trying to save your case hopelessly.

.

.

After a while, you had managed to create an adorable set of yummy cupcakes with the helpful guidance of Mydei’s exceptional baking skills. Opening the oven door, a warm air of sweetness and cocoa hit your nose, before enveloping his whole dorm.

“Looking good,” Mydei praised as you carefully took out the tray with some oven mitts and bent down to place them on the stove atop the oven, before going back down to close the oven door again. But in the reflection of the oven, you saw something for a split second- Mydei’s gaze on you, your form in front of him. Before you could notice fully, he quickly averted his gaze back to the chocolate cupcakes in the baking tray.

Was he praising you?

As you got up, he spoke, bringing in a piping baggie and holding it in front of you.

“Now that the cupcakes are done baking, we’re going to have to wait a bit before we can ice them, since they need to cool down a bit first. Otherwise, the frosting would melt and go everywhere.”

He then brought together the ingredients to make the icing, as well as three food colourings tubes

“Now, you can decide between red food colouring, pink food colouring, or blue food colouring. I don’t really mind either way.” He said, handing the tubes to you to decide which colour to use.

You looked at the food dyes in your hand, deep in thought. See, you had wanted to gift some of these cupcakes to Phainon to make up for having to cancel your little hangout, but you also saw the way Mydei was eyeing the pink food colouring in your hand.

“Hmm.. I think I’ll go with the blue food colouring! You don’t mind that, right?” You asked gently, giving him a look of sympathy as you saw how he deflated slightly at your decision. He took the other dyes from your hand without a word, but you swore you could see a hint of a small pout on his face as he turned his back on you.

“That’s fine. I’ll help you make the icing, I just need to get the right nibs for the piping bag..” He spoke, momentarily distracted as he rummaged through his cupboard to find an appropriate nib. He came back a few moments later, standing next to you in front of the counter.

“We’re gonna be using a simple nib today, no designs. Since it’s your first time, you won’t be using any intricate designs.”

You pouted playfully as you helped him whip together a batch of icing, dipping in some of the blue food dye into the mixture, and watching as it turned from white to a pretty shade of cerulean blue almost resembling Phainon’s eyes.

“Really? I’m sure I could do it! Please, an intricate design would be so cute! Plus, I wanna gift some of these to my friend, so..” You pleaded gently, looking away in shame as he shot you a scowl, which really just made him look like a cat, or a young lion. He turned back to the bowl, whisking carefully, before muttering something almost incoherent under his breath.”

“Would’ve been cuter if you used the pink dye instead…”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Now, I’m going to teach you how to pipe the icing properly onto the cupcake. We can still make cute designs with a simple nib, so just listen carefully.” He announced, almost sternly as he filled the piping bag with the light blue icing, twisting the nib onto the corner of the bag, before handing it to you and taking a chocolate cupcake out the tray and placing it in front of you.

“Ice it.” He said, staring down at you as you held the bag almost cluelessly in front of you.

“I thought you were gonna help me..” You inquired meekly

“I just wanna see how bad you’ll do, that’s all.” He quipped back, a sly grin on his face as he stepped away from you. You could only narrow your eyes at him as you turned to try and ice the cupcake.

That poor cupcake was now subject to messy, uneven scribbles of azure blue icing, your handiwork was truly poor. You sulked, not being able to even take your eyes off the now eyesore of the cupcake, lest to not have to see Mydei’s face, which was probably adorned with a giant, stupid smirk.

But he wasn’t Phainon, as he chuckled softly and leaned his head near yours, trying to catch a glimpse of your sullen expression.

“You don’t have to pout like that, y’know? Not everyone’s going to get it right on their first time.” He sighed, his voice now taking on a more mellow, kinder, tone, more patient, as it was devoid of any aggression or abrasion. He then simply pushed that cupcake to the side and brought out another one from the tray, before wrapping his big, muscular arms around your form, gently holding you by the hand with his larger hand, as if guiding it.

“Just follow my lead, I’ll help you..” He spoke gently, almost intimately, as he whispered into your ear, huskily, coaxing your hand to lift the piping bag once more with his.

“Mydei..” You spoke hesitantly, shyly, as your cheeks flushed, which he could see through the faint red that dusted onto the curve of your cheek from behind, and on your ears.

“Call me Mydeimos, yeah?” He breathed richly into your ear as he steered your hand with his, squeezing it to coerce you into squeezing the piping bag tight once more, to start icing the cupcake.

You stayed silent as he helped you, but yoy couldn’t help but feel so unfocused as he stayed so close by to you. How his warm breath on your neck as he leaned down to whisper instructions or words of praise into your ear from behind, how it tickled the inside of your ear a little.

After some time, the cupcakes were all beautifully decorated with the icing, with pretty, intricate designs made with the piping bag due to his ‘guidance’

“Look at that, masterpieces in less than ten minutes. You’re a pro already.” He praised, his tone now becoming less husky and quiet, returning to its normal deep and resonate tone as he pulled himself away from you.

“T-thank you.. this was mainly your doing though, you helped me move my hand in all the right places and all..” You muttered quietly, blushing softly as you met his gaze.

“You’re being a lot quieter than you were before when you were with that.. Phainon? guy. Are you two..?”

“Oh- we’re not.. yet but he’s been acting odd lately. More distant and passive-aggressive at times..” You said sadly, thinking back to his colder tone as you told him about Mydei at the start of the day.

“Well.. maybe these cupcakes will make him feel better. You too seem to be close friends, so I’m sure he’d appreciate the gesture.” He answered calmly, almost sympathetically. But, a flicker of a possessive, almost excited glint glimmered in his eyes for a split second as he spoke.

Did he have a chance with you? He did enjoy your company after all

“You’re right,” You sighed “he’s normally really bubbly, so I’m sure something sweet and cute like this will definitely lift his spirits!”

Mydei could only look at you with an adoring unreadable gaze as you began packing up the cupcakes in a tidy container you had brought along with you to his dorm.

Suddenly, you felt one of the cupcakes being pushed towards your lips, the blue icing smearing a little onto your pretty lips.

“Wha-“

“It’s the failed cupcake, just eat it. I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate it” He stated jokingly, shoving the dessert further until you opened your mouth to get it with a muffled giggle, covering your mouth and turning to face him, cautiously taking the cupcake from his hand and looking up at him.

“Thanks again, I really enjoyed this.. I didn’t think you’d be into these sorts of things, but I’m glad I got to know you and your interests..” You mused calmly, fully aware of the close proximity between the two of you yet again. You were almost pinned against the counter by him as he kept his hand firmly next to your torso on the counter next to you

The two of you could only stare at each other longingly for a few moments, before you both blushed and pulled away from each other.

“A-anyways.. I need to get back to my dorm now, I really enjoyed your company agai-“

“Let me take you. It shouldn’t be too far, right?” He cut you off, albeit, politely due to his sincere intentions. He didn’t give you a moment to think as he helped you pack your things, slinging his keys around his fingers, creating a quiet jingle sound as he did.

“Sure, I guess. We do both live on the same floor, no? Let’s get going then.” You turned to take your things from him and grab the tub of cupcakes on the table, before making your way to his door.

However, before following you, Mydei couldn’t help but momentarily turn his head over his broad shoulder, looking through the window behind his sink. His expression was dark as he felt another presence nearby, that obviously wasn’t yours. It was now dark outside, so he couldn’t see clearly. And he didn’t want to keep you waiting to go check up and confirm his suspicions. So, he simply smirked to himself and the dark outside world beyond the window.

He knew you were being watched and listened to the whole time, so why not give a little show, no?

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.

.

Phainon gritted his teeth and almost bared them like an angry dog’s at the entire spectacle from outside his window. You were now long gone from Mydei’s dorm, he had already slipped back into his own dorm, to avoid being caught by Mydei, who was already onto his ass from the very beginning.

“Shit. Fucking piece of shit. Who does that guy think he is? Touching her up, holding her like he’s fucking her. Whispering into her ear from behind like that.” Phainon mumbled angrily to himself as he tore a new one into a poor, fluffy pillow on the ground.

He pretended the pillow was Mydei. How he’d tear his resilient skin off his muscles, rip out each and every one of his axons and nerves, tear through that generous muscle of his, that almost rivalled his own. How he wanted to blend up his organs, crush up his skull, and serve it all raw to you, to show you his devotion.

But he knew you’d run away in fear, never want to speak to him again, be scared of him for the rest of your life. And he didn’t want that. In fact, he wanted the complete opposite. He wanted you to rely on him, make you depend on him. He wanted you. All to himself. No more beating around the bush, you belonged to him. And messing with a potentially even messier dog for food may result in trouble. So why not go for the food first before the other dog gets to it first?

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It had been a few days since your hangout with Mydei- or Mydeimos as he wanted you to call him.- The friendship between the two of you grew stronger, and you were happy about that! But there was still a growing ache in your heart.. what about Phainon?

He hadn’t contacted you throughout the days that had passed, and he wasn’t at his dorm either whenever you knocked to come check up on him whenever you were free. Initially, you had thought he was busy with his own classes, sports activities or whatever, but even during the times where he too was free, you could never find him, anywhere. Not in his dorm, the gymnasium, the gym, museums, cute cafes, nowhere. It also didn’t help how any text you send was always left on delivered. You were becoming worried, but most of all, upset.

You missed him, you wanted to see him, you didn’t like the thought of him being angry at you because of something you did. You had to make it right, you just had to.

It was a cold, winters evening, where the sun was already beginning to set at the dusking time of 6pm in the afternoon. You walked with determination to one of Phainon’s favourite places- grand library, much greater than the one on your campus- You had remembered when Phainon took you there during the holidays at the end of the first semester, noting how it was absolutely filled with loads of historical textbooks and fiction.

You had hoped, that just by a miracle, you would be able to find Phainon there, or at least get him a few books for him as an apology gift for canceling on him for someone else, even if it seemed small in retrospect.

However, the roads and streets were desolate, quiet, empty. Nobody liked going out or hanging around during these times due to the dark weather, and the gloom it brung along with it. But you were calm, you wouldn’t be out for too long anyways, the library wasn’t too far from your college’s campus to be out for so long.

What you didn’t know, was that someone was watching you, following you, drawing closer and closer as you advanced deeper into the darkness, until-

“What’s all that runni- HEY-! MMPH!! MMHMPH—-mmph- hmmgh-.. mmh…”

An unknown perpetrator had grabbed you from behind, their arms held tightly around you like a vice as their hand brought up a cloth to your nose and mouth, drenched in a form of anesthetic, forcing you to inhale the chemical skillfully. Once the unknown person knew you had been knocked out, they rid you of your belongings, discarding them on the ground besides you aimlessly, before dragging you away, and taking you someplace else, disappearing with you into the night.

.

.

A few hours later, your eyes fluttered open with a few blinks, taking in your surroundings. It was dark to say the least, and cold, probably dirty too. Your vision was blurry, as it took you time to adjust. Once you did, you realised you were bound tightly to a chair, unable to move a limb, even by a tiny spasm from your muscles. There was also a cloth wrapped tightly around your lips, muffling any noise coming from your mouth.

Trembling in fear, you teared up. Was this the end? Were you about to be killed? Why would someone do this? Where’s Phainon? Phainon won’t know where you are.. You’re gonna die knowing Phainon hates you- Phainon- Phainon-

You didn’t even realise you were calling out Phainon’s name, even if it was muffled by your gag, as you felt a sharp, cold knife being pressed against the large vein in your neck from behind. Whimpering softly, you shut up, sweat beading at your forehead, as tears began streaming down your cheeks.

“So very pretty, aren’t you? A pretty little thing like you should know not to stay out so long i

n the dark, don’t you have a boyfriend to keep you safe?” They spoke, his voice sinister and low as he spoke, roughly yanking the cloth from around your mouth downwards to let you speak.

But you could only whimper pathetically again, your throat feeling dry as the words fell on your mouth.

“I don’t have one..” You answered weakly, your voice strained from the anesthetic previously used on you a few hours prior, from the dryness of your mouth and throat, due to the lack of water, and from your short sobs.

The figure chuckled lowly, evilly, a bite of inhumanity lingering in the sound.

“What a shame.. nobody to protect you, nobody to save you, nobody to help you, nobody to run to, nobody to love…”

Thoughts swarmed your mind as you thought of the endless possibilities of what may happen to you here. Bad thoughts, thoughts that made you even more scared, and cry even harder, louder. To which, you began to sob out loud. A genuine sound that your kidnapper took great pleasure in hearing. You felt their presence behind you back away, only to appear in front of you. They were masked, gloved, concealed fully in all black, with the exception of their eyes, which you couldn’t make out the colour of due to their mask almost covering it up completely.

Not being able to face the kidnapper eye to eye, you turned your head to the side and sobbed, not caring how stupid you may have looked as it lolled over the chair to the side. But they clearly weren’t having it, as they drew their knife under your chin, lifting it up with its sharp edge, to meet their thunderous gaze once more, eliciting a shudder and gasp from your lips.

“What’s the matter? I just want to see your face as I slice you open an-“

Their words are cut short as they gurgle on something- blood, before falling to their knees and side in front of you. What stood behind them shocked you to your core.

It was Phainon, standing tall above the man with a dagger in his hand, now coated in blood. His gaze was icy cold as he stared the kidnapper down, who looked back at him with a look of shock, and also, betrayal?

Before the kidnapper could get another word out, Phainon stepped on the back of your captor’s neck, crushing it with his weight, before turning back to you, who was horrified and motionless, face turning pale.

“P-Phai-“ You choked out, before sobbing loudly in fear and relief. His gaze immediately turned to one of immense worry and love as he dropped the dagger and cradled your face in his hands, looking at you with eyes full of distress, scanning over your form with despair.

“[Name], [Name]! Listen to me, you’re fine, you’re okay. Shh.. Hey- stop crying, please.” He gently patted your cheeks as he got down on his knees in front of you, having kicked the now dead body of your kidnapper away.

When you didn’t stop crying, he could only wince in sadness and frustration, making quick work at the rope around your legs that bound them to the chair’s legs. He whispered soft shushes to try and alleviate you somehow, which obviously didn’t work.

Once he had untied the rope’s tight knots around your ankles, he moved behind you to untie your arms from behind your back over the chair, which soothed a soreness from there that you didn’t even pick up when you woke up as he loosened the rope. He kept muttering small “I’m sorry..”’s into your ear from behind, his voice ever so soft and comforting.

Having fully untied you, he took you off the chair and brought you down onto the floor with him, cradling you against his large, warm torso, stroking your hair as you sobbed into his chest, soaking his light blue hoodie.

After some time, you had calmed down, albeit, still sniffling and choking slightly as you tried to speak.

“P-Phainon.. I— hic- I’m s-so sorry… I w-wanted to apologise- sniffle- but-“

“Shh.. it’s fine, [Name]. You shouldn’t be the one apologising, it should be me. I… I got you into this mess because of my own pride and communication issues, even if you told me to improve on it. I’m sorry, you’re safe now. Please don’t apologise, I was so worried when you weren’t picking up my calls…”

You heard a sob coming from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, crying gently at his own stupidity, the same stupidity that got you in this position. You couldn’t help but rub his back gently, trying to comfort him now, but he only let out a slight huff at your actions.

“..You shouldn’t be comforting me.. I got you into this mess, I almost got you killed. I was so stupid I-..”

“Phainon, i-it’s fine. You got me out of this mess, didn’t you..? And- and I don’t blame you for ghosting me or keeping your distance from me- I shouldn’t have cancelled plans on you last m-minute.. you didn’t know it’d end up like this..” Your voice was calmer now, less broken and fixing up as you spoke, trying to reduce his stress and worry.

‘You didn’t know it’d end up like this’ what a joke. He thought to himself.

“I just.. I was so worried. I tried messaging you back at 8pm to talk it out, because I knew you were most active during those times, but you didn’t answer. I spammed you so much and tried calling you so many times, but no answer…” He let out a shaky sigh as he ran a hand through his hair before continuing, “..I went to your dorm, knocked and waited there for so long, but you weren’t answering- I was terrified at that point.. Then, I went out and tried looking for you outside campus, still didn’t find you. And then- I saw it all.. your things. Your bag, your phone, everything- on the ground near some old trash cans near the side of the road. It took me ages to find you, but I spotted some desolate area and thought I’d try my luck, and thank goodness I did..”

He hugged you closer, before picking you up in a princess carry delicately, as if you were made of glass due to your more fragile state. He soon made his way out the room, making his way through the labyrinths of rotting walls and long, creepy corridors. He made sure your head was tucked away under his chin in the crook of his neck, so he could hear your breathing through his ear, in case anything went wrong.

“I have your phone and keys with me too, they must’ve fallen out whilst your kidnapper took you away, hm? Must’ve been terrifying, poor thing..” He gently swiped a piece of hair away from your face, which was all red, puffy, and wet from all your crying, giving you a pained expression in return to the sight.

As he carried you back into the campus, everything was a complete blur, and he could only slowly rock you back and fourth like a baby, to ease your nerves and mind, and coerce you back into reality as he swiftly entered your dormitory’s floor, reaching for the key in his pocket and unlocking the door swiftly.

He carefully lay you down on your room’s couch, getting on his knees again and stroking your head gently, a sad, hurt look on his face as he acknowledged your agitation and trepidation, after such a frightening experience.

“Just rest now, okay? You look so tired.. Don’t worry, [Name], I’ll keep you safe and watch over you. Just get the sleep that you need..” He lightly commanded, staying there, on his knees, until you drifted off into the realm of dreams peacefully.

He sighed in exhaustion as he got up, rubbing his forehead and looking at you with pure love in his eyes.

“…You know why I had to do this, right? Why I had to have some disgusting kidnapper take you away for some time? I need your love, your attention, your trust in me.. I’m so, so sorry, my love, but I had to. Otherwise, that pest- no. That virus, Mydei, would’ve taken you away from me, and I just can’t let that happen. I can’t imagine a life without you, [Name]….” He preached reverently, as if he was looking down at you like you were the embodiment of the divine, speaking to you as if you were his God. But you were. You were his to worship, his to love, his to keep safe. And he was going to make sure of that. One way or another, even if it meant hurting you in the process.

You belonged to him and him alone.

[yujiqi]

fingers

idol!jake x f!reader

synopsis: jake just can't keep his hands still on weverse live so you find a better way for him to fidget those pretty fingers of his!

genre/s: smut, perhaps fluff

warnings: pet names (mostly baby, good boy), sub!jake, fingering, jake loves ur boobs, finger sucking, jake is like a dumb little puppy

a/n: when the jake jakes so hard i have to write something. ive been so obsessed w that clip of him on live practically fingering his hand so yk i had to come out of the shadows to write smth. enjoy!

your boyfriend jake and his group have a huge following and you often see videos of them on your fyp, always bringing a smile to your face. but lately his weverse lives have been gaining a lot of attention. parasocial fans clipping moments where he makes suggestive motions with his hands, his pretty hands, as he mindlessly fidgets. he constantly has to be touching or messing with something and today you wanted to take advantage of this habit of his.

"jake why are you always fidgeting with your hands?" your boyfriend reads aloud a comment. he decided to do a weverse live today and you were feeling lonely so you dropped by the studio to enjoy his company as he does his thing.

"umm i don't know, i usually just can't sit still you know? my hands always need to be touching or messing with something." his words make your ears perk up, and you try to see what he's doing from where you're seated to avoid being seen in the live. he has his middle and ring finger engulfed by his other hand. the sight of his pink knuckles and veiny hands make your breath hitch. it urges you to want to help jake with his fidgeting. give him something better to play around with that you can both benefit from. and most importantly, stop him from giving these people something to get off to. you pick up your phone and text jake.

end the live.

he briefly looks at you over his shoulder before turning back to his phone propped up "ok guys! i think i'm gonna end the live 'cause it's getting pretty late and engene need their beauty sleep" he says his byes and ends the live, swirling in his chair to face you. "what's up baby, you good?" he motions for you to come over. you don't say anything. instead you walk towards him and sit on his lap, snaking your arms around his neck. he lets out an exhale, shocked by the sudden contact. "..baby?"

"my sweet boy," you run your hand up his neck, caressing his cheek and he leans into your touch. you trail your hand down his arm, fingers tracing his veins down to his fingertips. "what am i gonna do with you?" you play around with his fingers as he looks at you like a dumb puppy.

"what do you mean?" his breathing increasing at just the contact of you on his lap and your intertwined fingers.

"what am i gonna do with all your fidgeting," you bring his hand to your lips, kissing each of his soft knuckles. "you give your fans quite the show, don't you?" you then guide his thumb to enter your parted lips. you feel him get harder underneath you as he watches your moves, hypnotized.

"baby, i-" he can barely keep it together as he feels your warm mouth enveloping his thumb.

a string of saliva connecting you to jakes finger as you pull away. "i want you to use your fingers for me only, can you do that jakey?" you reach up to stroke your nails through his messy hair. "can you be a good boy for me and show me how you can use those pretty pretty hands of yours?" he nuzzles his face into your neck, overwhelmed but amused by the whole scene.

"mhm" his voice muffled.

"words, love" he lifts his head, looking you in the eye.

"i'll be a good boy, your good boy. baby i promise i will" his eyes glistening with anticipation and eagerness to show you his ability.

"good boy" you wrap your arms around him once more to place long, passionate kisses on his soft lips. he begins to pull at the hem of your tshirt, attempting to pull it off of you. you pull away from his lips so he can complete the task, to be presented with your plump tits in his face.

"fuck angel, you're so.. can i?" his hands already massaging your breasts before you can even respond. he looks like a kid in a candy store as he kneads and pinches at the skin. he can't believe he didn't think of getting you to help with his fidgeting. he takes his time examining your reaction to different ways he plays with your boobs, wanting to satisfy you and more. he finds you like it the most when he squeezes them. "am i doing good?”

"mmm yes, you're doing so good.. you're- you're being such a good boy for me" you breathe out, his actions making your pussy ache, needing to be touched.

he leans down to kiss your collarbone up to your neck as he continues going at your tits like he'll never get a another opportunity.

"fuck jakey, look what you're doing" you guide one of his hands away from your chest and slowly trail it down your body towards the wet spot that seeped through your panties to your shorts.

"i did that?" feeling the dampness, once again he has that dumb puppy look on his face.

"yes my love. you did so so good," you caress his cheek again, running your thumb on the soft skin. "but now you need to do something about it." you gently grind onto his hand to get him started, the movement causing him to let out a small groan. he pushes your shorts and panties to the side to get a clear view of how wet his hands alone made you. your breathing picks up, waiting for him to use his hands just like he did in that live stream. he brings that same thumb from before up to his lips, sucking on it, before sticking it back in your warm mouth, looking you in the eyes more confidently than before. you suck on his thumb seductively and he then pulls it out and presses it on your clit, starting slow circles. you immediately throw your head back, letting out a soft moan, amazed by his sudden skills.

"im being such a good boy right baby? am i using my hands right?" his voice muffled as he goes at kissing your neck again. his thumb begins rubbing faster as he begins to stick a finger inside your slick entrance. you have to prop your hands onto his shoulders to keep your balance.

"y-yes, your hands are perfect, baby" you start rocking your hips as he adds a finger and another, stretching your tight hole. you can barely keep it together. you become a mess riding his slim, veiny fingers as they continuously hit your g-spot. each pump of jakes fingers is one closer to your release.

"jakey.. im gonna.." you moan out as he watches your face, breathless at the sight, rubbing your clit harder, pushing his fingers up higher, moving them faster to get you there. with one last pump of his fingers, you cum and your liquids spill onto his hand, making it even prettier if possible.

"jake..." you look at him in awe as he burries his face in your neck, embarrassed at how confident he got. you grab his glistening hand, catching him off guard before you lick your cum clean off his fingers. his jaw's practically on the floor at this point. "such a good boy" you mumble, kissing him to give him a taste of his work. "so good with those pretty hands." your arms are wrapped loosely around his neck and he grips your waist, not wanting to let go.

"god, you're so sexy y/n" is all he manages to say before pulling away to shove his face back into the crook of your neck, still shy from the events.

"you better not do none of that fidgeting on your lives," you run your fingers through his hair. "you have no idea how impactful it is." you say, giggling

"mk, my fingers are for you only," he wraps his arms even tighter around you. "i love you"

"i love you too, my sweet boy" you press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "now let's go home."

[woozisprincess]

Everything I Have

You really so desperately miss your beloved during comeback season

Fem Reader x Idol Woozi

Established relationship

2.6k

Fluff, angst, smut, fingering, penatrative sex, 0 protection (sleeve that pickle), they both just really love each other

You fucking hate comeback season.

Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. You can't really hate it when it's your love's livelihood. But it's also the exact reason why he's not home right now.

Lee Jihoon, your beloved, is awful busy. Not only as an idol, but also as a producer and song writer. He works harder than anyone you know, it's one of the things you admire about him, but it's also the reason you have half a mind to clock him in the head when you don't see or hear from him for days.

That's not to say that Jihoon doesn't try. Cause boy, does he try to give you every spare second he has. But the man only has so much time in a day. So you'd never direct the blame towards him. Perhaps his company with their horrid schedules, never letting the man catch his breath. Or, perhaps comeback season in general because why the fuck is it the norm to have at least two comebacks a year???

But alas, there was nothing you could do about it. So instead, you waited patiently like you always did. You'd send Jihoon little messages throughout the day reminding him to eat or drink water, telling him that you love him and that you're proud of him. You'd hardly ever get a response but you knew he'd seen them. Sometimes he'd send back a heart emoji if he had a second or two.

Then after a few days, you'd hear the door to your bedroom creak open at around four in the morning. You couldn't get a good look at him as he darted for the bathroom so he could shower. Jihoon never likes laying next to you 'covered in work,' he wanted to be free of the weary feeling so as to not let it affect your time together.

When Jihoon emerged from the bathroom, you heard a bit more shuffling before you finally felt the bed dip beside you. You immediately turn over, blindly reaching for him. Jihoon laughs tiredly as his hands wrap around your outstretched arms, sliding down until they find your waist, and your arms finally find perch around his shoulders. Satisfied with your position, you throw your leg over him, relaxing in his arms. Oh how you've longed for this.

Jihoon kisses your forehead and mumbles, "Missed you."

You kind of thought about going on a rant, telling him that 'missed' doesn't even begin to describe what you're feeling. But ultimately, you decided that would be too much for right now. So you just mumbled back.

"Missed you, baby."

-

Jihoon was back in your arms for all of twelve hours before he was being ripped away from you once again. At this rate you were losing it. You have no clue how you manage to survive every comeback season like this. It's literally torture. Some divine force was playing a cruel trick on you. Placing your beloved back beside you, only to take him away again. What on earth could you have possibly done to deserve this.

You watched as Jihoon waddled about looking for his wallet. He was so tired when he got home and he has no idea where he laid it. This happens pretty often. In his tired stupor Jihoon misplaces something he probably shouldn't leave his house without. Usually it's his wallet though, and it's done a particularly great job at hiding from him today it seems.

"Did you check your shorts in the hamper?" You suggested from where you sat on the bed.

Jihoon whirled around to look at you, squinting. "Did I?" He scratched his head. "You could help you know." He stated as he wandered to the bathroom.

"I am helping." You stated matter of factly. Both you and Jihoon knew that the most help he was gonna get was a suggestion of where to look every now and again. You were in no rush to end anything that kept him around a little longer.

You couldn't help but frown as Jihoon stepped out the bathroom triumphantly, wallet in hand. Damn your critical thinking skills.

"Okay then!" Jihoon began to announce his departure. He made his way to you, leaning over to kiss you sweetly.

Oh my god, you could not do this. In a last ditch attempt to stall your lover, you pulled him down on top of you. The two of you fell onto the soft duvet, the sheets wrinkling beneath you. Jihoon pulls away to look at you amused.

"You're putting in more work than usual." He chuckled, his face tinted pink.

It's true. You don't normally physically withhold him from doing his job. You tend to just pout and accept your fate. But something about today. This time around has just been driving you nuts.

"I really do have to go, love." He presses his face to yours. "I'll try to come back tomorrow okay?" He whispers, leaving small kisses on your face.

The look in his eyes was sincere. You knew he really would try. But ultimately, he won't be able to. The thought only further frustrated you.

You squinted your eyes unsure of what to say. You didn't want to make him feel bad, you're sure he already did. He's confessed his guilt about leaving you for work so often, it was something that bothered him quite a bit. You reassured him that it was okay, that if you ever missed him too much you'd just barge into his studio and snatch him up for yourself. And you meant that. You've done it before. But you didn't want to hinder his work too much. So here you are, your dilemma being that you desperately missed your love, but what was the point of going on about it if it only served to make him feel bad.

You think Jihoon could read your mind. He nudged his nose against yours, running his hand up and down your thigh.

"I'm sorry, _____." He whispered.

Oh that's just fucking great. Good going, you upset him. The look in his eyes broke your heart. He looked so defeated, so unsure of what to do. Really, there was nothing he could do. He's thought about it a lot, hoping that one day the correct answer would strike him. But there was no right answer, only his best.

"No no no no." You fired off quickly. The guilt in your chest made you sick. You were being selfish. "It's not your fault, baby. These things can't be helped."

The sigh Jihoon let out was heavy, and sorrowful. You could've cried. "You deserve better than this, love. But this is all I can give you."

Jihoon slowly pushed himself up, and you let your legs and arms fall from around him. Sitting up next to him you reach for his hand holding it tightly.

"I don't need anything else." You say quietly.

Jihoon's brows were furrowed as he looked to the ceiling, attempting to blink away that stinging feeling in his eyes. "You clearly want more." He mumbles.

"I want you." You assert firmly. Your free hand reaches for him, gently touching his face causing him to look at you. "I don't care if I only see you one day out of a month! As long as it's you, I will take whatever I can get!"

You wanted him. For some god forsaken reason you wanted him. It didn't make much sense when he was borderline neglectful during these times, but no matter how impatient you grew, you never left.

"You shouldn't settle for that."

"I don't think being with a man who literally gives me every available second of his time can be considered settling." You scrunched your nose in distaste. Pissing you off. The notion pissed you off. Settle? You don't do that. And you definitely didn't do that when you chose Lee Jihoon to be your lover. It was ridiculous. But most insecurities were, you supposed.

"Settling is like, half effort, no concern, just-" You waved your hand around, vaguely gesturing at nothing. "-Just something. Barely anything actually.

"But you give everything." Tears prick at your eyes. Don't cry don't cry don't cry. "It actually concerns me that you never make time for yourself. You give and give, but what does that leave you with, you know?"

Your voice shook, and despite your best efforts, a few tears escaped you. Jihoon's hand gently caressed your face, whipping away your tears with his thumb.

Jihoon has never really known how to respond to such declarations from you. Frankly, he just wants to cry. He just wants to cry, and thank you for loving him so unconditionally. For caring about him so deeply. Even when you're clearly upset about how little you've seen him, you still manage to think of him and how he feels.

Jihoon on mutters a 'Thank you,' and pulls you into a kiss before he also starts crying. When your lips meet, the kiss is searing and full of emotion. You free Jihoon's hand from yours, instead gripping his shoulder for stability. One of his hands finds your waist, the other resting on your neck. He pulls you closer to him, deepening the kiss. Jihoon's tongue darts out, prodding at your lips. You open for him quickly, allowing him to explore your mouth like he's done so many times before. Your whine is muffled by his lips, but he still heard you loud and clear.

In that moment he decided that you were still too far away, so he grabs at your lower half, pulling you on his lap with practiced ease. His lips leave yours in favor of kissing your jaw, down to your neck. It's embarrassing how loudly you moan and whine.

That's... That's another thing. In these dark times your sex lives are non-existent. If he doesn't even have time to come home and take a nap, then fucking you is basically impossible. Occasionally, in the late hours of the night, you might sext or even call. Telling each other how much you need the other, sending photos as proof of your want. But obviously that's not gonna fill the void that only your bodies can satisfy.

So in this moment, with his hands squeezing your thighs, and his lips and tongue lathering your throat, you're reminded of just how long it's been since you've touched each other like this.

"Jihoon-" you whine as he tugs at the hem of your shirt.

"I know, baby." He groans, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest.

Jihoon's lips are immediately back on you, his tongue licking down your body like you're ice cream on a hot day. You gasp when he reaches your breast. He sucks and bites causing you to arch into him. He pulls you closer. Your core drags over his hardened length, making you moan. You begin to grind down on him, desperate to feel him. Jihoon throws his head back at the sensation, gripping your ass to apply more pressure.

It's not long before Jihoon's flipping you onto the bed and taking his place above you. He typically prefers when you ride him, but not today. Today he's giving you everything you deserve, every last bit of him. Jihoon makes quick work of your shorts and panties, leaving you completely bare before him.

"You're so fucking beautiful, my love." Jihoon groans as his hands caress down your body.

You've never enjoyed being the only one undressed, so you pull at his shirt, letting him know you want it gone. He quickly obliges, pulling off his shirt and discarding it somewhere across the room. Your hands trace Jihoon's figure. Oh fuck how you've missed his body. You were practically drewling.

Jihoon pressed his body to yours, leaving just enough space in between your for his hand to slide between your legs. He groaned as his fingers stroked your wet lips.

"Is this why you've been so frustrated, love?" His voice was sweet, in complete contrast to the dark, lustful look in his eyes. "It's been so long since I've taken care of you properly. All these nights alone must've been so hard for you."

They were so, so hard.

Jihoon pressed a sweet kiss against your lips as he slipped a finger inside of you. You whined and clenched around him. It's not even a minute before he adds another finger, curling them in all the right places. He added a third finger to ensure that you were stretched out properly for him. His lips never leave yours, swallowing all your moans and whimpers. Your hips grind into his hand seeking more stimulation. Jihoon's thumb finds your clit pressing down, making you cry out.

This was so much better than your own hands in a dark, empty room.

It wasn't long before you were cumming on Jihoon's fingers. Quicker thank you normally would had your sex life not been put on pause, but that was the last thing on your mind as Jihoon fucked you through your orgasm.

You whimpered when he pulled his fingers out, clenching around nothing. When he brought his hand back up, he licked his digits clean, humming at the taste, you could already feel that knot forming in your stomach again.

Jihoon sat up, pulling down his shorts and boxers and kicking them off. His cock was fully hard, the tip angry and red. You gawked as he stroked himself a few times and lined himself up with your entrance. His tip prodded at your folds and he proceeded to slide in slowly.

The stretch almost felt foreign but his warmth was so familiar. Your breath hitches as he bottoms out. Jihoon kisses your shoulders and collarbones as you adjust.

"You fit me so perfectly, love." He whispers to you. "You're always so good for me." You clench at his words.

When you give him the go ahead he starts slow, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in. He picks up speed with each thrust, quickly coming to a steady pace. You wrap your legs around him, deepening the angle of his thrust. Your nails claw at his back as you cry out. And he's moaning into your ear. Sweet, high pitch whines leave his lips as he mutters your praises. Telling you how perfect you are, how your body was made just for him, how much you glow when he's fucking you like this, how beautiful you sound when you cry out his name.

It's all so good. Too good. You're already close to the edge. It was only a matter of time when Jihoon slipped his hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. When the band snapped, your orgasm wracked through you in waves. Your body spasmed as Jihoon fucked you through each wave of pleasure. And soon his release came over him as well. He buried himself to the hilt as he spilled inside of you.

The two of you showered together, touching and groping one another rather than properly cleaning your bodies. Jihoon even took it upon himself to shove his fingers inside you against the tile wall, ripping another orgasm out of you. Then he kissed you deeply and told you that he loved you. By the time you both were done fooling around, it was safe to say that Jihoon was late. But he didn't seem to care all that much as he kissed you goodbye.

"I love you." He pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"I love you, baby."

And with that, he left. And you were significantly much less depressed about it.

However, you still held a passionate dislike for comeback season.

(⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

An: this started with the thought of being neglected (sexually) during comeback season, and Jihoon being like 'let me fix it, baby,' and thus here we are. There weren't supposed to be this many emotions at all. Just a needy reader and an equally as needy Jihoon. But oh well.

[vigilante-3073]

Accident

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: How will Bucky handle the possibility of an accidental pregnancy?

TW: Accidental pregnancy, commitment, engagement, mentions of past trauma.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bathtub, knee bouncing anxiously as she waited. The timer on her phone began to ring, she shut it off before leaning forward and grabbing the small plastic stick off the countertop.

Y/N took a steadying breath before turning over the pregnancy test in her hands. Her eyes glossed over with tears when she saw the small plus sign.

"Shit," Y/N mumbled.

She stood up, stuffing the test into the bottom of the bathroom trash can before looking up at herself in the mirror. Y/N was pregnant and James Buchanan Barnes was the father.

Y/N and Bucky had only been together for a year, they loved each other but they hadn't even spoken about marriage or children. Things had been going well between them, but Y/N didn't think that they were ready for such a big change.

Children were a lifelong commitment and Bucky deserved to create a life for himself before being tied down. Bucky had endured an endless amount of torture and trauma throughout his life. He was just beginning to learn how to live for himself and now this.

Y/N had been feeling off lately, she didn't think anything of it until she missed her period.

"Doll, you home?" Bucky called.

Y/N wiped the tears from her cheeks with a sniffle, reluctantly making her way out of the bathroom. Y/N paused in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Bucky as he unpacked some groceries.

"I was thinking about making that pasta you like for dinner tonight," Bucky started, pausing when he looked up at her.

"What happened?" Bucky questioned, abandoning the groceries and making his way over to her.

"Bucky, I'm pregnant," Y/N admitted.

"What? A-are you serious?" He asked softly.

"I'm sorry, I really don't know what happened. We've been so careful, but my period was late so I took a test and it was positive," Y/N said, her eyes glossing over with tears.

"You're pregnant?" Bucky questioned.

"Yeah," Y/N mumbled.

Bucky took a step forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, Y/N wrapped her arms around him.

"You're not angry?" She questioned shakily.

"What? Of course not, sweetheart. We're having a baby!" Bucky said with a laugh.

He pulled away after a moment, smile falling when he noticed the tears in her eyes, "Unless that isn't what you want... I am with you either way, but this is your decision to make," Bucky said, brushing his palms over her biceps.

"I really want this baby, but I don't want to force you into something if you don't feel like you're ready," Y/N said.

"I love you and I want to have this baby with you," Bucky said.

"You do?" She asked.

"I do," Bucky nodded.

Bucky pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Y/N leaned into him, closing her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Bucky?" Y/N questioned.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He replied.

"I'm really glad that you're going to be the father of my baby," Y/N said.

"I am too," Bucky stated.

...

Bucky stood at the jewlery counter, eyes flickering between the various rings that sparkled brightly in the glass case. The door to the jewlery store opened, Bucky looked over as Sam stepped inside.

"Hey, do you wanna tell me why we're meeting here?" Sam asked, walking over to Bucky.

"I want to ask Y/N to marry me," Bucky said.

"Seriously?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Bucky nodded.

"Wow, congratulations, Bucky. She's perfect for you," Sam said.

"Y/N is the best thing that's ever happened to me, but I've never been the best at jewlery shopping. I was hoping that you'd be able to help me out," Bucky confessed.

"I can definitely lend a hand. I know she likes gold and probably not something super flashy. Let's start there and see what they've got," Sam said.

"Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate you helping me out with this," Bucky said.

"You're a lucky guy. Putting a ring on her finger is probably the smartest decision that you've ever made," Sam smirked.

They spoke to a salesperson for about two hours before Bucky found the perfect ring, it was even in her exact size. Bucky put the velvet box into the pocket of his coat, parting ways with Sam before walking home.

He stopped at a flower stand to pick up a bouquet of Y/N's favorite flowers. The first few months of the pregnancy had been a struggle, her morning sickness had been terrible and Bucky felt awful.

Y/N was now four months along and the nausea was finally starting to ease, but some days were still more difficult than others. Bucky tried to be there for her as much as he could, he always felt like he wasn't doing enough for her.

Y/N was sitting on the couch in the living room as Bucky stepped into the apartment. She was eating from a pint of ice cream with a spoon as she watched one of her cheesy reality television shows.

"Hey, sweetheart, how was your day?" Bucky questioned, moving into the living room with the bouquet behind his back.

"Pretty good, how was yours?" Y/N asked.

"Can't complain," Bucky smiled, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

"I got you something on my way home," He said, pulling out the flowers from behind his back.

"Oh, Bucky! They're beautiful," She smiled.

"I'll put them in some water for you," Bucky said, "By the way, ice cream is not dinner," He stated.

"Hey, at this point anything that doesn't make me throw up is dinner," Y/N replied.

"Can't argue with that," Bucky said, straightening up.

He walked back into the kitchen, pulling the vase out of the cabinet above the sink and filling it with water.

"Is there any real food that you're interested in for tonight?" He questioned, cutting the flowers free of their wrapping and trimming the stems before placing them into the water.

"Can you make that pasta I like?" Y/N asked.

"Again? You really love that stuff, huh?" Bucky questioned with a smile, tossing away the garbage into the trash can.

"Blame the baby," Y/N said, scooping up another spoonful of ice cream.

"Is that going to be your excuse for the next six months?" Bucky questioned.

"You have to admit, it is a pretty good excuse," Y/N smiled, taking the spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

Bucky shook his head with a smile, he shrugged off his jacket and pushed up his sleeves before gathering the required ingredients to prepare the dish.

Y/N put the lid on her ice cream, following Bucky into the kitchen and returning the container to the freezer. She set the spoon in the sink, watching Bucky dice up some onion on a cutting board.

"Can I help?" Y/N asked.

"Absolutely not, sweetheart. You're already doing the toughest job around," Bucky said, glancing over at her small bump.

"Can I at least have a kiss?" She asked.

"Of course you can, honey," Bucky smiled, leaning over and giving her a gentle kiss.

Y/N smiled up at him as he pulled away, "You're the best," She said.

"I know," Bucky replied.

"Let me know if you need anything, okay?" Y/N questioned.

"I won't, but thank you for offering," Bucky stated, Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile as she returned to the living room.

...

Bucky sat across the table from Y/N, he watched her as she ate from her plate of pasta. Y/N looked up, setting down her fork and lifting a hand to cover her mouth.

"Are you not hungry?" She questioned.

"I had a late lunch," Bucky shrugged.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he fiddled with the ring box underneath the table. Y/N took a sip of her water, setting the cup down on the table and folding her hands in her lap.

"Is everything okay, Bucky?" Y/N asked.

"Yeah, I just- I have something really important that I wanted to ask you," He said.

Y/N straightened slightly in her seat, "You're making me nervous, Bucky," She replied.

"No, no, it's nothing bad, I promise," Bucky assured.

Y/N relaxed slightly, "I've been thinking about us and the life that we want our little girl to have. I love you more than anything and it would mean the world to me to have our daughter born to married parents," Bucky started.

"Bucky," Y/N mumbled.

He lifted the velvet ring box out from underneath the table, "Oh my god," Y/N said softly.

"I know that I haven't been the easiest person to love, but you stuck with me through everything... I couldn't have asked for a better partner and I know that our kid is incredibly lucky to have you as her mom. You are kind and patient and I love you so damn much, sweetheart. So, will you marry me?" Bucky questioned, opening up the ring box and revealing the glittering diamond ring.

"Yes, of course I'll marry you," Y/N said, a wide smile appearing on her face as she stood up from her seat.

Bucky stood, stepping closer to her as he plucked the ring out of the box. He set the box on the table before taking Y/N's hand in his and sliding the ring onto her finger.

Y/N cupped his cheeks in her hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips as his hands settled on her hips. Y/N pulled away slightly, her hands sliding down the sides of his neck to rest on his shoulders.

"I love you so much," She said.

"I love you too, doll," Bucky smiled, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Bucky knew that this was the moment that his life was going to change for the better. Y/N and their baby daughter were everything he'd ever wanted for himself.

Bucky had always dreamed of having children of his own, but after losing so many years of his life with Hydra, he forgot about those dreams.

Every day had become a fight for survival, he had to stay in line or he would face the consequences. Bucky had been abused and controlled for so long that he had almost forgotten what life could be like.

Bucky was lost after he escaped from Hydra, he had forgotten who he was and lived in a constant state of fear. He expected to feel different after the trigger words were removed from his psyche, but he felt the exact same.

Bucky struggled to let people in until he met Y/N, she changed his life and he loved her for it. Bucky knew that he was meant to meet Y/N, she pulled him out of his shell and made him want to live again.

Bucky would never be able to explain how grateful he was for her, but he would never stop trying to show her how much she meant to him.