#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.”

[welostheplot]

── blinging on my hotline

a drabble about phone/facetime sex w/ abby (title taken from doja cat's cyber sex).

content: MDNI 18+, slight dom!reader x slight sub!abby, phone sex/facetime sex, dirty talk, a bit of guided masturbation, reader described as having a pussy

word count: 833 (i'm new to this, okay!!)

author's note: baby's first smut! i'm feeling extremely shy about this... but i figured the only way to improve at writing smut is to actually practice. i hope it's at least halfway decent!

you're on the phone with abby when your ears suddenly pick up on the swish of something moving repeatedly against a bedsheet, huffing breaths, and stifled, choked back groans on the other end of the line.

it makes you pause, your rant about that one annoying coworker (who always seems to be the topic of your on-call catchups with her these days) suddenly way less important.

you ask a tentative "hey, are you alright baby?" and are met with a beat of silence before she groans out "yesjustpleasekeeptalkingfuck–" and then its clear:

the poor thing got so worked up hearing the sleepy lilt of your voice she just couldn't help but get herself off to your voice over the phone as she listened to you yap on about your day.

and you think to yourself why let her have all the fun?

you immediately pick up the phone (that was sat locked on the pillow next to your head, intended to stay like that all night while you very innocently slept on the phone together, mind you) and press the button to facetime.

what greets you when she accepts the facetime request is definitely a sight for sore eyes:

she's naked. at least from the chest up, which is as far as you can see from the angle she's got the phone held at, camera shaking slightly from the efforts of her other arm which is clearly hard at work if the rapid shifting of her right shoulder is any indication. what's going on below her waist isn't shown, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out and you're already getting wet at the thought of it.

her bottom lip (which looks like it's been gnawed near raw from her attempts to hold back her moans this whole time) is clamped firmly behind her top row of teeth and her eyes are hazy, shifting rapidly across the screen of her phone as she drinks in the sight of you all cozy in your blankets and hair bed-ruffled.

her chest heaves as another choked back groan attempts to punch its way out of her throat— a raw, primal reaction to the mere sight of you.

you weren't even trying to appear sexy (or sound sexy on the call, for that matter). apparently, just your presence alone was enough to get her humping her hand, hips bucking beyond her control as she chased her release.

"holy shit you look so fucking hot baby," she mutters, eyes rolling slightly back into her skull as her shoulder shifts even faster and her movements become more rapid and desperate. "that pretty face is gonna make me cum."

and as much as you'd like to drag this out—make her wait as you slipped your own hand into your sleep shorts so you could cum together—it's obvious that she'd been at it for a while. honestly, it turned you on even more to know that while you were innocent and ignorant, chatting on about the happenings of your day, her hand was shoved into her boxers as she got herself off to the sound your voice.

"yeah?" you tease, and it's said almost mockingly. "is my baby going to cum just from the sight of me? i haven't even done anything!"

you can admit there's an intentional tone to your words; you're egging her on, knowing the hints of degradation are what she wants when she's feeling particularly needy like this, even if she's too proud to admit it out loud.

it sparks a sharp blossom of shame in the center of her chest, cheeks burning as she nods frantically. "fuck yes... yeah.. hah–" she's panting now, "yeah i'ms'closebabyplease–" her words begin to slur together as she hurdles closer to the edge.

"mmmmfff-" you can't help but groan a little in response to that, your own thighs pressing together for some sort of relief. she really must've worked herself up if she's begging like that and it turns you on. "thaaat's it, babe. cum for me."

she seems to momentarily forget herself, letting out an uncharacteristically high-pitched whimper that thins out into silence for one...

...two...

...three beats as she dangles on the edge—

—and then her orgasm slams into her like a freight train.

a gritted, strained "fuuuuuuuck" is heard and her eyes go unfocused, mouth hanging slack as she works herself through it, that ever-shifting right shoulder finally going still while her hips take over, grinding hard into her own palm.

you wait patiently, watching the camera jolt and shake during the come-down process, your hand skimming over your chest and trailing past your tummy to reach and push your shorts down and off.

and you're delighted to see that lazy, post-orgasmic grin slide clean off her face only to be replaced with a heated, lustful gaze when you angle your phone right in front of your pussy, delicately spreading yourself open with the fingers of your other hand.

"it's my turn now, baby."

[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.

[humanjarvis]

your cheeks burn.

post after post flashes on your laptop, the screen’s light painting your frowning face in multicolored hues. 

their technique? stronger than yours. their concepts? more creative. even their aesthetic is nauseatingly perfect. 

your cheeks burn.

scorn. envy. embarrassment. 

“why don’t you take a break?” zayne offers, face drawn in gentle concern. 

you look at him. and then you burst out in laughter, the sound shrill and bordering on hysteric. “i don’t need a break,” you say as if it’s obvious. “i just need to get better.” 

he hums contemplatively, taking in your hunched figure on the armchair you haven’t left in hours. “is ‘better’ something you can get?”

you’re already wound up—anxious and ready to strike. so his words hit like a drop of blood in the ocean. 

“what?” you snap defensively. “you don’t think i can? you don’t think i’m good enough to?”

his eyes narrow. “i never said that. don’t put words in my mouth.”

the taut coil of your anger loosens at his sternness. chewing your lip, you look to the side and lower your laptop screen. “sorry.” 

nodding his acceptance, he crosses one leg over the other. “you’ve been staring at your computer all evening. i’d be concerned about your eyes, but i’m more worried they’ll burn a hole through the screen before the night is over. what’s wrong?”

a heavy sigh deflates the rest of your body, and for the first time in what seems like forever, you set your laptop on the coffee table. battling the numbness in your folded legs, you pull your knees to your chest, shoving your chin between them with a thud that makes zayne wince.

“i feel…bad,” you begin, tired eyes trained on the carpet. “it feels like everyone is more talented than me. or more successful. and it makes me feel bad.”

when you look up, kind hazel eyes greet you, as if he expects you to keep going. but when all you do is fidget with your fingers, he knows you’ll need a bit of help.

“i feel bad sometimes, too. what happens when you feel bad?”

“i get stuck,” you mumble, cheeks squished between your kneecaps. 

“stuck?”

“i can’t do anything when it happens. i just sit there and watch and think of what i don’t do well. and how i can do it differently—better. i just get stuck.” 

he thinks for a moment. “dr. greyson is better at septal myectomies than i am.”

raising your head, you scan his face for signs of teasing and find none. “thanks…but i don't know what that means.” 

his lips quirk. “it’s an open-heart procedure. greyson can remove the problematic tissue fairly quickly, whereas i take more time.” 

“you know that’s not anywhere near the same thing,” you grumble, plopping your chin back down with a huff. 

“but how is it different?”

you don’t answer.

zayne sighs. “come here,” he instructs simply. 

sliding your gaze over to him, you see the expectant look on his face. with a sigh of your own, you untangle your limbs and pad over to his seat, where he pulls you into his lap. 

“how is it different?” he repeats, splaying a soothing hand on your back. 

you pluck at his shirt. “your whole job is being talented and successful. you’re a heart surgeon!”

“and even heart surgeons have weaknesses. everyone does. but if they strive to be someone else, they lose what makes them unique,” he murmurs, cupping your tender cheeks in his hands. “it’s alright to want to improve. i admire you for it. but if you spend your time wondering how to get better, i’ll be a very lonely man. do you want to know why?” 

“why?” you whisper.

“because i’ll be here to celebrate your strengths, even when you can’t see them.” 

[vbecker10]

Bucky's Favorite Person

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N - not dating... yet?)

Summary: Bucky dislikes how the team is taking advantage of you while your bosses are out and decides to take matters into his own hands to help you relax.

A/N: I'm supposed to be working on a lot of other things but my brain decided to do this instead... I've been kicking this idea around for a while and it won't leave me alone so I need to write it just to get it out of. I hope you all like it ❤️

Sitting at the end of the oval table in the conference room, you glance anxiously at your watch. If this meeting ends on time, I should have exactly fifteen minutes before my next one. I think that'll be enough time to head upstairs and make another cup of coffee. Your leg bounces under the desk restlessly while you listen to Agent Hill wrap up the meeting.

"Remember, if you need to order any new tech, equipment or weaponry, Y/N will be able to help," she says and you force a smile as you close your laptop.

Yay me, you think sarcastically when all of the Avengers look in your direction briefly before getting up.

You're not supposed to be the go-to person for requests of this type but for the last two weeks, you have been running the Supply Chain Subsection of the Logistics Division for SHIELD. Your manager is on maternity leave for the next few months and as luck would have it, the day after she left the section director was called away for jury duty. The decision was then made to place the most senior analyst in charge of the supply chain for the foreseeable future and that just so happened to be you.

You sigh deeply as you skim through the emails on your phone, nearly a dozen new requests have been submitted since you checked this morning. I should just deny all of them at once and close my inbox, you think when you begin to see duplicate forms and requests you've already refused to approve this week. You know you can't though. As acting head of supply chain, you need to formally respond to each with a detailed explanation of why it was denied. With your head down and your attention still on your phone, you enter the kitchen and walk straight to your favorite appliance in the Tower.

You let out a surprised yelp as you walk directly into what feels like a very muscular wall, causing you to drop your phone but thankfully not your laptop. "Oh crap, I'm really sorry," you apologize quickly when you realize you've bumped into a super soldier and not an immovable object. Taking a step back, you watch Bucky's metal fingers wrap gently around your phone before you even think to bend down and get it yourself.

"It's okay," he says when his eyes meet yours, your stress melting quickly when he smiles.

"Thanks," you can't stop the nervous giggle that escapes you when his vibranium hand brushes against your warm skin when you take your phone back. Between the unbroken eye contact and his unbearably cute smile, you briefly forget why you came into the kitchen in the first place. It's not until he talks again that you remember your mission to get coffee.

"Long day?" he asks with a lighthearted chuckle.

"Very long," you answer, walking past him towards the coffee maker.

Bucky walks away, taking a seat at the island with an open book and a drink from the fridge but you focus on the task at hand. You open the drawer that holds the coffee pods and quickly select your usual, happy to see there are plenty to get you through the rest of the week. Before you can put the pod in the machine, a familiar voice causes you to turn around.

"It's a little better now that you saw me though right?" Bucky jokes from behind you.

You smile and answer him in a sarcastic tone, "Of course, because you're my favorite person." You keep up your long standing joke with your crush, hoping he can't tell you're being honest or that just hearing him laugh made your day ten times better.

"Hey Y/N, the request Peter and I submitted for new lab equipment got denied," Bruce complains. "Again. It's like the third time. Can you see what's going on?"

"Sure, have him send in another one and I'll see what I can do," you offer even though you are the one who keeps refusing to sign off on it when the form crosses your desk. The new equipment he is asking for is almost twice his department's budget for the quarter, there's no way my bosses would ever approve it if they were here, you think. I'm pretty sure that's why he waited until they were out to request it in the first place. This also confirms my theory that no one reads the rejection emails I send cause I already told him why I denied it.

"Great, thanks," he smiles as he leaves. "You're the best."

"Yep," you mumble and turn back to the coffee maker, pushing the button but nothing happens.

You groan and push it again as you begin to get frustrated when Bucky says, "You didn't put the coffee in."

A blush spreads across your cheeks at the realization that he's watching you struggle from the island instead of reading. "Right, thanks," you look at him briefly over your shoulder to see him smiling then open the top to add the coffee. "That's why you're my favorite, always keeping an eye on me," you joke as you push the button for a third time then look up when someone calls your name from the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you here but I know you have a ton of meetings this afternoon," your intern bites her lip anxiously, holding her tablet tightly to her chest.

"It's fine," you offer her a smile knowing she's probably just as stressed as you are since her first day was also your managers last day. "What do you need?"

She let's out a breath of relief then walks closer to you quickly. "I have a question about this form Thor sent, he marked it urgent but I don't know why. Would you be able to help me?"

"Of course," you take the tablet from her and read it over quickly, shaking your head then you give it back to her. "Forward this to me and I'll take care of it."

"Thanks!" she smiles and types on the tablet while exiting the kitchen.

You can't help but look towards the island and notice Bucky's eyes on you instead of his book. "It's the second time this week Thor has ordered pop tarts and claimed they were necessary equipment for a mission," you explain, shaking your head lightly.

He chuckles, "If you've been around Thor when he's hungry you know they absolutely are."

"He's still not getting them," you laugh then pick up your coffee mug and take a sip. Scrunching your nose, you set the mug down and open the drawer to find the sugar you forgot to add.

"Hey, just who I was looking for," the newest member of the Avengers says as he walks over to you.

"Hi Scott," you try not to seem annoyed by yet another interruption during your very short break. "What can I do for you?" You stir your coffee after adding the sugar, blowing on it lightly before taking a sip and setting it back down.

"I tried filling out that form to request a new suit but I can't figure it how to submit it," he shrugs. "All the little code boxes turn red but I don't know where to get any of that information. Clint said to just send it to you and you'd fill it out for me."

You force yourself not to roll your eyes then tell him, "I'm really not supposed to fill out the request forms for you guys. That kind of defeats the purpose." He frowns as you begin to explain the reasoning behind the process but your phone beeps, alerting you that your next meeting is starting in five minutes. "Just send it over and I'll take a look. I gotta go."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," he calls after you as you leave quickly and head down the hall.

It's not until you push the button for the elevator that you realize you're holding your laptop in one hand and your phone in your other hand. "Crap," you mumble when the doors open, knowing you don't have enough time to go back for your coffee.

Staring at your computer screen, you pinch the bridge of your nose when you hear a knock on the door. Oh come on, it's almost 5. Can't I get out of here on time just once, you wonder as you tell the mystery person to come in.

"Hey Y/N," Bucky's friendly voice fills your office and you relax for a moment until you see he's holding two coffee mugs.

"Hi," you sink into your chair a little as he comes closer to your desk. "What do you need help with?"

"Nothing," he answers, setting one cup down in front of you.

"Come on Bucky, you only bring me things when you need something," you slide the mug closer while he sits across from you.

"Oh, I didn't realize that," he responds a little hesitantly.

"Don't worry about it, it's why you're my favorite person here," you say with your typical sarcastic tone and the smile reappears on Bucky's face. "But it's only cause you bring me snacks when you have questions," you remind him playfully.

Last week he came to your office with a strawberry donut, telling you they were leftover from a morning briefing. While in your office, he just so happened to mention that he needed a replacement part for his bike and couldn't figure out how to fill out the forms. The super soldier has brought you cookies, coffee, pastries and a few other treats over the last couple of months and it's where you're joke about him being your favorite began. You truthfully never mind when Bucky has questions or issues, even if he didn't bring you a little treat in return for your help. He is the only person you work with who seems to value your time and apologizes for not being able to keep up with the newer systems.

"Well I don't have any questions this time I promise. I just dropped by to make sure you got your coffee fix," he explains and you hide your widening smile behind your mug. "I know it's late but every time I checked, you were in a meeting."

Taking a sip, you sigh happily when you realize he made it exactly the way you like it. "This is perfect, thanks Bucky," you smile and he grins proudly. A loud knock on your door pulls your attention away from the super soldier and you miss how quickly his smile fades. "Come in," you call hoping whoever it is doesn't need anything important.

"Hey Y/N, oh... and Bucky," Tony greets you both as he walks in.

You take another sip of your coffee, not wanting it to get cold since Bucky went through the trouble of hand delivering it to you. "Hi, what's up Tony?"

"I just sent in a handful of requests for some tech upgrades and your intern said you aren't going to get to them until tomorrow," he says in a disappointed tone.

"Oh yeah," you agree with your intern's response to him. "You sent..." you turn to open a few windows on your screen, "...twelve requests. A little more than a handful, it's gonna take me a while to go through all of them."

"I really need an answer on them tonight," Tony stands right behind Bucky who is holding his mug tightly in his metal hand.

"Tonight?" you check the clock on your desktop and sigh then look back at him. "Sure, yeah I guess I could work late again-"

"You've worked late every night for the last two weeks," Bucky interrupts your response. While you wonder if you complained to him about that and forgot he adds, "Whatever you need can wait until tomorrow."

"It'll only take a few hours and it's not like she doesn't get paid overtime," Tony counters and instead of Bucky letting you agree like you were going to do, he stands up to face Tony.

"I'm taking Y/N to dinner. She can deny whatever ridiculous requests for equipment you don't need in the morning because we both know you and everyone else keeps asking for things her bosses would never approve of," his words take you by complete surprise but thankfully it doesn't seem like he's expecting a response from either of you. "Grab your coat," he turns to you with that cute smile you can't get enough of and you nod, closing your laptop as you blush.

"I- uh... yeah, tomorrow is fine," Tony takes a step towards the door but Bucky's already forgotten he's in your office.

"So, where would you like to go?" he asks and you barely notice the door closing when he moves next to you behind your desk.

Giggling at his sudden closeness, you look up at him, "Honestly, I'm just excited to eat a meal that's not at my desk. You can pick since it was your idea to go out for a date." Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you shake your head, "Dinner, I mean dinner, sorry."

He smiles and cups your cheek gently with his metal fingers, "It's a date Y/N and don't worry, I think I know just where I want to take you."

"Oh really?" you ask, trying to sound calmer than you really are when his other hand settles on your lower back and he pulls you closer.

"Yep," he leans closer to you and just when you think he's going to kiss you he pulls back with a smirk, "But it's a secret. Come on, if we stay here any longer someone else might have a question for you."

You agree quickly and giggle when he takes your hand and leads you out of your office. While you wait for the elevator, Bucky let's go of your hand to wrap his arm around you and pull you closer. Smiling, you look up at him and joke, "Is this cause I said you were my favorite person?"

He chuckles, "It's because you're my favorite person."

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did ❤️❤️ Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

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[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

[fantastic-nonsense]

I think I'm so mad about Red Hood because it IS a really interesting plot for Jason, the concept of a Jason+Helena team-up is super interesting, and the writer is both a woman and by all accounts a very good writer. So to see Helena being treated like this and Jason seemingly undergoing his nth character regression cycle given the book's theoretical potential is doubly upsetting where it otherwise would have just been another line in the "Jason in a bad book? Must be Wednesday" category.

The book is explicitly being billed as a 17+ "gritty, bloody, sexy, and stripped down" Red Hood ongoing. The editor, Arianna Turturro, said that Jason will "be killing people—a lot" in it. I already disagree with that approach because it is a useless step backwards from where we have been with Jason since "Cheer" in 2021, when he said he would no longer kill people and gave up his guns. You can do an interesting story about Jason returning to killing, obviously, but this is...not it. I'm not pleased about everything Martinbrough tried to establish in The Hill getting thrown away, either. That said, I'm willing to reserve judgement on the book re: Jason because the rest of the book's plot from Jason's end sounds interesting.

But...Helena. I've been begging for more Helena content, and the concept of a Jason-Helena team-up is super interesting! Helena was the OG black sheep! She filled Jason's niche for 15 years before Jason was resurrected, and having them interact so Jason can further deconstruct his philosophy that "killing criminals is worth it" with someone who has actually gotten revenge on the men who killed her family and childhood is a fascinating concept!

Unfortunately this book isn't interested in that; instead it's seemingly more concerned with the spectacle of letting Jason be a discount Punisher (again) and shoving Helena into being an accessory and romantic interest in Jason's story. This is not just me speculating based on the clickbait variant covers btw; multiple members of the creative team have confirmed that's what they're doing with Jason and Helena:

"Is it steamy in a good way?" "Everything's steamy in a good way if you look hard enough." -Becca Carey, the book's letterer

And from the official book announcement:

"Every element of the book highlights the core aspects of Jason’s character—his difficulties with personal connections, his badass training, his brooding hotness, and his violent approach to heroism. Which means he’ll be killing people—a lot. Let me repeat myself: this is the story Jason Todd fans have been waiting for.” ......... Red Hood #1 arrives in comic shops and digital platforms on September 10, 2025, and will be available to preorder and add to pull lists beginning Friday, June 20. Get ready for an angsty, sexy, and violent new chapter in Jason Todd’s legend.

Not to mention this quote (also from the announcement):

“Jason isn’t a regular antihero who coldly does things their own way and feels nothing,” continued Turturro. "He is an exposed nerve, a beating heart with no protection, a man lashing out at both his world and himself for the violence he has survived. Helena deeply understands where Jason has come from. They're two severely broken people who can't help but hurt themselves and others… and together they might just end up bringing out each other’s worst instincts."

This quote is all well and good from Jason's perspective, though again somewhat outdated as of "Cheer"; I've said as much before about him, after all. But this does not describe Helena Bertinelli. Helena is a schoolteacher. She is someone who's haunted by violence but refuses to continue to let it define her after her initial revenge/return to Gotham arc. That's the whole point of Helena: she is someone who got revenge on the people who hurt her, found it did not fill the chasm inside of her, and learned to live with that by helping and teaching others. And with all of the Christian iconography being dropped from her costume (which is also ugly as sin compared to her Infinite Frontier-era one), we've got yet another red flag that the creative team doesn't understand or care who Helena is outside of "the other violent black sheep of the Batfam."

Also...yes, Helena is more violent and a lot more morally flexible than the other Bats. But while she's generally portrayed as someone who is willing to kill, she's only actually killed four people in her entire 37 year history as a character and all but one were directly connected to her family's deaths: two of the deaths were the same incident and one of her first acts of vigilantism (Mandragora and his bodyguard), one wasn't even a direct kill—and in fact she outright stated she wasn't going to be the one to kill him (Santo Cassamento), and one occurred while she was a completely different character and unrecognizable as Helena Bertinelli (Mr. Minos), so I think we can count that one as an aberration and move on.

She didn't even kill Omerta, the man who actually showed up to her house and killed her parents; originally Mandragora killed him, and in Huntress: Year One Helena just cut out his tongue and took her cross necklace back. Helena doesn't like killing and she doesn't want to kill; she was raised in a very particular dysfunctional family system and believed that belonging to that family required certain things of her ("blood cries for blood"). She even outright said it:

"...I only kill for money." "I only kill for closure." -Huntress: Year One (2008) #6

Maybe the writer will work with that. Maybe she won't. But ultimately the signs are not looking good at all for this book as it relates to Helena as a character and I'm incredibly disappointed so far in everything I've seen related to the book that isn't the base-level plot.

[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.

[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.

[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)

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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

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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.

[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

[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)

[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 begans 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."