#in other words I would rather they slow burn the shit out of any potential romantic relationship

[caiusmarciuscoriolanus]

I’m about to literally yeet myself off of the bear tumbler until after I watch season 3. Like most of you guys are really super cool and I’ve had some genuinely awesome conversations about meta and characters with really cool mutuals. That being said.. SOME, AND I MEAN SOME NOT ALL, ARE WAY WAY TOO INVESTED IN THE PERSONAL LIVES OF THESE ACTORS AND YOURE NOT SEPARATING THE ACTORS FROM THEIR CHARACTERS. This I feel like mostly applies to Sydcarmy (as I’ve observed). Like I said, SOME of you want sydcarmy to happen so bad (which is fine) that you would go as far as to push the same narrative onto the actual actors. Why do you care so much about what they do? Why speculate on the nature of their relationship? Why hate or obsess over it? If they haven’t come out and said “yeah we’re a thing” or some shit then it’s not really anybody’s business what they do or don’t do. Whether that would be together or separately as their own people. I completely understand the love for shipping the characters but literally leave the actors alone.

And also while I’m at it, I think having favorite ships is fine and shipping in general is fine, but I’m almost kinda to the point where I’m tired of digging through all the shipping content for the bear (all ships really) to try and get to the actual stuff people post about individual characters, plot lines, meta. Like yes, I think shipping is fun and I generally don’t have any thing against it all, it’s just that at this point within the plot the relationships and priorities of characters feel like they need individual focus. We literally ended last season on close up contemplation for each individual character within the show. They are all trying to grasp their own personal struggle with the chaos and all feeling different about it. There needs to be more of that. They all have stuff to work on individually. I just don’t think we need these characters forming romantic or intimate stages to their relationships with each other or others until they settle the situation the storyline took us through last season. I may be the only person that feels that way but idk🤷🏻‍♂️ like I need so many other plot points explored before any sort of romance or intimacy. I need carmy to fucking get his shit together and figure out if he wants to do this restaurant shit. I need syd to do the same thing just in a little bit of a different font. I need Richie and Carmy to fix their shit. I need to see what Marcus is gonna do. I need carmy and Nat to lay more of their Mikey shit out on the table. I need more syd taking the reins and being acknowledged for said effort. I need Carmy to call his fucking mom. I NEED CARMY TO JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING AND IT NOT BE A TOTAL DEFLECTION. BRO I NEED HIM TO LIKE ACTUALLY INTAKE OXYGEN FOR A MINUTE. AND I KNOW THERE HAS TO BE MORE MIKEY FLASH BACKS. THERE ALSO HAS TO BE MORE WORLD BUILDING IF THATS THE CASE. WE’RE ONLY TWO SEASONS INTO THIS SHOW AND THERE IS SO MUCH MORE SHIT I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT.

[chronically-ghosted]

and in their falling, rise again (lover, share your road - part ii) series masterlist | AO3 Link | part i | part iii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~25K

chapter summary: You and Ellie have adjusted to the Miller homestead in your own ways. Much to Sarah's delight, these roots you've planted have grown a bit deeper than any of you initially expected. But figuring out how Joel is feeling about all of these changes is a complicated dance you worry you're stumbling through — except when he takes the lead.

chapter warnings/tags: reader is described as skeletal early on but that is due to food scarcity not her natural body type, psychological/mental effects of domestic abuse, allusions to domestic abuse, underground spaces, one dead body, brief moment of gore, guns, aggressive behavior, father/daughter relationship dynamics, slow burn, praise kink in a trojan horse of "making friends"

a/n: this would have taken months longer (or not at all) without the support and guidance of @toomanytookas. everyone please say thank you! please note the update to the series parts on the masterlist - we're doing four (you have @toomanytookas to thank for that as well!)

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine - Wild Geese, Mary Oliver

part ii:

Dawn comes slowly to Dalhart, a place hardly anyone knows about, the last stop on the railway line where the forgetful or the sleepy end up because they’ve missed their stop somewhere else. The wheat boom made this place swell with life, with the blood of eager men, with the sickness of greed, and now the boom has burst, the guts and blood of hopes and dreams splattered up and down the dusty streets. Still, the next year people believe they can conquer the elements, conquer nature, their own hubris leading the way in the dark, following the guidance of a false sun. So they who came have stayed, mostly — mostly because they follow promises like fireflies, winking in the night with just enough light to convince themselves the darkness won’t last.

It’s for this reason, these stragglers with misbegotten illusions of grandeur, that he moves without light, embracing the dark. The lock on the back door was rusted from the wind and dust storms, easily broken against the butt of his gun, but he moves, low and fast, as fast as his knees will allow, relieved to find the windows still boarded up and threads of curtains still covering the dirt-smeared glass. The office in the back is windowless, which will make rifling through it, checking for false bottoms and loose walls, easier. This building is technically abandoned but getting caught will mean he has to answer questions he’d rather not answer – to himself or anyone else. Which means moving quick through the front reception room and maintaining the utmost silence is paramount to –

crunch

Joel whips around, the grip around his Colt tightening briefly, and locks eyes with the fourteen-year-old behind him, crouched as low as he is. 

A red handkerchief around her neck, she scrunches her nose up in a grimace, teeth stacked in her mouth. Oops. Sorry. My bad. 

Dropping the barrel of his gun lower, he points to her other foot, frozen in the air, inches above another cracked plate of glass. He indicates it with the jerk of his gaze and she nods, hands raised, slowly backing up and off another potential alarm. Shaking his head, he eases forward on protesting knees, his own thick boots shuffling flat against the floor. He feels eyes on the back of him, watching how he navigates the shards littering the ground. 

Briefly listening for movement, he knocks back the office door with his shoulder, rising slowly in spite his screaming thighs, scanning the darkness before flicking on the light. The girl behind him shuffles in and shuts the door after her. 

He sees Ellie blink rapidly against the light, scowling behind her raised hand, before she takes a look around. 

“Shit, man, did a fucking bomb go off in here or something?”

People, like most pack animals, tend to react instead of think in moments of fear. Fear, like when their town’s only doctor takes off in the middle of the night with no warning. A bad omen, an egg forgotten until it starts to stink. 

“Dalhart got all pissed off when Eldelstein split. Came here to either ransack the place or take what they thought they were owed.” Joel moves to slides his gun into his waistband, but the muzzle keeps getting stuck on his belt. 

“Guess they thought they were owed a lot,” Ellie muses as she kicks over a broken plank of wood, adding to the debris that litters the dust-covered floors. She watches him struggle tugging his shirt out. “I can carry the gun, if you want. You know, if you need a hand free.” 

He responds with that glare, the glare that he often reserved only for her. Disapproving, unamused, but . . . Ellie smirks, hands up in the air. 

“Sorry I asked, man, just trying to help.” 

Joel nods sternly. “You heard what your aunt said. Help, but don’t touch. D’you need the list again?” 

She waves him off, wandering over to the overturned couch. “Nah, I know what I’m looking for. And you know she’s no fun anyway.”

He watches her, hesitant, as she crouches down by what used to be a consulting couch and peels back the wood planks and torn wallpaper. This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this – scavenging for supplies – and he is reminded again of the bits and pieces of Ellie’s old life he has picked up on over the past few months. Every time, it knots his stomach. 

Jaw tight in his head, grasping at that relentless focus that seems to be eluding him as of late, Joel overturns what used to be a desk to look for the latch you told him might be there. 

Just by the top drawer.

Your shoulder, then the crease of your arm had touched his as you leaned in towards the rough sketch you make of a doctor’s desk. You smelled like lilac and sunlight. There was a curl of hair on the back of your neck, loose as it curled down your throat, by your pulse. 

It’ll be small. Just a latch.

Your fingers had brushed his wrist, eyes downcast, lashes soft against the curve of your cheek. There was a smear of something green on the sleeve of your dress. Fresh grass, maybe? Herbs from the garden? The light behind you illuminated the thin skin of your ear, the supple drop of your earlobe.

You won’t need much pressure. Just a flick. It should open up under your thumb. You can’t miss it, Joel.

Joel.

“Joel!”

“What?” 

Ellie rolls her eyes at his nearly-bared teeth. “I’m gonna have my aunt look at your hearing, ‘cause there’s definitely something wrong with you.”

With a grunt, Joel kneels down and reaches into the far back of the desk where it is still held together in the corner, resolutely smothering the high flutter in his chest. His fingers touch something metal, something other than that green felt and split wood. He gets his thumb around it and it clicks.

“I found gauze and iodine,” Ellie says, holding up half a bottle and some dirty wrapping. “That wasn’t on the list she put together, but we probably need it, right?” 

He feels something give way, but it isn’t clear where. He eases the desk back further to try and lift it to the light. 

“Iodine is meant for keeping infections out. Wounds clean n’ all that.”

Ellie huffs, more exasperated this time. “I know that. That’s why I was asking.”

“Planning on getting wounded any time soon?”

“Fine, you jackass, I’ll just throw them out –,”

“Put ‘em in your pack if you’ve got room. Otherwise, we only take what we came here for.” 

With a light press, a small drawer eases open. Just a crack and barely enough to get his fingers inside, but he can see the bottle. Clear, made of glass, and filled with little white pills. 

Morphine. 

It had been his first idea when Sarah’s condition started to deteriorate, but the papers and medical journals he ordered in at the supply store about addiction kept him from ever really considering it as an option.  But with you here – and you had already done so much for her recovery – with you here –

I can manage it, Joel. They’ve done wonderful things with rehabilitation and comfort. I promise I will monitor her closely.

He knows a line should exist about what he would and wouldn’t allow for Sarah’s treatment, but as of late, that line has become so blurred he sometimes has to scramble to find it. 

Would and wouldn’t.

Should and shouldn’t. 

His feet are starting to sting from balancing on that knife’s edge these past few months.

He hears the pills rattle as he drops the bottle into the bottom of his canvas rucksack. Ellie’s buckling hers as Joel stands and joins her search of a knocked-over cabinet. Not much there either but cough syrup and penicillin. 

“What else you got?” 

“Some bandaids, a handful of calcidin tablets, and a busted hot water bottle that I think we could melt shut.” She adjusts the straps, her face serious. “Maybe he kept the good stuff for himself upstairs.” 

He nods to the fourteen-year-old with a knife in her sock and a hard scowl on her face. “Yeah, maybe.”

He objectively can see the absurdity of supply stealing with a girl barely older than a child, but in this world, in Dalhart, at the end of the line, there is always more innocence to be lost. He knew Sarah’s own childhood was not a normal one, not one that any fussy school marm would deem appropriate for a young girl, and so if he isn’t working himself to the bone in the fields, he is working himself tirelessly to shelter whatever is left of her youth. But, like so many other things, it feels gone already, passed on in a cloud of dust. 

He thinks, had her life been different – that look in her eyes only comes from being exposed to violence – Ellie might have been a bit softer at the edges, no different from any other teenager. He wonders, briefly, what happened to her that made her believe she has to carry a knife with her everywhere.

“We’ll go check but you’re gonna follow the rules, right?” 

Ellie’s shoulder slouch forward, buffeting air between her lips. “Stay behind you, stay low, and stay quiet. Oh, and help but don’t touch. I got it, I got it. ” 

“And here I thought it was physically impossible for you to listen,” he mutters as he flicks off the light and opens the door again. He crouches low again, easing out into the front hallway as bruised morning sunlight peaks in between the boarded windows. 

“Only one of us is deaf, old man,” she mutters gruffly over his shoulder. 

Across from the reception hall is where Eldelstein would receive and treat patients. Most likely the first place that was ransacked, but there might be things missed. He makes a note to circle back after checking the apartment upstairs, but now with it getting light out, he knows their time is limited. 

The Colt at his side, Joel shuffles up the wooden staircase, dirt and dust sitting heavy between the crevices. Without much surprise, he realizes he can barely hear Ellie behind him at all, as if she took to his flat-footed approach. 

In the few months that have passed, he’s come to learn that Ellie is a very quick learner. 

The second story is almost the exact layout as the office arrangement downstairs. A brief hallway with two doors. He glances over his shoulder, rewarding her trust with an opportunity to lead, and Ellie’s eyes widen in understanding. She frowns at the two closed doors, thoughtful, and then she shrugs. 

“I’ve always felt good about being a righty.”

With a shallow huff, he moves forward towards the right door, hand gently twisting the knob, finger hovering over the Colt’s trigger. The door squeaks open as it swings back, Joel against the doorframe until he can give the space one quick sweep of his gaze. Then he’s opening the door wider and pocketing the gun.

Here the damage is less. Less rage and more morbid curiosity. The few narrow beds are shoved haphazardly around the room as if someone went about kicking them aside. Old gray sheets lay in tangled bundles on the floor and the mattresses. Beat-up infusion stands are rusted and broken in the corner, one halfway stuck in a torn-up chunk of wall. A thin door at the far end of the room shielding a dark bathroom is missing its handle. Drawers are torn open, left hanging like loose teeth, violence as enjoyment. A patient recovery room, most likely, for those needing overnight care and –

She gasps sharply behind him before sprinting across the room, the floorboards shrieking.

“Ellie!”

“Joel, look, it’s a radio!” 

It’s about the size of her head, turned away and tilted on the back of a long shelf below the window, but she drags it forward, setting it in front of her and her fingers immediately fly to the knobs.

“I’m gonna shit a brick if this works–”

A faint crackle and her own gasp of delight. It’s not much, it’s hardly music, but there’s something there. She spins the dial, moving across radio waves, the faint yellow light flickering behind the numbered notches. Just as a voice breaks through the dusty speakers, the box hisses and the radio goes silent. 

“Okay, but you saw that, right? It worked for, like, ten whole seconds! If we take it home, I bet–,”

“No.” 

“Aw – what?” She frowns. “Why? C’mon. It’s one radio.”

“It’s too big and we can’t travel light with it.” 

“But I’ve got room in my pack –,”

“No.”

“Fine!” She flicks one of the broken dials off, scowling. “Whatever.” 

Her back turned to him, Ellie yanks open a nearby cabinet door, the lines of her shoulders tight. Joel watches her rummage around, a heavy weight in his gut, before he rights a fallen bedside table to get to the counter behind it. 

He finds scissors, a stitch kit, and saline solution. Behind him, he hears Ellie load her pack. 

The silence stretches, a handful of conversations pressing up to the back of his teeth before fading on his tongue. Sarah is rarely ever this annoyed with him – especially not as often as Ellie seems to be – and it doesn’t sit well with him, knowing Ellie is over there, stewing. 

He doesn’t want her angry with him, for no other purpose than she made Sarah happy. 

No other purpose at all. 

He’s reaching up, checking above a tall wooden wardrobe, when his hand bumps into something, a jar, and he remembers those comics she told Sarah about. Maybe some of them are around here somewhere. 

“Hey, Ellie, uh–,”

“Why hasn’t anyone found out about your homestead yet?” Ellie asks suddenly, her arm digging around behind a chipped bureau. “Or raided it? It’s just you and Sarah out there and people could . . . how do you keep it a secret?” 

His fingers close around the cool jar and he pulls it down. 

Luxor, the label reads. 

Hand cream. 

His dirty thumb smears brown over the lip of the jar. He thinks of delicate skin, raw pink, a painful pink. The thing he has in his hands would soothe that ache. He thinks this might form the words I thought of you when his own mouth fucking can’t. The muscle between his shoulder blades twinges painfully as he takes off his pack and slips the jar inside. 

The radio really would be too much weight, but . . .

“It’s complicated.” He tells Ellie. Across the room, she stills, turns around and looks at him straight on. This is the niece of someone who almost shot two Texas Rangers, who at fourteen carries a knife in her sock and won’t hesitate to use it. There is something wild in her eyes. 

“I don’t think it is.” Her tone edges the line between curiosity and taunt. Her eyebrows ride high on her forehead and her lips slightly purse, mouth centimeters from a smirk. She speaks quietly, honorifically. “I think it has something to do with why those ranger guys were so fucking scared of you they nearly shit themselves. I think it also has to do with Sarah.”

Eyes narrowed, locked across the recovery room. Careful. Be very careful. The jar offsets the distributed weight of his bag. 

“I don’t think anyone actually knows about her condition or how well the homestead is doing. And I think you’d fuck up a whole squad of those assholes to keep it that way.” The silence stretches but it’s sticky now. Ellie grins up at him, the secret she plucked from him sitting in her smile. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

She smirks with the confidence of youth, a spark of naive innocence.

Joel scuffs his shoe on the ground, his hands going to his hips. “You’re right. I’d do anything to protect Sarah. To protect what’s mine.”

That smile drips off her face when he lifts his gaze. He lets it grow hard, weary – a warning. 

“I have done a lot of things – things I never want her to know about – to keep her safe. Those men, this town – they’re right to be afraid of me.” 

Ellie swallows around the weight of the room, her gaze metallic, bright and sharp. Her mouth is a straight line of barely contained victory. I knew it. 

She lifts her chin, hands curled at her side.

“How?”

“How what?”

“How do you make them afraid?” 

He can see a flash of bone between her lips – teeth, eagerness. And then in a blink, it’s gone. Wiped clean from a youthfully smooth face. Ellie drops his gaze, deflates, and stares at the floor. 

“I mean – it just seems like a lot – keeping it all a secret.” 

“It’s not. Not when it’s for her.” 

And it’s like he’s pressed roughly on a fresh bruise; she curls further into herself for protection, almost wincing. He suddenly remembers her half-snarl when he said there’d be twice as many mouths to feed if he took them in. A burden, twice as heavy. 

“Yeah, of course, she’s your kid.” 

Her rough voice is as physical and real as she is as she pushes past him, marching out of the room and twisting the handle of the closed door across the hall.

“It’s not much of a choice then, is it?” She says, loudly, the door squeaking as it opens. 

Behind him, over his shoulder, the door to the bathroom slams shut – a draft. His heart pitches in his chest – he’s seen how you and Ellie have reacted before at loud noises and certainly slammed doors before – he hears her soft gasp, her narrow back tight in the frame of the door, but it’s different from one from the one he expects, one of learned skittishness. It’s a boneless sort of horror, wet, sudden, cold – he fights the urge to tug her out of the room by her collar. But she’s already seen it. There’s no taking it back.

The smell is horrendous. The blockage by the door must have masked the stench because with the door open, there is no denying the scent of rotten flesh. 

Someone who was unlucky enough to get caught up in the crazed fervor of the lynch mob meant for Eldelstein? Someone who deserved it, maybe? Whatever and whoever they were, they make up a mutilated shadow beneath the far window, the soft bits of their flesh a home for flies and maggots. The room is dark, drained of sunlight and the sense that anything living ever existed inside its walls. Boarded up and stale, it stinks of a graveyard, but one without coffins, where the bodies are left to ooze and decay and spill out into the wet soil. It stinks of putrefaction, of tainted earth and poisoned air.

But Ellie doesn’t scream. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry. 

Just stares wide-eyed and inhales. 

Joel watches and waits for her. Watches because he recognizes that hard, blank look on her face, one that is familiar to him and far too old for her. Waits because he doesn’t know how to react because this activation is so unlike Sarah. 

There are not many fourteen year olds who would barely flinch when eye-to-eye with death.

He stands behind her, a physical presence larger than herself, something bigger and scarier than all the flies and maggots in the world. 

“Is this your first time seeing somethin’ like this?”

Her answer doesn’t entirely surprise him: she shakes her head. 

He nods and takes the handle from her. He gently shuts the door, inches in front of Ellie’s face. “I think we got all we needed. Ready to go?”

She nods, then heads for the stairs, not taking another second to look back at the room with the radio.

The metal teeth of the cultivator catch and drag over a large dirt clod and with a grunt, you shatter it with a few good thwaps. When you stand, sweat races down the back of your neck and between the cotton straps of your bra, cooling the heat of your skin. Your muscles throb pleasantly beneath sunlight. It’s a sensation you’d never had before coming here, to Joel’s homestead, but one you had quickly gotten used to. 

You are not the same girl who came here all those months ago.

You first noticed it when stepping out of the bath one summer morning and your eyes caught yourself in the mirror. 

There are no divots in your hips any more. The deflated skin around your ribs has filled in. Your body – a thing that had merely housed you and sometimes betrayed you to slow down and eat, and ached when you didn’t – had changed. Without you knowing, seemingly overnight, your clay sculpture had been remade. Rebuilt and reborn. For the first time in what felt like years, you wondered how you appeared to another person. 

Thin and skeletal, you had offered nothing to anyone because there was nothing for you to give. But, at the homestead, around Joel with Sarah and a kitchen and abundant food, that had changed. Things swelled here, near him, made ripe and sweet. A vitality returned, flooded in, and you, with your thin petals and wilted spine, blossomed. There’s now the inkling of a person in the mirror, one that hadn’t existed with your husband and now you wondered who she might be. 

And yet, while you flourished with regular meals and the stability of Ellie’s safety, the vitality of the land itself had seemingly dried up to a trickle. The last rain was days ago, the downpour offering even less than the previous one. 

You squat to your ankles, balancing the cultivator against your weight, and press your fingers into the ground. Dry. Delicate. An absence, and an unusual one at that. The dirt trickles off your fingers like sand. The sun’s heat prickles your entire back, oppressive and stifling. A drop of sweat slips off your nose, a finger wagging at you: you can’t deny this anymore. 

This is the same baked and dry earth that had been found on the southwest edge of the property, beneath the waves of dust that had blown in, covering the crops and grass in a gnarly, heavy film. Joel decided to cut his losses there and replant what he could, closer north, nearer to the river. But the look in his eyes was beyond frustration or annoyance. He moved with quick, long strides covering the fields with his tools and the horse. Agitated, maybe – a shark rechecking and double checking the edges of its territory. 

And then the next morning, in the blue of dawn, with the smell of fresh coffee drawing him out of his room and down the stairs where you stood trying to decide whether or not you liked the taste, he asked if you knew how to rake crop stripes.

No, you told him honestly. That didn’t seem to surprise him, but he postponed the lesson you had for Ellie and Sarah that day to diligently walk you through the tools that hung on the wall of the barn. He wasn’t satisfied until you knew them all by name, what their purpose was, and how to properly maintain them. Then, he broke down the pieces of the plow – what they’re called, how they connect, and what to check for before loading up the plow onto the horse.

Sarah and Ellie gleefully watched from the porch that following morning– their chores mysteriously done faster than a blink of an eye – as he had you strip down the tack, clean the leather, and reassemble it. Then he made you haul the plow onto Everrett, never once offering to help. But by the set of his jaw, you knew it wasn’t out of cruelty or distaste. By the time sweat was pouring down your back, the afternoon sun beating down on your exposed ears and neck, you realized he wanted to make sure you could do it all on your own.

By the end of the week, you knew as much as any farm hand. In practice at least. 

But another week went by and Joel never mentioned the lesson, or any further ones. 

Until the morning you came downstairs to find a man’s work shirt and pants waiting for you on the kitchen table. 

Your thin dresses wouldn’t protect you from the sun, he posited, his broad back to you as he poured himself a cup of coffee. The hat he left you was a little too big, as were the clothes. You’d never seen him wear them, but you kept your questions about the original owner to yourself. He didn’t seem to mind when you altered the pant’s hemline and brought in the waist of the shirt. 

Who’s Annie Oakley now? Sarah giggled when you tried on the hat for the first time. 

You could hardly recognize the woman underneath it. 

From there your lessons became about crop rotation, polyculture, and agrochemicals. He had you walk beside him in the rows of crops as he pushed Everrett along with the plow, identifying out loud any signs of vascular wilting, necrosis, and soft rot or tumors. Bacterial diseases were particularly devastating to crops, he said, eyes forward and sweat rolling down his temples, the muscles of his shoulders straining beneath the tight straps of the suspenders hooked into his belt loops. The heat of the sun spreading to your cheeks, you were grateful for the excuse to keep your eyes trained on the ground. 

Leaf blight, he warned, was also very common in young crops – caused by the fungus Cercospora carotae. You asked him then if Sarah had been taught any Latin. His cheeks were flushed pink, but that was probably due to the heat more than anything else. 

Over time and at Joel’s side, you eventually felt confident in your new knowledge. Memorization had never been a problem for you and witnessing the theoretical application of the knowledge in real time helped significantly. However, it was the physical application where things got difficult. 

The day he let you push the plow, he wore a familiar expression all morning. Jaw clenched, Jaw tight, nostrils flared, it was the same look he wore when you approached Sarah during her first fit. He was helpless when you angled the share into the dirt and tore the ground apart. The sight of his furrowed brow knotted your stomach, but you pressed on. You pushed forward, one step after another, just as you had seen him do more than a dozen times. You could almost retrace his steps in your mind’s eye.

With him a hair’s breadth behind you, quickly barking out commands if you strayed a centimeter out of a straight line, something occurred to you.This was no longer a job for you. This was living proof you could take something in your hands and make it better. All your life you had been subservient to someone; a doctor at the hospital, your manager at the diner, your husband in that goddamned dug out – they all held power over you and your choices. But you knew this was different. You knew if you could eventually prove to Joel that you were worthy of being trusted with his land, then he would treat you as an equal. So you pressed on. You pushed yourself until your skin baked in the sun, until sweat dripped from your neck, until blood spilled from your cracked hands. 

Under Joel’s supervision, you fed the land with your blood. 

And six weeks later, the blisters on your hands had calcified, proof and reward of your dedication. You had muscles, hard and lean, strengthened joints and flexible tendons. The molten steel of your body, your form, had finally solidified. 

Your days started alongside Joel’s now, instead of divided by domestic spaces. Some days, he lingered inside even longer than you, polarized positions of where you stood weeks ago: you unlocking the barn, loading the horse and driving out into the fields while he stood at the window, a mug of coffee in his hands. He never made you wait for long, usually offering you a full canteen of water for the day, a single nod before you worked opposite ends to meet in late afternoon. 

But there were times – instances, occasions – that you think, you wonder, if, from the window, he still was watching you. 

Thoughts of his face, all lines and dark eyes, as he held your palm up to the heavens that night in Sarah’s room trickle in when you rest idly, in the seconds before you sleep. When you let your unconscious awareness drift. Which, fortunately, didn’t often happen out in the fields, especially not when Joel had told you about another threat to the crops; what to look for and where to find it. 

And worrisomely, you had – again: dry, inhospitable earth. 

You frown at it beneath your hat, the sun’s touch hot around your shoulders and spine, a low skirting wind by your ankles. An infection spreading. Joel won’t like this, not at all, but he’ll know of some way to shelter the crops. An alteration with the irrigation system, maybe? 

Flora huffs at you, eyeing you with a twitching tail. How much longer are we gonna be out here?

“It’s hot, girl, I know, I’m sorry.” You pat her speckled rump. “We’ll be done soon.” 

Whenever Joel gets back. 

Dusting your knees off, you stand and take a small stake with a white flag from the cart. 

Beneath the bag of staked flags sits your handgun. It hasn’t been used once in these past months, but Joel never lets you go into the fields without it. More often than not, he makes you keep it physically on your person – in a pocket, in your socks, somewhere within reach – but the sight of it sickens you, the horror of what you almost had to do that night you met Joel. How easily you were willing to do it for Ellie. How easily you’d do it again, to keep her safe. 

But now he expects you to do the same for Sarah and this homestead in his absence: protect at the cost of violence. 

The longer the gun sits out in the open, glinting sharply in the sun, the guiltier you feel. 

The breeze comes not a moment too soon. It breathes across your clavicle, the muscles of your throat. It draws your gaze up, outward, to the line of white flags peeking out of the ground. Soldiers in a row, surrender fluttering in the wind. Grave markers of failed crops. You forget the gun as your stomach turns at the sight of the fields full of little white flags.

The land is ill. You can’t deny this anymore.

The breeze thickens to a harsh blow and you grab your hat to keep it steady. Under the rush by your ears, you hear your name. By the house, under the wired row of drying clothes, Sarah waves to you – too far away to hear anything distinct, but she’s pointing and waving to the road and a cloud of smoke barreling down it. 

No, not smoke. Dust. Two figures atop a white horse racing through the chalk of the earth. 

Ellie.

And Joel.

Flora lets out an audible groan of relief when you take her reins and pull her back towards the house, the cart of flags clicking behind you. You wonder if he’ll see the line of flags from the road.

The barn is quiet in the late afternoon heat. You hear june bugs chitter in the rafters as you unclip Flora from the wagon and lead her to a stable. Fauna’s big ears flap towards her sister, brown eyes sparkling, almost bragging.

Ha, ha, you had to be in the fields today.

“None of that,” you scold, as you loosen the leather cord around your jaw and let your hat fall back against your shoulders. “You’ll be getting it soon enough, missy.” 

“You know, talking to animals is the first sign of going crazy.” 

Sarah slides silently through the side door and offers you a towel. She smells of soap, her bouncy hair pulled back today, her smile soft and warm, and you take it, rubbing it up behind your neck. 

“Well, at least I get a warning,” you grin. Sarah was no longer the same plagued girl you met those months ago. 

The ground had shifted in more ways than one the morning of Sarah’s recovery. Of course, there was still pain and soreness, but for the first time in months, she felt strong enough to walk around without her braces. She couldn’t run, couldn’t move fast, but standing next to Ellie, there was nothing that would suggest them any different. She seemed taller, hair bouncier, a focused glint in her eye that wasn’t there before, as if she alone had decided something rather vital. 

Her treatments of warm compresses and exercises went from daily to weekly to now every other week. Once she’d seen you walk through the steps of her therapy, she started to do it on her own in her room. Preventative and calculating. 

The days she can now spend outside doing laundry and planting fresh herbs have done her good. Her healthy skin glows. 

But there’s something delicate about the way she does, or rather, does not look at you now in the barn. An energy you can’t quite place, one that seems to hum louder as the months pass. She watches you, a placid smile on her face, her shoulders halfway turned to the barn door as if she wants to be the first one to see them open. 

“Has Ellie come by yet?” She asks breezily, her fingers lightly running against the edge of the stack of towels tucked up under arm. “I saw my dad walk off to the house, but she wasn’t with him.”

“No, I haven’t. But if they’re back, she should be around here somewhere. Is there something wrong? Are you alright?”

Sarah inhales, round eyes widening – caught – but she shakes her head. “No, of course not. I just . . . I’m just wondering if they had a successful trip.” 

If you knew her better than only for six weeks, you’d think she might be anxious. She goes quiet as she watches the barn doors. The arch in her neck belies tension. You realize she has one of your dresses folded over her arm. 

“Sarah, are you –,”

Everett’s irritated whinny cuts you short and the barn door is thrown back as a short figure tugs the off-white horse into the cool half-light. 

“Yeah, I know I smell. It’s not like you’re a bucket of roses either, pal.” 

At least crazy runs in the family. 

“How was the run?” Sarah asks immediately as Everett clops by dramatically, the weight of the world seemingly on his hooves. The kerchief around Ellie’s neck is crusted over with dirt. 

“Good. Really good, actually. Got a shit load of supplies.” 

Ellie, another changed casualty in all of this. Except, instead of shedding an old skin, she’s grown a new one. The original. Something that, perhaps, always was there. 

She removes the saddle with practiced ease, despite it being nearly twice her size, and puts it on the stock post, just as Joel had shown her. She returns to Everett with a brush and a blanket, because the sun is going down soon and the night will be cold – just like Joel had told her. She banters a bit with Sarah, the work almost mindless with her confidence.

She has taken to this life like a fish takes to water, as Anna would have said. 

But what would your sister think of this life you had rushed her daughter into? Are calloused hands and thick, ruddy skin – supply runs into ghost towns – all that she wanted for her only child?

This, among threads of Joel, keeps you up at night. 

But these are the least of Sarah’s concerns about Ellie. Her fingers dig into your dress as if to physically stop herself from lunging forward. 

“What’s the town like? Are there people still there? Has anyone new come in?”

Ellie shrugs as she unhooks Everett’s bridle. “Boring, like four, and I probably wouldn’t know.” Ellie’s eyes widen, a small smile unfurling across her lips. “But we found a radio. Joel said we couldn’t keep it but – oh, wait, Joel said he was looking for you. Had something he wanted to show you.” 

You blink as Ellie and Sarah, in twin movements, glance to you.

“Oh? What was it?”

“I dunno. But he’s up in the kitchen unpacking the supplies if you wanna go ask.” 

“Was there–,” The corners of Sarah’s mouth goes red as she is suddenly seized by a violent, hacking cough. Both you and Ellie move towards her, but she waves you off. She steps back, turning her mouth into her elbow, her back shuddering as she gasps in air only to choke on it again. 

“Must’ve – breathed wrong–,” her eyes are watery. “I’m – fine.” 

In recent weeks, despite the rest of her body prospering, Sarah’s cough had turned rather rough. But every time you check her airways, she’s clear. Still, the concern lingers – you see it in Ellie’s eyes too. It’s not the kind of cough that comes from polio, you know this. You self-soothe with this. But you think of the white flags in the fields and something sour rolls down your spine.

You meet Ellie’s gaze while Sarah’s back is turned. Excitement, agitation, they had been bringing on more and more coughing spells – whenever Sarah tried to breathe too deeply. Ellie shakes her head at you, jerking her head back towards the house. I got this. In a low tone, she offers Sarah some water who drinks it gratefully. 

 It’s not the kind of cough that comes from polio.

The last bit of sunlight drips down below the horizon, lazy and pungent. A quick glance out to the fields, you can barely see the flags in the periwinkle distance. The air is warm, buzzing with a lingering heat from the escaping sun. You inhale, closing your eyes just for a moment, as you slope up the creaking wooden steps to the porch, and exhale, a chaff of tension sliding off your shoulders. 

When you first came here, you could barely stand the thought of being alone in the same room as him, just like with any other man. But eventually you learned that Joel Miller is unlike any other man in the world, unlike anyone you’ve ever met before. The foreign alchemy of his quiet nature, his diligence over the land, and his deep, endless well of love for Sarah was all at once confusing and – strangely – exciting. 

Earning Joel’s trust precipitated a steady climb or thundering fall – you just weren’t sure which yet. 

Despite the lateness of the hour, Joel hasn’t turned on the kitchen lights, coating the kitchen in a film of purple, blurring edges, and spreading shadows. His broad back greets you first, arm still deep in his pack at the table, when you shut the back door and move for the sink. 

“Ellie says the supply run went well. I hope that means you didn’t run into any trouble.” The rushing of the faucet saves him from having to answer, but you feel his eyes on your back, your shoulders, the flat seat of your hat between your shoulder blades. Brown muck runs down the drain. 

“It was fine. Did she mention anything?”

“No.” You shake your head, digging at the dirt under your nails with another hand. “Why? What did you find?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, at least.” 

Joel never rushes unless he means to. He holds everything in before he speaks, each word as deliberate as the sway of his shoulders, the crunch of his knuckles. But this – how he talks now as if the words he says are chosen at the very last second – it feels like he’s hiding something.

In the failing light, you face him, eyebrows tugged down. 

“Joel? What is it?” 

At the table, he’s no longer digging around in the pack. With one hand on the table, fingers lightly pressing into the wood surface, he stands as if bracing for impact. He works his jaw back and forth, eating letter after letter, word after word, until –

“C’mere.” 

The deep timber of his voice strokes the back of your neck, releasing a quiver down your spine, heart suddenly up in your throat. It’s not fear you’re feeling, not exactly, but it makes you break out in goosebumps all the same. 

You go to him without question. 

But like a magnet repelled, he steps back the closer you get. With his gaze, he points to the array of supplies. On the table, in almost a sterile, clinical order, is the cache of medical items you requested. Medicine for Sarah, potential treatments for burns or cuts. The bigger items like splints or canes aren’t there, you didn’t expect them anyway, but you could treat the four of you for months with what they’ve found. You open your mouth, praise and appreciation on the tip of your tongue, but he still hasn’t looked up, hasn’t looked at you. He stares at the pack on the table with trepidation.

Wordlessly compelled, you reach into the nearly empty pack until your hand closes around one single item.

You draw it out, the jar cool against your overheated skin.

Luxor. You can’t tear your eyes away from the glass jar. 

His voice is so rough it barely makes it out of his mouth.

“For burns.” His gaze drops to your hands, which have since healed after the night of Sarah’s fit. Weeks ago, in fact. “It wasn’t on the list, but –,”

Oh, Joel. Your throat is sealed shut. You have to nearly wrench your jaw open to push words out of your mouth.

“No, no, that’s fine – that’s –,” you press the glass to the spread of your clavicle to ease your pounding heart. 

This wasn’t on the list. And yet he . . .

Your choice was either to look at him or shatter apart. 

How can a man almost fifty years old look so boyishly uncomfortable? 

“This . . . I . . . this is wonderful. Thank you, Joel. I mean it. Thank you so much. ”

You can already smell the rose water. You wonder if Joel likes the smell of rose water. His jaw unclenches enough, relieved, and his lips almost form – a memory, a dream, an aspiration of – a smile, and he says: 

“You’re welcome.”

In the half-light, you stare at him far longer than you ever have before – and he stares right back. 

In the half-light, you hear it, louder and more cruel than before:

You can’t deny this anymore.

“Okay, who can tell me the difference between genus and family in biological classification?”

One hand in the air.

“Yes?”

“A genus contains one or more species. A family contains one or more genera.”

“Correct. And how does this relate to our lesson last week?”

“We were identifying different species of crops, but how they often overlap in genera.” 

“Correct again.” 

You bend over and pick up the basket at your feet. In the motion, you can feel your dress unstick itself from the warm dampness clinging to your skin beneath your armpit. The summer day is hot, scorchingly so, and only made worse by the lack of a breeze and the immobile stench of cow in the barn air. It’s a different kind of smell than the one that soaked your husband’s dugout – burnt cow chips –  but it is still gut-churningly familiar. You wonder if Ellie remembers that smell as intensely as you do. 

But if she does, she doesn’t show it. Ellie always could hide her emotions better than you. Head down, she draws circles on the wooden table with her finger, side-by-side with Sarah. The girls’ chairs come from the dining room and the table is an old woodworking mount that Joel repurposed for your classroom. It’s uneven and heavy, but the wood is as smooth as butter. After the harvest, he promised a new one, but you don’t think you could bear getting rid of it.

Ellie jumps when you drop the basket in front of her. You return to the back of the barn, gather up another basket, and leave this one with Sarah, whose eyes grow wide when she catches a glimpse of the contents inside. 

With the single square of chalkboard, made from paint and grout, and a rapidly-dwindling nugget of chalk, you write three words:

Genus

Common name

Poisonous

The chalk clicks as you press a small circle beneath the question mark. 

“You have ten minutes to identify the genus of each of the mushrooms within your basket, as well as its common name and whether or not it’s poisonous.” 

Sarah sits up even further in her chair, eyes bright and mouth a sharp line. She loves pop quizzes. 

You had thought of Ellie’s strokes with her knife outside at sunset, her physicality with the animals, and her near abhorrence for traditional learning when designing this particular test. Despite her resistance to any sort of structure, Ellie had been quick to follow directions and provide support as Anna got sicker and sicker. Ellie would make a good nurse – a good anything – but that potential only simmers, never indulged. Anna would have known how to bring it out in her, you often think. The best you can do is try and adjust your lesson to make this at least partially entertaining for her. 

Her forehead shining, her gaze brushes each mushroom in the basket with slow intention.

“Licking them probably won’t help, right?” She smirks at you as she plucks one out and spins it with her fingers. Smartass, as always, but for once – engaged. You try to muffle the spark of excitement in your fingertips.

“That’s one way to determine if they’re poisonous or not,” you reply just as flippantly. “But you’d better be sure.” 

Ellie’s smirk lightens to a grin, her head tucking down as she starts to rifle through her basket. Sarah already has her basket empty and is sorting her mushrooms into the corners of her table. She hasn’t once looked up from her task since you set the timer. Head down, eyes bright, lips tucked tightly between her teeth, you can almost hear her reviewing her notes in her head as she carefully picks up each mushroom, testing the spongy flesh with her thumbnail, watching if any flakes fall off, and glancing at your handmade chart of the animal classifications every few touches. 

Ellie merely sniffs hers. 

You turn, hiding your grin to catch a glimpse of the outside blue sky.

The timer goes off and Flora groans at the loud noise. Sarah correctly identifies all the mushrooms, while Ellie only knows the poisonous kinds. Close enough and perhaps most practical. 

“Just so you know,” Ellie begins to Sarah, head again in the cradle of her palm, her eyes watching you as you swipe the mushrooms back into the basket, “most pop quizzes aren’t fun like that at a real school. Usually it’s just math and the clock makes an annoying little ticking noise the entire time.”

Sarah’s eyes brighten, I love math clearly on the tip of her tongue, before she settles a bit and she scoffs, sophomorically indignant. 

“Yeah, of course, I know that.”

“So you better hope they keep the school shut down for a long, long time.” Ellie leans back in her seat and presses the soles of her sneakers to the edge of the table. “That place is the worst.” 

Sarah shrugs, practicing some of Ellie’s casual indifference. “You’re probably right. It’s definitely lame. Just . . . it would be kinda cool for a change of scenery or whatever.”

“Um, you’re not gonna get a better change of scenery than this.” Ellie bats her eyelashes with her eyes crossed, tongue out, and Sarah giggles. 

“Oh, whatever,” she swats Ellie across her shin, “like you wouldn’t go crawling up the walls if you had to live here every single day, day in and day out.”

You slow in your collection of your supplies, something she said the day of the supply run scuttling up the banks of your memory to prod you in the back of your head. Ellie concedes by crossing her arms, contemplative. “Still better than school.” 

“How long did you go to the school in Dalhart?” You ask as you erase the white chalk on the board. 

“Since it opened,” Sarah replies. “I hadn’t gotten sick yet and it wasn't anything special. It was kinda far from here, but Dad always made sure I got there on time. He always wanted me to get an education, focus on school and studying. He never wanted me to be a farmer like him.”

That sends the front leg’s of Ellie’s chair to the hard, packed dirt. “Really? Why?”

“I dunno. But I guess it all worked out. I’m better at memorization and trig than I am at carrying a saddle.”

“What’s trig?” Ellie asks, head tilted. 

“It’s a kind of math –,”

“Advanced math,” you interject. 

“Yeah, I guess. But my teacher at school really made it fun! She’d stay after class and show me things that weren’t in the textbooks, or even in the syllabus. And Sam, he’d –,” 

All at once, Sarah’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes diving to the floor. She tugs a bouncy curl behind her ear as Ellie’s frown deepens.

“Sam? Who’s Sam?” 

“No one. He was just – this boy – in my grade and he was really good at trig too and he lived right outside Dalhart for years and sometimes he’d help me when I got stuck on certain problems,” Sarah rambles, her voice a tick higher. ��His family left the year they shut the school down.”

You stifle a grin. A crush. Sarah Miller has a crush on a boy. Even at the end of the line, at the end of hope. 

Ellie, however, remains completely baffled.

“Yeah and? He’s just some guy.”

Sarah blanches at the suggestion that she might have to defend him past being “just some guy” while trying to keep her secret of him being “the guy” all at once, so you step in and save her.

“Did you ever spend time with Sam outside of school?”

Sarah shakes her head no. 

“Not even with a group of people?”

At that, she bites the corner of her mouth, the heel of her brown boot circling in the dirt. You know her cheeks are fire-hot.

“No. My dad totally would have found out.” 

Ellie stares at both of you as if you had started speaking gibberish. And then she blinks.

“Oh – you mean like a date.”

“Who’s going on a date?” 

The three of you jump at the masculine voice that breaks out from the back of the barn. Those thick brows furrow in as Joel visibly wonders if he walked into something he shouldn’t have. On the days you have class, he spends his time repairing things around the farm, often taking stock of the cellar in preparation for the harvest and then the winter. Whatever he had been working on has a wet flush peeking out from under his collar – not the heated lather that comes from the fields, but a run-off of the hot summer day. He wipes his brow, mouth parted slightly.

You stand upright, as if the headmaster had just strolled in. Well, to a certain point, he had. 

Ellie, with the least amount of skin in the game, rolls her eyes.

“We were talking about boys.”

One of those dark eyebrows twitch up as his gaze roams from Ellie to you to Sarah, who you think you see sink a fraction of an inch in her chair. 

“Oh.”

“We were learning about poisonous fungi as part of the curriculum on important flora,” you say pointedly to Ellie. “That particular topic came up at the end of the lesson. Both girls scored very well on their pop quiz.”

Joel nods, wiping his hands on his shirt. 

This Joel, the By-the-Light-of-Day Joel, is different from the Joel that meets you on the purple, blurry edge of night and day. The shadows that soften the world soften him too, the hidden planes of his face affording you delusions of further softness regarding his own feelings towards you – feelings of, if not companionship, at least respect. There were times you were righteously sure of how and where you stood in Joel Miller’s eyes – he appreciated you enough to watch over his land and his daughter – and then there were times you could have been on entirely different planets. A twisted Space Family Robinson, alone and lost in the cold vacuum. 

The Joel that gave you the cream for your burned palms is not the same Joel that stands before you. He fidgets with the rag in his hand, weight shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Sweat leaks into your hairline, and you are suddenly overcome by the desire for him to look at you. 

“Given how close it is to the harvest, I thought having some extra hands who know what we’re looking for might help. Might be useful to you.”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, as his gaze falls to Sarah. “But I don’t want you overworking anything.” 

Her eyelashes flutter as she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m not overworking myself. I’ve been studying, like you asked.” 

“And it shows in your work.” You smile. Sarah pins you with her own vulnerable gaze. “You’re an excellent student, Sarah.” 

The tension in her shoulders eases and she sits up straighter, grinning. 

Something flashes across Ellie’s face out of the corner of your eye and she leans forward, mouth twisted with a thick smirk.

“Bet you were a lot better student with Saaam around!”

“Ellie, shut up!” She springs up in agitation, her eyes wide, her jaw tight as she rounds on the other girl.

“Who’s Sam?”

“The boy Sarah’s going on a date with–,”

“I am not!” Sarah snaps, her voice wavering at the end. 

Those dry lips curl up, a smile hidden somewhere beneath that wiry beard, and Joel puts his hands on his hips. “I know that’s right. No dating ‘til you’re thirty.” 

Sarah’s grip tightens around the back of her chair, her mouth tipped down, eyes blazing. 

“That’s not funny, Dad.”

“I’m not tryin’ to be funny,” he replies, very seriously. “Just want you to know the rules.”

Whether or not Joel actually has any rules around Sarah’s dating life, it doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that he very clearly, unintentionally or not, brushed up against something that, for Sarah, was very, very tender. 

She stands, awkwardly lurching out of her chair as it catches on the dirt floor. Her delicate fingers clenched into fists, she darts off for the back door.

“It’s not like anything’d ever happen anyway,” and she’s out into the sunlight. 

By the shocked look on Joel’s face, that might be the first teen tantrum he’s ever witnessed. Instinctively, he takes a step forward, an apology in the curve of his lips, but you reach out with a hand, even though he’s several feet from you.

“Joel –,” your fingers flutter close, politely rejecting the implication they know what his skin feels like. “Just give her some time.” You glance at Ellie, whose expression is dark, confused. “Both of you. She needs some time to cool down.”

Joel frowns at you, more at your words, evidently just as confused as Ellie. Of course a man could not fathom why it would feel so ridiculously cruel to a girl to be teased about a boy by her father. You smile at Joel’s instinct, your own father never possessing such a level of concern. A girl could be such a fragile thing after all.

“Would you talk to her? After she, hm, has some space?” 

His thumb anxiously edges the ridges of his forefinger, then his palm. He looks at you, uncomfortable, as if his request is particularly unwieldy, too much for anyone but him to bear. But, to you, this gift is lighter than air.

Joel’s trust makes your heart soar. 

Only to come crashing down. 

You are not capable of this kindness, this nurturing, guiding hand that some women and men ingratiate on instinct alone. You’ve failed Ellie, you know – you feel it in the distance between you and your niece – the best you can offer is a teacher, a thoughtful friend whose insular life is a world away entirely. No more, even when she needs it the most.

Nurture. It’s not what you do. 

“I – I can’t – I don’t know what – would she even listen to me because I don’t think –,”

There’s a conviction in his eyes as he looks at you that wasn’t there when you first set foot on the homestead, an acquired belief that had grown over the past few weeks with you as you learned and serviced the land under his guiding hands. 

That ping of his steel gaze against the porcelain of your skin. It makes something within you sing. 

  “Alright, Joel. I’ll try.” 

Quietly, without much conjecture or fanfare, Sarah has taken over doing the laundry for the whole house.

She rises with the sun. Not the blurry violet light smearing shadows, but the dawn – bold, bright, loud and full of thunderous color. She rises in the gold morning and, arms full of sweaty, dirt-thick clothes, she gathers them all into a white wicker basket and takes them out into the backyard near the spigot and the wide, low-set wooden basin. From the time you see the screen door shutter open until the moment you and Joel guide the heat-lathered animals back into the barn, she scrubs the dirt loose on the metal washboard then pinches the clothes high in the white, dry air.

And then, in the falling darkness, she carries her wicker basket, attached to her hip, around the house, laying out towels in the proper cupboards, and folded shirts smelling of sun-drenched air inside heavy dresser drawers. She tucks her dresses inside the line-thin wardrobe and, occasionally, she lays yours out on the bed. 

So it’s not entirely surprising to find her in the room you share with Ellie – the room that used to hold storage, old suitcases, and paintings, things of Joel’s foremothers and forefathers, where Ellie has now started to store her collection of unearthed arrowheads and snake skins – standing at the foot of your bed, with your yellow dress between her fingers. 

What is surprising, however, is the reverent, almost-delicate way she touches the buttons, strokes the faded lace, pinches the thin fabric between her fingers, like it’s made of threaded gold. Like it’s so much more than just a dress.

You watch her for a moment, from the shadows of the hallway. With Ellie, you never had to pick apart her feelings – either she made them known or would snap and snarl at anyone who dared to coax them out. Anna had eventually stopped coming to you for advice as you both got older, deciding to handle her personal problems all on her own because everything you said turned out wrong. You worked so well with your hands because your mouth couldn’t be trusted to be of any help.

And yet, looking at a girl who is brave and curious, but perhaps as lonely as you are – maybe you could just speak from the heart instead. As you get closer, under the sloshing anxiety, curiosity tugs on you: why did she come here – to your room? 

“My mother gave me that.” Sarah jumps at your voice, the late afternoon sun through the window coaxing the russet out of her curls and her large brown eyes. She drops your dress as if she had been snooping around in your things as opposed to simply doing her self-assigned chores and steps back. 

“I’m sorry – I-I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just . . . it’s pretty.” 

“She made it by hand,” you say. “But you have dresses just as pretty, Sarah.” 

You slide away from the door frame to touch the dress on the bed. It had been your mother’s. You always hated it. You thought, briefly, when she first tossed it to you, that it might be cursed. Might bring down your father’s eye towards you, away from her for once. And you had been right – sort of. He came for you all the same, the dress nothing but a waving flag that to him signaled your own complicity. But Sarah stares at it with a certain fascination, roused into alertfulness by something awakening inside her. 

The conditions of the farm, of being field hand, barely lent itself to the constriction of being beautiful, of being lovely and soft. You, like every other challenge that had been placed in front of you, swallowed that fact whole; an acceptance that Joel didn’t seem to care what you wore because he didn’t care to look at you at all. 

You sit on the bed, watching the young girl in front of you. She’s made improvements, her health not the underlying current in every room for weeks now, but now, sitting so close to her, you can see the weight of that disease. The weight of an unconscious consumption in a conscious body. Sarah’s hand trembles as she touches the dress again. 

“I don’t have anything of my mother’s,” she says simply. “I don’t have anything I didn’t make or my dad bought in Dalhart.” 

The dress means so much to her precisely because it’s your mother’s. Sarah doesn’t know how she fell apart, just that she raised you. Staring at your mother’s dress, you are quite confident that she would hiss and spit at the hard woman you’ve become. For once, and gratefully, this dress no longer feels like hers, or yours because you had avoided the same fate that befell her while entombed in this dress. And you weren’t about to subject Sarah to your family’s curse. 

You stand and pull out a blue pin-striped dress from your drawer, one that you’d had since you were her age, but one that never seemed quite right and over the years had grown too short on your calves and too small around the waist. You take it out and hold it over her shoulders.

“I think this is about your size.” You inspect it thoughtfully. “Have it. Wear it for the next school year. Or, one day, on your first day as a freshman in college.” 

She peels the dress away from her body like it sticks uncomfortably to her skin and laughs – a huff, a sharp release between tight ribs. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t like it?” Your heart seizes – did you say the wrong thing?

“Oh, no, no, no – I do – it’s beautiful, I’m sorry, I mean – but school – college – I don’t think it’s for me.” 

The dress bunches in her fists as she holds it in her lap. She hasn’t drawn it towards her but hasn’t set it on the bed. You frown. She is capable enough to pass the entrance exams and she knows it too. This is something else, something you could see she didn’t want to address directly, or simply couldn’t. 

Your mother’s yellow dress was a signal for you too: a blazing icon, a silent voice screaming –  you don’t belong with these people with whom you share only blood. You do not belong to them.

The silence stretches thin, lean and taught. You don’t know how to pick up the threads of her denials, so you simply march forward, into the crux of things.

“I was wondering if we could talk about today.” You start over. “An outburst like that isn’t all like you at all, Sarah, and your father and I are concerned. You know he was just teasing you.”

Her hands tighten their grip around the folds of your dress. “I know.” She squeezes her eyes shut. The silence lingers, sitting down heavy on the mattress underneath you. What do you say to a fourteen year old whose girlhood was vastly different from yours? Who has a father that loves her and a safe place to sleep at night – how could you possibly compare? As dozens, if not hundreds, of compassionate but meaningless comforting cliches race through your head, you take her hand and squeeze it and you decide to tell her what you at fourteen always dreamed of hearing.

“It’s okay if he doesn’t understand you, Sarah, but he loves you. He’d do anything for you.”

“I know. “ She repeats in a voice that says she doesn’t. The back of her free hand pressed against her lips, she lets out a sound like a hiccup and sob. Sarah closes her eyes with a sigh. “You’re right. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get it. And even though Ellie and I have gotten really close . . . she doesn’t get it either.” 

You scoot closer to her and squeeze her hand again. “Doesn’t get what, darling?” 

Sarah lifts her gaze and you see hope in her shiny gaze. A flame, small, but bright – flickering, building as if swelling under music, a tune that existed without shape or ears to hear it until this moment. 

Until something sang out to it. 

“How?”

“How what?”

“How do you see the world?” 

You sit back and she leans forward, the blue dress tighter in her hands than ever before, that spark in her eyes burning.

“I want to be like you and go to Boston. I . . . I wanna see skyscrapers and ride in taxis and take elevators as high as they can go. I wanna ride across the country on a train and eat in beautiful restaurants. I want to go to college, to learn, and carry textbooks, and go to a giant stadium and watch football – and I –,”

She swallows down a gulp of air, hands shaking from the tension in her knuckles, and in the pause, you touch her shoulder, like you would Flora if she were agitated. That completely derails her train of thought and she lets out the air in her lungs with a sigh so fast, it’s almost a hiss.

“Sarah, darling, why do you think you won’t ever have those things? Your dad wants you to be happy, to follow any dream you have –,”

“But I can’t leave him.” 

Sarah’s thumb rubs the thin fabric almost mournfully. When she speaks, her voice is tight, cramped with grief. 

“He’s given everything he has to keep me healthy and safe, especially because it’s just been the two of us for so long. More than anything, I want to make him proud, and so I study, and I study, and I work hard the only way I can –,” she swallows, her long lashes fluttering against her skin. “I can’t abandon him. I won’t. Not for something this . . . silly.”

Calmly, she puts the dress on the bed and stands, her hand and shoulder slipping out of your grasp, the wicker laundry basket still at her feet. 

“Thank you for the dress. But I think it'd be better if we just . . . forget about this.”

There is so much of you in her, it hurts to accept she is not yours, in any capacity.

“Sarah, do you know what rouge is?” 

The resignation melts from her face, those curls twisting towards you in curiosity. 

“I think so? It’s what women wear on their faces, right? To make their lips . . . um, redder?”

“Have you ever worn it?” 

Eyes go wide; a dawning and the enforcement of protection for a vulnerable thing all at once. “No?”

“Would you like to?”

You stand and go to the tan, leather trunk. It’s old, out of time, bears the marks of the frontier before it was settled and it keeps the last few talismans you’ve dragged to the ends of the earth. Your hand goes to a small cloth bag at the bottom.

Sarah is like you in many ways, but then again, she is nothing like you.

The day you and Anna ran away from home was the best day of your life. So much so, it became your escape strategy for everything. Run and hide for cover until the storm has passed. Staring up at you, her brown eyes blazing with hope as you gesture for her to come back into the room, you know Sarah has never run away from anything in her life. So, in this moment, you decide to bring everything else to her. 

“My sister and I lived next to an old woman when we were kids. Our parents were always out working, so we stayed with her a lot. And she always let us play around in her cosmetics.” You sit, the click of blush compacts and mascara loud as you dig through the bag“A girl in school must always look her best.” You pause and pull out what you were looking for. “This is real rouge from Lancome. Would you like to wear it?”

Eyes wider still, she drops onto your bed as if her knees suddenly gave out, her head nodding vigorously. She watchest the small tail of the brush twist in your fingers, around and around the pot, gathering the paste like dust on a wet cloth. 

“Open your mouth. Just a little bit, soften your lips. Yep, just like that.” 

She jerks back, half her mouth as pink as a sunset and curled up into a giggle. “Sorry, that tickled. It’s cold.”

“Feels weird, right?” You wrinkle your nose at her with a smile. She nods, grinning.

“Sorry, I’ll be still, I promise. Keep going, please.” 

You finish her lips and return to your cosmetics clutch. The metal lining is cold, as if it had been left in the dark. With care, you push the realization that you haven’t touched this bag in weeks out of your head. 

“You know, my sister loved getting all dolled up like this. Tilt your head to the window.” 

“Really?” Sarah murmurs. “From how Ellie talks about her . . .”

“Hard to believe, right?”

She doesn’t want to move again, but the eye contact she makes with you is all the sheepish nod you need. 

“By the time Ellie came around, there really wasn’t much time to spoil ourselves like this.” You smile softly, adding a few more strokes of blush against her high cheekbones. “But, a long time ago, Anna was an artist.” 

Sarah hums noncommittally, her gaze hovering around the edges of the window sill. When the blush kit clicks close, she looks at you. 

“My uncle Tommy was – is – that way too.”

“How so?”

“He liked writing stories, which I guess is a different kind of artist. But he’d come up with these crazy fairytales and I always thought he got them from books, but he said he made them up, off the top of his head.” She quiets when you take out the small palette of eyeshadow and tell her to close her eyes. “I think that’s why he left in the first place. He didn’t want to stay on this farm his whole life.” 

Her skin is soft, forgiving, as you dust the powder over her eyelids with your ring finger, the lightest touch you can offer. 

“Have you seen him since he left?”

“No,” she says, staying as still as possible. “Dad says if he wanted to see us, he’d make the effort . . . or he wouldn’t have moved out there at all.” 

Her words slide a stint up into the crevices of your heart, the reasoning behind her hesitancy to leave all the more apparent, but you close the two-color palette without saying anything else. With a few flicks, you finish her glamor with some light mascara.

“Now,” you say as you close the black tube. “Would you like to see yourself?”

Sarah’s eyes spring open, the russet vein of that thrumming, hopeful fire bright.

“Yes. Yes, please.” 

Despite the erosion of the very core of you brought on by the sheer enormity of what it takes to survive in this world, this little tarnished gold disc is the weight of your own vanity in the palm of your hand. Yet every time you open it, you hoped for a glimpse of Anna’s beautiful blue eyes, the curve of her smile, the bounce of a dark curl the way she kept it as a child. The mirror rarely felt like a mirror, more a clear window into the murky cold fog of your past. 

To every cop and ticket-taker on a train who looked through your purse, you kept a compact mirror for vain, silly reasons because, as a woman, you are a vain and silly thing. 

But at the look in Sarah Miller’s eyes, as you reveal the great and powerful secrets of ancient sisterhood to her, this compact is a mirror, and a window, and a weapon all at once. 

“This . . . is what I look like?” Her voice is barely a whisper. She turns her head slowly back and forth slowly, the powder shimmering on her cheeks, a queen surveying her jewels. “H-h-how?” 

“Practice.” You hand her the compact and she takes it, her own hand trembling. She hasn’t looked away from the mirror for an instant. You sit beside her on the bed, her crossed knee pressing up against your thigh and you wait. You wait until she’s had her look, until she’s absorbed her image from every angle, and you slip the cosmetics bag into her lap. She stares at it, and then her eyes widen. “And the right tools. With that, you can do this anytime you want. Do anything you want.” 

“Really?” Small. Hesitant. Hopeful. 

“Really. It’s yours . . . to do what you want with it.” 

“Then I want to do it to you!” Sarah’s smile erupts across her face immediately, her fingers digging into the soft pink material. “I have to practice somehow and I think Ellie will come after me with that knife of hers if I try it on her.” 

You grin, already picturing Ellie’s hackles going straight up if she sees Sarah anywhere near her with that bag. You nod and Sarah actually squeals. You can’t help but grin as she flips through the jars and compacts in the bag.

“Okay, okay – it’s easier to start with any concealer – this one. I didn’t use any on you because you’re far too young and beautiful to need it.” 

Sarah flushes as she unscrews the pot and takes up the brush you hold out for her. With familiar diligence, Sarah’s hand is steady and her dark eyes are clear and focused. She absorbs every instruction you give her, every tip you offer. 

For a minute, there is no farm. No debt to be paid. No pain or disfigurement. Only a bond, one willingly given and one willingly taken. For once in your life, connection is wonderfully easy. 

“Did you know it’s Ellie’s birthday tomorrow?” You ask after a while, mouth stiff as she applies rouge to your lips.

Sarah stops, her eyes widening. “No! She hasn’t said anything!” But then she makes a face. “Actually, I think I’d be more shocked if she did.” 

“I know there isn’t much I can offer her all the way out here. But . . .” And maybe this is where you take it a step too far. All Joel asked of you was to make sure Sarah was alright. None of this had anything to do with the argument she had with her father. Maybe this is incredibly selfish on your part. But, whether you – or Joel – like it or not, you care for Sarah, in a way that was entirely different and exactly like how you cared for Ellie. You couldn’t help but want more than to make sure that Sarah is just alright. You pull away from the brush in her hand and hold her gaze. “I was wondering if you wanted to help me make her a cake.” 

Sarah’s face nearly shines with joy.

Cool. 

A sensation that draws heat, soothes aggravation, exhilarates that which is dry.

Water, fresh and clear, anoints your forehead and sinks into your hair. It pours off your shoulders, catching the soft skin near your hips, your calves. Droplets pepper your toes like embers from a fire. 

Another splash and the water spills over the crown of your head, through the thickness of your already damp hair, threatening to drip onto the back of your neck and send a flood of chills down your exposed skin – 

But a warm hand cups you near the base of your skull and a new sensation flutters awake, this time from within.

“Good?” His voice. You hear it more in your chest. It’s deep, rumbling. Patient. 

You can’t find enough of your body to tell him, yes, Joel, yes, feels so good.

His wide hand slides down your bare back, a warm stone against the river of your skin, and another spout of water drenches you again. 

A second hand joins the exploration of your body, massaging and squeezing all at once. Slow, steady fingers curl around the wings of your ribs, then where your skin thickens and swells, his nails scraping across the low curve of your breasts.

Oh. Oh, Joel. 

“Tell me you want this.”

That voice prickles your ears, the rough scrape of a beard nebulous on your shoulder, just as you had always hoped it would be. Water splashes you again and every inch of your shudders.

“I won’t stop.”

Don’t. Please. 

“I won’t stop. You just have to pick it up.” 

His hands are gone, his warmth evaporated. 

The water is suddenly slick, lichen-drenched, and stagnant. It lurks by your ankles.

Pick it up. 

The stone walls at the bottom of the well ring with coldness. You shiver, naked and alone. Afraid, as frozen as a block of salt. 

Don’t just stand there. You’ll never do it. Just pick it up. That voice. You hate that voice.

The barrel of the gun brushes against the edge of your foot, the head of a snake gliding in the water –

You grab wakefulness by the throat and use it to yank yourself out of the nightmare. 

The familiar silence of the early gray morning in the kitchen that had become comfortable as of late is decidedly – worryingly – not. Your shoulders are taut, straight as a board from end to end. Over the suds and the dishes your hands move mechanically, ignoring the clatter of knives and forks and the rush of water. But above everything else, it’s the expression on your face that concerns Joel the most.

Even when you’ve worked yourself to exhaustion, there’s normally a light in your eyes that settles something restless inside of him, even after hours of labor. A source of strength that he finds himself eager to chase, to let it flood him – but right now, as you stand at the kitchen sink, you’re gone. Elsewhere, disappeared into blackness where that brightness used to be. 

If he were a different man, a man capable of this sort of concern, he could ask you about it. At the very least get you to look at him. During breakfast, amidst the girls’ playful bickering, you hadn’t even noticed he, or anyone, was there. You had eaten as though your spine had been sealed to an iron rod – stiff, painful. Ellie and Sarah had run out a while ago, Sarah leaving to gather up the laundry and Ellie to let the animals out to pasture. He isn’t even sure if you noticed that he stayed behind, but that stirring behind his chest, one that’s become more insistent when you’re around, froze up to a painful knot at the thought of leaving you alone like this. Like you were caught someplace where you might not come back from. 

So, straddling this widening gap he fears slipping off of, Joel lands on the only thing he knows where there is some common ground:

“Don’t think I said anything before, but Ellie’s a pretty brave kid.” 

At her name, you blink. Slow the scrub of soap across the plate, then stop. You look at him and the darkness is not so deep in your gaze. He busies his hands with picking up a rag and beginning to dry the stack of plates to your right.

“Oh?” Recognition flickers over your face as if you’re suddenly aware of who you were talking to. A tender crease appears between your eyes. He dries off another plate and turns to face the sink, to hide the curve of his mouth from you. 

“You’re surprised.” 

You blink, glance down at his hands, and pick up the sponge again. 

“No – I’m not – I mean, I know she’s a good kid, but . . .” You swallow, brow furrowed again. “What did she say to you?”

“Hm, not so much said anything as just listened. Stayed close, kept quiet. Left no rock unturned.” The edges of his sleeves are damp. You have your dress sleeves pushed all the way up past your elbows; it’s Saturday, a brief respite from the cycle of labor in the fields. The skin over your forearm and wrist looked particularly delicate against the breakfast table, now hidden by the soap and the water. Joel dries the cup in his hand with a bit more force. “She’s smart too. Knew all about iodine and what it’s used for. Had some idea how to seal up a hot water bottle. I’s glad to have her with me.” 

You actually snort – without an ounce of respectability – and he stares at you, transfixed by a noise he’s fairly certain he’s never heard you make before. You duck your head as the small smile falls off your face, scrubbing the fork in your hand a bit rougher.

“Sorry. It’s just . . . Ellie doesn’t get along with most people, or . . . anyone for that matter. Sarah – well, Sarah could make friends with a feral cat so I’m not surprised they get along. But you . . .” You trail off and Joel shifts his weight back and forth, all the possibilities of what you meant reverberating in the spaces between his ribs. “I guess I’m just glad she didn’t piss you off.”

“Oh, it takes a lot to piss me off. ‘Cause I’m a casual and easy-going kinda guy, y’know.” 

You freeze again as if he had just tried to convince you the sky was green and you should be looking for some sort of head trauma. He lets a small grin spread over his mouth, even brighter as your eyes widen. A joke. He is teasing you. 

A soft, barely intimate gesture. 

You smile. He feels something shift in his chest. Whatever else happens today, he’ll keep that smile in his breast pocket. He clears his throat.

“Nah, she’s a good kid. Just needs an outlet, I think.” 

You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the sink. The cream lace curtains drawn horizontally across the window block out the brightening horizon. An early morning breeze smooths across the pasture grass, the light weak with the sun still low in the sky. The silence that follows is easier, something he can stomach. In the sink, the water sloshes, silverware clatters, and the plates squeak when he dries them off. The faint curves of your mouth he sees out of the corner of his eyes embolden him further.

“She, hm, ever mentioned any interest in music?”

You shrug. “Ellie and her mother loved dancing to our neighbor’s radio in our apartment in Boston. Why do you ask?”

“She found a radio while we were in town the other day, and she was curious. But with no radio here, the best I can do is a guitar – I know’ve got one around here somewhere and I figured she might like to learn some chords. But I wanted – hm –,” that goddamn tickle in the back of his throat, “wanted to make sure it’d be alright with you if I showed her a couple of things.” 

Eyes wide, soft lips parted – he doesn’t know where to carry the look you’re giving him now. 

“Y-yeah, Joel, that’ll be fine. If you think that’ll make her happy, then . . . of course.”

He nods, slowly, the hot realization that he’ll now have to approach Ellie with an offer for guitar lessons pricking the back of his neck. Her bewildered expression probably won’t look much different from his own.

“‘Least I could do, after what you did with Sarah.” He means going to talk to her, not the immense relief you’ve provided her physically the last few months. He still hasn’t said thank you for that – or that you indulge in her every academic desire or curiosity. There’s no question too outrageous or problem too difficult that she brings to you – and curiously, you seem delighted every time. “She, uh, she’s getting older and I don’t always . . .” It’s an admission of his own shortcomings and it twists his gut. But then that radiant smile returns to your face and he thinks he feels that restrictive choke of guilt ease . . . just a bit.

“She’s very special, Joel. We had fun.” You finish laying out the last bits of damp silverware and a plate or two on the drying rack, your hands all white with soap bubbles. And then you pause. “She . . .”

He catches the brush of your gaze as you look away, shoulders suddenly rigid. You were about to say something, something you assume that he doesn’t already know about Sarah. You have something precious of Sarah’s and you don’t look willing to share.

“What?” It comes out a bit rougher than he means, but his heart rate is up a tick and the corners of his mouth are dry. “She, what?”

You unplug the drain, your movements slow, hesitant.

“She has dreams, Joel, just like every other teenage girl.” 

“Of course she does. I know that.”

The murky water swirls low with a gurgle. You follow it with your eyes, the timbre of your voice low, but firm. “If you want to go out there and ask her what they are, then by all means, go talk to her. But she trusted me to keep her confidence.” 

He swallows, as much as your words burn him – deeper and hotter than he expected – you’re right, of course. But now, for the first time, there is a visible crack between him and his daughter. A wet slippery feeling snakes around the bottom of his spine, tying a knot in his stomach and grinding his voice down to a growl. 

“That is not your decision to make.” 

Your mouth is set firm, but the brightness of your eyes has faded, more distance between you and reality. More space, on the edge of a protective cavern. You step back, about two arm lengths away. 

“Joel,” you begin. “She is entitled to her privacy.” 

The knot in his stomach expands up into his ribs. His heart beats faster, attempting to stretch away from the hot iron in his gut but he can’t escape it. “What did you two talk about?”

“School. Makeup. Clothes. Her life here. ” 

His hands sweat. “What about her life? Is she unhappy?” 

“Oh, God, no, Joel, she loves you and she loves being here with you. She just wants –,”

“What? What does she want?” You stiffly turn to put away the dishes, to close him off, but he steps closer, over the already blurring lines. “Look, I took you and Ellie in off the streets – I hired you – to come here and look out for her – act as her nurse, her teacher – to keep her safe. Not to keep secrets from me.” 

Your spine goes rigid, just like it was at breakfast, as you gingerly put the plates down on the counter. 

“And we’re enormously grateful for your kindness. You know that.” Hands pressed flat onto your hips, you turn and look at him, blank-eyed and drawn thin. You stare at him like he’s a stranger. Something completely foreign and unfamiliar – he hates that look. “Are you asking me as my employer?”

What else are you to me? 

Someone at least worth the weight of a jar of hand cream. 

He shoves back that thought as the fog of a dozen others crowd in to take its place.

“I am. I appreciate your help earlier, but this is the line. Is Sarah alright or not?”

You glance away from him, as if he might find the truth in your eyes. “What she’s experiencing is perfectly normal for a girl her age. You wouldn’t understand.” 

The ground trembles, unsteady, beneath him. Where had he gone wrong? He didn’t feel the earthquake but now can see the broken faultline, the great maw opening its jaws beneath his feet. Fear, so dark and deep – it threatens to swallow him whole, but he gets his hands around it, by the throat, and snaps it clean in two. Joel narrows his eyes. 

“Somethin’ I do understand is Ellie’s been eyein’ my gun since day one. What kind of fourteen year old girl s’after that? ” 

At that, you blanch. It’s like he can see the bile rise up in the back of your throat, sit on your tongue and stay there. You’ve gone totally still, barely breathing. Joel isn’t sure if he’s satisfied or not that the remark landed its blow so thoroughly. 

“She’s just a c-child who wants to pretend she’s an adult. Just like S-Sarah.”

His fist curls around the damp rag in his hand, desperate for something to hold onto, to squeeze until the ground feels solid, but his anger isn’t fortifying him anymore. The next words out of his mouth are disgustingly desperate. 

“Is that what this is about? Did Ellie say something to her?” 

“Ellie? What? No! No, this has n-nothing to do with Ellie.” You look at him, something tender and wounded flashing there and it chills the heat rising in his chest just for an instant. “I would tell you if it was something serious. Don’t you trust me?” 

But you can’t come between him and Sarah. Nothing should.

The black chasm that he feels compelled to claw back against breeches open again. Edges crumbling beneath his fingers. Sarah, Sarah –  is the only one who matters. 

The muzzle runs its clammy tongue up the back of his spine, releasing a landslide of heavy dread across his body. His anxiety peaks in a wave and as it crests, he slams his hand on the counter, a blown fuse. 

“No, goddamn it, I don’t!” 

Jaw locked, he whips his head up. Whatever sits sour on his tongue, when he looks at you, it turns to a block of ice.

Where it bubbles up like black tar behind his chest, a thing that possesses him, you watch him with horror. Eyes wide, lips drawn so tight they’re practically nonexistent, hand around your throat as if to protect it preventively.

The bracing skeleton of indignant rage melts from his body so fast his brain goes fuzzy. He wasn’t thinking – wasn’t thinking about how you flinched, tears in your silver-dollar eyes, at the loud sound that time he accidentally knocked a pot to the floor. He had never seen you so bewildered and terrified – until now.

“Look, I’m–I’m not . . .” he swallows, “I didn’t mean it.” 

He watches your eyes drop to his hand curled around the edge of the counter and he intentionally relaxes the muscle. He stands up right, but leans back from you, giving you space. The tension in your shoulders eases only a fraction. “She doesn’t . . . doesn’t have to tell me everything, but I just wanna make sure that she’s safe, and happy. Can you at least give me that?”

You’re breathing rapidly, eyes watching his hand at his side as if anticipating it curling into a fist. He turns his palms up in supplication – he really, really didn’t mean to lose control like that –  and he steps back until he’s up against the door leading to the cellar down below. The wood is warm against his back, but his shoulder bumps into the hinge and it pinches his skin.  

Your hands are no longer wrapped up in tight fists. With a deep inhale, you close your eyes, as if steadying yourself against a torrential wind. When you breathe out, it’s unsteady and shaky. 

“Physically and m-mentally, she’s fine. She’s j-just . . . just growing up.”

All this time, bits of you have been growing towards the light as the days and weeks pass. He’s watched you transform, can’t take his eyes off you some days, into this woman where before he had seen you as just a tool, another a rake or a trowel. Now you’ve curled back into yourself like nothing had ever happened between you and him – all it took was too-sharp a snap. Sarah always said his bark was worse than his bite. 

Joel takes a half a step forward and you take three steps back. Your hand is over your heart, fingers curling into the fabric, eyes still as wide as they had been the night in the general store, facing down those rangers entirely by yourself. Shit. 

He wants to ask you why you fear loud noises, wants to know who did this to you and why.

He’s not that kind of man who does this sort of thing, someone who scares women.

But he’s also not that kind of man who knows how to navigate the aftermath. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than a father and a worker. Hasn’t cared to be anything else for a long, long time, and the muscle has atrophied. Can’t be a friend. Not a companion. Not whatever paints his dreams with streaks the color of your eyes. 

“‘M gonna go find Sarah, talk to her, like you said,” he mutters, shuffling towards the back door. “If you – need – if you want –,”

His throat finally closes, shame making his gaze slippery and it slides away from your face. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear if your breathing has settled as he shuffles out the door and towards the barn.

The metal of the iron flares to an ugly, angry red, and you wipe your forehead before the sweat can drop onto the stove top and sizzle. With your teeth mashed together so tightly your jaw aches, you lift up the six-pound metal wedge up off the stove, shake it free of as much ash as possible, and then press it down onto Ellie’s collar shirt on the floor. Immediately you sweep up and down the length of the shirt, careful not to linger too long on any one spot, but sure to flatten the wrinkles.

Sad irons, is what Anna called them one day after taking in the laundry from the washing line outside. She had heard a few of the neighborhood bitties tittering about them and found the term hilariously apt. Sad irons because they’re more work than they’re good for. 

Truth be told, you liked ironing, only in certain instances though. Moments when you wanted physical exhaustion to serve as a numbing agent to the battle of emotions building between your ribs. Sweat drips down your neck, your knees aching from pushing into the hardwood floors, your arms and shoulders burning from lifting the hot iron up and down, as you rock back and forth to clear away every last wrinkle. 

Joel’s hand smacking against the counter echoes in your mind again and again and again, as the kitchen and the homestead and reality bends away from you as you tumble through memory after memory – distracted, the iron brushes up against your flesh and bites in.

You yelp, sucking the flat back of your thumb into your mouth to ease the sizzling burn, and you sit back onto your heels. 

Yes, the pain is bright and it stings, but not enough to draw tears to your eyes, and yet they well up all the same.

A single image breaks through the numbing barrier of pain: the jar of Luxor in your room. You want nothing more than to sink your scalded thumb into its cool gel, but instead the image alone threatens to crack a sob out of your chest. 

He wouldn’t have done anything. Nothing like your husband.

You know that, and you hate yourself a little bit that you reacted like that, even after all this time. Why couldn’t you stand your ground, even for Sarah? God, if you had cried in front of Joel – the mere thought of that embarrassment burns hotter than the sting on your thumb. 

He had gotten so close. Too close to the truth. What had Ellie told him about the gun, even by accident? Joel didn’t seem intent on calling the police, but he’d left so fast. He must have been so angry just to leave like that. 

As you open your eyes, a thought occurs to you and the strength of it nearly disconnects you from your body: what if you left?

Your gaze darts to the blue sky just outside the window, too low to see the gold ground but you know it’s there – just as wide and open as it had been that first night in Dalhart. 

What if you gathered up Ellie right now and ran? It had worked before, and this time you didn’t leave the evidence in the bottom of a well. He couldn’t prove anything, just the ramblings of a fourteen year old girl. 

Shit, what the hell did he know?

“Hiya!” Sarah skips in through the back door, arms full of fresh herbs in her basket.

“Be careful!” You snap at her, your thumb throbbing, tears and hasty decisions receding. “Don’t track in dirt – I just mopped.”

She freezes, catches sight of the iron and Elllie’s shirt. You haven’t looked up at her. Slowly she unlaces her boots at the door and steps gingerly onto the wooden floor. You can feel her eyes track you as she walks to the kitchen counter and drops off her basket. The anxiety pulsing beneath your skin ratchets up your heart rate, hot blood pounding in your ears. 

“So, um, anyway, I was wondering if we could talk about Ellie’s birthday. I know she loves chocolate, but Dalhart hasn’t had that in years. But I think we might have a bit of vanilla in the cellar. Do you want me to go look?” You don’t miss the way her eyes flit over her shoulder to you, the question posed as if she was sticking a tree branch through the bars of a tiger’s cage on a dare.

“Um, yeah, that’ll be fine.”

Ellie never had the language to find the source of your anxiety and over the years learned either to leave you to your physical work or silently help you with it. Joel evidently – obviously – was a better parent than that:

“Are you okay?” Sarah asks.

You stop, in daze, then slide the iron off the clothes and onto its side. It seems ridiculous but you can’t remember the last time anyone asked you that. Ellie, your only connection to family, knew exactly what you had to do to keep you both safe, so the question was always irrelevant. So when did you let another person in enough for them to care that much to ask?

“Just, uhm, busy. Need to get this done.” 

Sarah narrows her eyes at you. “‘Cause you don’t sound like you’re okay. In fact, you actually sound really bad. What’s wrong?”

“I’m . . . I just didn’t sleep well. Had a bad dream. That’s all.” 

The lies knot in your throat; it’s insufficient to call it bad – it’s insufficient to call it a dream, the thing that had scared you so badly, even Joel picked up on it. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

You glance up, still on your aching hands and pinched knees. She watches you with those same endless brown eyes as her father’s but immeasurably softer, arms wrapped over themselves, eyebrows furrowed with concern. You had snapped at her when she didn’t deserve it and she just . . . moved on.

“No, Sarah, I-I don’t want to burden you . . . it’s nothing, honestly, I’m just being silly.” 

She rolls her eyes, that wise stare cracking in half. “Fine. Don’t talk to me, but you should talk to someone. Talk to my dad. I know he doesn’t look like it but he’s a really good listener.”

Your cheeks go as warm as the iron beside you, making it impossible to keep looking at her. “Sarah, please, I am his employee. That is entirely inappropriate.” 

“Oh, please.” She swats away your concern and turns back to the herbs. She pulls out canning jars from below the sink and begins to organize by food or medicine. “Fine. Don’t tell me. When do you want to start working on Ellie’s cake?” 

The iron is no longer nearly hot enough to be effective but you run it up the shirt again, to smooth the uneven threads of your own feelings.

“Maybe tomorrow morning, when she’s out with the cows.” You pause. “No, wait, we’re spraying pesticides tomorrow. I can’t.”

Again, in that flippant teenager way, she shakes her head. “Dad’ll let you have a morning off if you tell him what is for.”

Joel’s anger, the smack of his palm – they reverberate in your head again as if someone had struck you with a bell. Your chest tight, you say,

“I don’t think your father wants anything to do with me right now.”

The excited buzz that always follows after Sarah like floating dandelion seeds settles eerily. You bite your lip – why did you say anything? – and watch her back stiffen, rosemary in one hand and a jar in the other. 

She is the daughter of your employer; you cannot forget that, but you had – you had forgotten, and so easily too. She was well within her rights to –

“What did he do?”

You blink. “What?”

She lets out a frustrated groan. “God, I swear that man likes the taste of his foot in his mouth!” Sarah turns around, rosemary and jar back on the counter, her hands on her hips and you feel like you’re the one about to be scolded. “What did he say to you to make you upset?”

“Nothing, Sarah, I swear.” She raises an eyebrow. You break instantly. “We just had a disagreement. He wasn’t . . . pleased with my work, and he told me so. Which is perfectly fine, given that I am his employee.” 

She shoves her palms into her brow, groaning. “But that’s not all –,” she shakes her head. “That’s it. I’m gonna go talk to him.” 

“Sarah, don’t –,”

You struggle to your feet, your knees stiff and popping, hand outstretched after her, but she’s too fast. She opens the back door and lets it slam shut behind her, leaving you blinking on the floor. 

He’s been staring at the back wall of the wooden shed for twenty minutes. Hadn’t made a move to grab a single tool, or pick up a bag of feed. Behind him, the wind dives into the fields, scuttles apart the branches of the oak tree by the river in a soft crackle. In the barn, one of the cows lets out a loud groan.

The back of his neck is starting to grow hot from the sun. Sweat peaks at his brow. His hand on the door, the other by his side, his fingers ceaselessly twitching, taking on physical shapes of his anxiety. But he can’t move away. If he moves, he’ll make the wrong choice again.

He’s angry. He’s still angry.

But that anger is fueled by a churning ball of fear that sits right on top of his chest and lashes at his skin like steel wool. It itches like hell and he can scratch at it all he wants, but it never goes away.

This was all a mistake. He sees that now. He could have handled another season on his own. He didn’t need another farm hand – he’d done it before and could do it again. Sarah was smart enough to read the right books all on her own and if she didn’t have the ones she needed, he’d go get them – wherever they might be. 

Sarah didn’t need anyone either. She’d make friends with kids soon enough, in town or whenever the school reopened. She was smart, always had been. They’d figure it out, together. 

He could have lived the rest of his life without another living soul crossing the boundary onto the Miller lands. 

And yet he hadn’t. 

He’d let someone in. 

As a general rule, he tried not to think of you in any capacity outside of work, education, and medical treatments, but he found that he had no defenses against the presence of someone who lives in his house also taking up residence in his mind. Against someone who cooks his meals and makes his daughter laugh. Who has a fraught relationship with her niece and yet would quite literally kill for her. 

That he understood, even if you and him seemed determined to prevent yourself from relating to one another in any capacity - which was fine with him. But he saw it in you, even if he didn’t recognize it at first in that bar in Dalhart. And then he saw it again the morning you and Ellie saved Sarah. The instinct to protect, to secure. It had been years since he’d seen it on someone else, and had never seen it that strong. 

And that’s what had gotten him into trouble today. That instinct he’d had all his life suddenly butting up against a tender feeling that is so foreign to him he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know how to hold it, carry it, so it goes everywhere, soaks him down to the bone. 

All his life, he’s only ever enjoyed the company of two people, now one. He knew that if he took care of the land, it would take care of him and his family, so he never needed anyone else. But Sarah had a caretaker and a friend and nurturer but still clearly wanted more. Something he couldn’t give her. Something that never would have come to her otherwise if he hadn’t taken in you and Ellie. 

In his hardest of hearts, he both highly praised and deeply, deeply resented you for that. 

For coming here and upsetting everything. 

Fuck. 

His thumb catches on a splinter from the doorframe, tearing his eyes away from the blank wall, the brief pain causing his anger to flare brightly, the slice of wood embedded deep in his skin. His eyes snap to the back wall, looking for pliers to yank the damn splinter out – but his gaze catches something on the back wall first. 

Your work gloves, on the shelf. As broken in and soft as his. Taking up space beside his own as if they had belonged there all along.

In direct conflict with everything he thought he wanted, everything that he understood about himself and his daughter and the land he protects, you and Ellie had become embedded in the homestead such that now he's not quite sure he could picture it without your presence. It's a permanence that, he could tell, you all had sorely needed.

You, unlike him, did need someone else to survive in this world, one that isn't built for or kind to or willing to value women like you – and yet he got the impression that you never had a soft spot for people either. Been on the receiving end of harassment and cruelty too much and too long to find anyone or anything meaningful outside your family. It was narrow-minded and perhaps selfish, but not a perspective he would ever disagree with.

Ellie, unlike Sarah, had a caretaker but lacked a friend, someone to nurture her emotionally, tenderly, despite her vocal protests. He can see in the dark well of her eyes every time she watches him out of the corner of her eye when he cocks his gun or saddles up the horse. Like you, the ability to share a burden had been beaten out of her.

Now, what does he do with –

“Dad!” 

He jumps, the bark of her voice so loud and brash it rattles his heart for a second. Christ, is that what he sounded like?

He looks over his shoulder to see Sarah striding over to him, fists clenched, eyes blazing, dark hair turned light in the harsh glare of the sun. Sometimes – oftentimes –  he was surprised that a tempest like her came from him. 

“Dad!” Sarah barks again, the smack of her boots in the dirt launching puffs of earth by her ankles. She grinds to a halt in front of him, hands on her hips. “She’s my friend! What did you say to her?” 

“I haven’t seen Ellie since breakfast –,”

“No. Not Ellie.” The pitch of anxiety plummets into his stomach. He knows what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. “Her aunt. You said something to her that made her upset, and I want to know what it is.” 

Where her fists lock onto her hips, one hand curls onto his hip as it juts to the side. With a sigh, Joel wipes his eyes with his fingers.

“Sarah . . .” 

“Oh, don’t Sarah me! And don’t act like I’m too young to understand, either! You raised me better than that.” Her footing shifts slightly and Joel sees an opening, small, flickering. He sees her pouting at five years old, wanting to stay up past her bedtime not for the sake of being disagreeable, but merely to spend more time with him. 

He tilts his head. “I don’t think you’re too young to understand, Sarah. Come to think of it, I’ve probably let you see and hear too much. Put too much on you.”

Her boiling anger simmers and the frown on her face softens. 

“That’s not . . . that’s not it at all, Dad.” 

With half a sigh, he extends his hand towards her, a peace offering as much as he was capable of. “C’mere, let’s get outta the heat. You and I gotta talk.” 

Her eyes fall to his outstretched hand, lip bitten between her teeth, as if under some obligation not to take it. He lets it fall, as much as it stings a very delicate part of him, and turns back towards the cellar doors. Attached to the house near the water pump, they face west, spending most of the day in the shade. Where he would sit to catch his breath after laboring in the fields all day and she brought him water and they would talk – about anything and everything. 

Joel slides down into the dirt, dust clinging to his shirt, his pants. He looks up at her, waiting, holding his will silently against hers without demand, and with a huff, Sarah drops down next to him. They sit in the shade, like they’ve always done. 

This place has always been a place of safety for him. Not just this land, but this spot, this shaded seat next to her. Joel looks at her, his smile wan. “So, if that’s not it, what is it, baby? ‘Cause I clearly haven’t got a fuckin’ clue what I’m doing. I’m sorry I made you so angry. I promise you, I was just teasin’.”

She always liked it when he spoke softly to her, maybe bringing back memories of when she was small and slept for hours on his bare chest. He turns his gaze to the yellow land, the distant dirt roads, and the sprawling emptiness beyond them. This land, that is his responsibility to keep safe. 

“I know, Dad.” He listens to her scrape the heel of her boot back and forth over a pebble. She feels warm against his side. “I’m not mad about that. I mean, I was, but not anymore.”

“But you’re mad about somethin’?” 

She’s not ready to meet his eye, he knows. That’s okay. He can wait. 

He smells lavender as her hair flutters again, her gaze joining his to watch their fields, the fields held by their family for three generations. The memories of her illness –of so many nights spent in fear, in anguish nearly as painful as death itself, as she cried and cried and cried and he could do nothing to stop it – overwhelm him out of nowhere and, like a fist has settled around his throat, he can’t breathe right for a moment. His hands flex and strain where they hang over his knees.

Air returns to him when she rests her head against his shoulder, and he is suddenly more grateful to you for bringing back his little girl than he’s ever felt towards anyone in his life. But the taste of his words he said to you lingers on his tongue. He had been so terrible.

“I like learning.” Sarah says. The wind tugs on her hair, the hemline of his pants. He resists the urge to press his face into her curls and instead settles for breathing in her scent, her warmth. He closes his eyes. She is his whole world. 

The heat of the sun toasts the air around them as the wind settles. He opens his eyes to the solar star far beyond this planet. Another world entirely. It feels particularly close today.

“I know you do. You’re good at it, always make me proud.”

Sarah lifts her head and he feels the traction of her gaze. His stomach knots, but not as heavily as his heart swells. Her eyes are older than he’s ever remembered seeing when he finally looks at her, and he’s felt a lot of his years recently. Her hands curl around his elbow, like she used to do when she begged him for a new book or a new dress. Pleading with him, to make him see her.

“But I think I’ve learned all I can . . . here.”

Joel breathes through the gaping wound and surge of pride in his chest. She watches him, brown eyes wide, mouth set. The same little girl he’s always known, and nothing like her at all. How had he missed it, this fundamental and irrevocable change? Where had the time gone? 

“I know, baby. You have to go.” 

He expects something like a girlish squeal, maybe little dance, a yelp of joy – throwing her arms around his neck, making promises to be on her very best behavior – 

But instead –

“But not right now.” Her eyes fill with tears, voice small, uncertain. Vulnerable in a way only a child’s can be.

He puts his arm around her shoulder, between her and the dirt-crusted house on the land that is now his, was his father’s, and his father’s before that, and hides his own wet eyes from her by burying his face in her hair. Her arms are wrapped so tightly around his chest, his heart nearly stops.

“No, not right now. But some day.” 

They who have been alone together all their lives sit and hold their other half for a long, long time.

The sun hovers in the late afternoon sky, unwilling to let time march forward, but it always does. It always has to. 

With a gruff grunt, Joel pulls away and wipes at his eyes with the palm of his hand. Sarah sits up more, sniffing, her delicate fingers smearing away the dampness on her cheeks. He clears his throat again. 

“C’mon, enough out here. Ellie’s probably out lookin’ for you, and I need to help, um –,”

“Dad.” He drops back down the half inch he pulled himself up. Suddenly, with a grin and a mischievous light in her still-wet eyes, she looks as young as she is supposed to be. “We haven’t talked about everything yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Her dark eyes flit back to the house, a pointed look. A knowing look. He doesn’t know why but it makes his stomach churn and his heart rate speed up, ever so slightly. That grin on her lips evolves into a full fledged smirk. 

“You were a jerk. Now you have to make it up to her. How are you gonna do that?” 

Joel’s mouth twitches. “I’m out of ideas.” 

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not.” Sarah heaves herself onto her feet, then stands, and dusts the back of her skirt with a few good thwaps. “It’s Ellie’s birthday tomorrow. Me and her aunt are gonna make a cake, so you’re gonna get her a present. You’re also in charge of distracting her while we get everything ready.”

Joel chuckles lightly as he stares up at her, one eye squinting against the sunlight. “Yeah? And what am I supposed to get her?”

She extends her hand and he takes it. Together, they get him on his feet. She dusts off his sleeve, then grins up at him, her smile wide and full and loaded with secrets he knows he didn’t tell her. “I can’t give you all the answers, old man.” 

It’s nerves. 

It’s nerves and that’s why you can’t find the vanilla you know is down here. For the fourth time, you get on your toes and look at the far back of the top row of cellar shelves. Joel had organized the cellar by least perishable to most, and vanilla beans stayed intact for years if kept out of the sun or moisture. Sarah was distinctly confident that they had at least a handful, far more than enough to flavor a cake, and this was Ellie’s cake. You owed it to her and Sarah –and shit, since he’ll be eating it, Joel – to not give up the search. 

But by the time your line of sight got to the second shelf, your mind was already wandering. 

He had taken Ellie out onto the front porch for a guitar lesson. 

After the terrible things he had said to you this morning.

After you acted like he was a cruel man whose viciousness knows no bounds.

He wanted to teach Ellie something, after he had asked you first. 

Came out of the hall closet with it in his hand, and while his dark expression was distressingly unreadable, his voice was light when he offered to teach her some cords. Ellie, who was nose deep in another Space Family Robinson, nearly launched herself off the couch: “HELL YEAH!”

Standing at just an angle that allowed you to see the living room from the kitchen, you could have sworn he smiled. A muffled thing, but it drew up the corners of his cupid’s bow in a beautiful twist, the long expanse of his throat looking warm as he turned his head to give Ellie the guitar, his hair curled in reckless waves at the nape of his neck. He smiled at Ellie and offered her a lesson – 

And you haven’t been able to focus since. 

You stop halfway on your fifth search, press your forehead to the wooden post, and sigh. 

The silence in the cellar is different from other silences on the homestead. More compact, more dense. You suppose that has something to do with it being buried several feet underground, but the strength of it is comforting in a way you’ve never experienced. Since you were sixteen years old, you’ve worked a full time job, sometimes two, sometimes three, for just enough money to eat and keep your sister housed. You often have trouble sleeping because you can still hear the noise of all those people, gears in your mind churning, despite the physical exhaustion of your body, always thinking about tomorrow’s to-dos and where your next meal might come from. You’ve been going so hard and so fast – barely surviving – you forgot what true, thick silence sounded like. How much easier it was to breathe and smother that runaway train of thought. 

Despite your initial apprehension, the cellar had become your most favorite place on the entire homestead. The silence was almost friendly, protective; you could whisper your secrets to it and know they’d be safe forever. Surrounded by abundant food, lovingly grown and cared for, you too sometimes feel as if you too had been raised, had been grown to ripeness, on this earthen floor. 

For the first time in hours, your heartbeat slows. With a grin, you lean into the wooden shelf, its corner sticking into your shoulder like a hand would press into your skin. 

“I’m trying to do something nice for Ellie. You know she deserves it,” you grumble into the silence. The wood is soft, gently carved. If you try hard enough, you think you can still smell the wood grain. “Having some vanilla flavoring would really make her happy, and that kid needs a win.” You shuffle, standing up right, and the toe of your boot kicks the post. It shudders slightly. “I –,”

In the momentum, something falls off the shelf and plops into the dirt to your right.

Vanilla beans.

You grin as you pick them up, trying half-heartedly to find that watchful eye. Just before you click off the light, you affectionately rub the corner of the wall.

“Thanks.” 

If talking to animals is the first step in going crazy, talking to holes in the ground must be a pretty bad sign. 

“‘kay, it’s real easy.” He clears his throat again, shifting, and the wood panel squeaks beneath him. Crickets echo in the shadows beyond the light of the porch. “This is gonna be your C – your A – your G, and your D. There’s only twelve you really gotta know. From there you’ll get the basics and can start to –,”

“Where’d you learn to play?” Ellie asks abruptly. She sits with her back against the wooden post outlining the porch, her knees tucked up to her chest. Joel is reminded of the look Sarah once gave him after he silently helped her chop the rest of the wood before a rainstorm came – he had told her she couldn’t do all of it by herself, and she had adamantly refused, but he didn’t rub it in her face when he came to help. They narrowly avoided the downpour but had enough firewood to last them a week. 

Grateful, was the expression he remembers. 

The heat of the day still lingers in the air, the sun just beneath the horizon. Flies and gnats swarm and tangle around the exposed bulb over the porch, thickening the shadows of his hands over the neck of the guitar and beneath the porch steps. 

Joel’s fingers still, the music of fluttering wings and electrical zaps taking over. “My dad taught me. He taught me . . . and my brother.”

Maybe it was the talk with Sarah that had loosened something, at least temporarily. He doesn’t feel like he’s been torn open, spilling his guts, when he tells her about Tommy. He wonders briefly if Sarah had ever mentioned her uncle and if she didn’t, why. He can see the question build behind her eyes, thoughts shuffling, looking for a memory if he had ever mentioned a brother before. 

“We got pretty good for a time. Played at school, church. Had a guy come through town once and tell us we could really be something.”

“Like a Hank Williams kinda something?” 

Joel eyes her, impressed she knows one of the greatest artists who’s ever lived.

“I dunno what he meant,” he says. “But that’s never why I did it anyway. Just wanted something to do with my little brother. He had some good lyrics too. He was always talented that way, with his head, you know? I think sometimes that’s where Sarah gets it. ‘Cause i'snot from me.” 

Joel smiles and Ellie grins back, an inside joke they didn’t know about yet. He strums quietly.

“I think he wanted to be that Hank Williams kinda somethin'. But it’s hard when you’re no one from nowhere. And I think him leavin’ would’ve broken our mama’s heart.”

“Tommy . . . right?” Joel glances up at her, the name so foreign on someone else’s tongue she could have meant someone else entirely. “Sarah – she, um – she mentioned him, once. And that he left for California – a while ago.” 

Joel nods, again in search of that anger to wield as a weapon, but the guitar digs into the place in his chest where it hurts the most. 

“Is that why the guitar was in the trunk? ‘Cause you’re pissed at him?”

It’s almost funny, the way she needles through to the center of things. He could lie, but what’s the point?

He hums. “I stopped playing this thing long before Tommy left. No time. Even with his help, you gotta fight with this land to grow anything. Then Sarah got sick, and now there’s all this fuckin’ dust . . .” 

He puts a hand on the belly of the guitar to stop the vibrations. He looks up at the stars, blinking into existence as night falls like a dropped curtain, and shakes his head. It felt like an excavation of something haunted, when he pulled the guitar from a trunk in his bedroom closet. Truly, he hadn’t thought about this guitar in months and taking it out again was just asking for something dangerous to befall him. Maybe something already had, given how much he had started to care for the girl who carries a pocket knife in her sock. 

Joel’s gaze drops to that girl now, her wiry little fingers wrapped around her ankles as she stares right back. He had forgotten they still made people like her.

“But it’s good. It’s good to remember.” Joel slides the guitar off his lap and onto the wood step between them. This guitar is older than Ellie and he hands it to her. “Now let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.”

She stares a second after he leans in to point out the chords before she tries to match his fingers on the strings. But then Sarah opens the screen door, out of breath and the tip of her nose pink as if she’d been standing over a fire. 

“Dinner’s ready.” 

Joel stifles the urge to roll his eyes; his girl was many things, but subtle was not one of them. As she disappears back inside, Ellie hands him back the guitar and meets his eyes with a confused look on her face – what’s up with her? Joel shrugs, then tries not to groan as he stands up, his knee acting up again. Odd, given that it only used to ache when a storm was coming, like a warning. But the skies had been clear for weeks.

“Good first lesson, kid. I’ll put this up, you go see what they got cooked up.” 

“You sure?” Her gaze drops to his knee, observant as her aunt. 

“ ‘M fine. Go on.” He knows there’s more affection than gruff in his voice, but at least Ellie doesn’t seem to register that. 

He follows her inside, the air warmer in here due to the oven and a lack of a breeze. When she moves towards the kitchen, he goes to the closet beneath the stairs and opens up the trunk at the back. 

He isn’t entirely sure he can forgive Tommy for what he did, but at least he understands it. Beneath where the guitar laid, there’s a scrap of crumpled paper – a telegram he thought about tossing in the fire when it first arrived. Instead, he is glad he just wanted it out of his sight. 

It is blank except for a few letters and numbers: a forwarding address. 

He can’t pick it up and look at it, not right now, but maybe. Maybe someday, when he needs his brother.

“Holy shit!”

Joel smiles as he shuts the trunk lid and stands. Not today.

When he finally makes it to the kitchen, Ellie stands at the head of the table, her shoulders by her ears, arms out, as if preparing to be tackled to the ground. Her eyes are bigger than he’s ever seen them.

“Happy Birthday, Ellie!” Sarah yells from the other side of the table, the words bursting out of her. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? I . . .” Wordlessly, she slides into the chair, her face glowing in the light of the candle sunken deep into the top of the cake. The shadows, thick and heavy around her mouth and under her eyes, blur the emotions on her face. 

“Ellie?” You say, tentative. That crease is back between your eyes and Joel wants to press his thumb to it until it goes away. “Is this okay?”

Slowly, she lifts her eyes. The shadows cannot hide the wet shine there. Joel has to look away, something hot expanding under his ribs. 

“Uh, yea-ahh . . . this is fucking okay.” He hears the slight chuckle in her voice and he looks back. Her smile is stretched from ear to ear. “And this is dinner too, right? We get to eat cake. For dinner?”

You smile, relief and excitement giving your own face a special glow. And then, your eyes fall to him and that hot band in his chest thickens to his throat. He’ll dream of your eyes again tonight, he knows it.

“Mr. Miller has extra storages of flour in the cellar,” you say, gaze slipping away before he can hold onto it. The band in his throat hardens when you refer to him so distantly. “We used just a bit of cream and milk –”

“And sugar!” Sarah blurts out. She is practically vibrating next to you. “We have to really conserve sugar, only for special occasions, and what’s more special than a birthday?”

Ellie tears her gaze up from the candle and, for a second, she looks very small. 

“You used it for my birthday?” 

While Sarah nods vigorously next to you, he watches as your face falls. He knows that look, felt it screw up his face too – you feel like you’ve failed Ellie somehow.

“Of course, Ellie.” You say quietly, your hands knotted in front of you. He watches as the words get caught in your throat, all the right ones and the wrong ones. “You . . .”

“You’re a good kid.” Your eyes jump to him, wide, as he steps closer to the kitchen table. He puts a hand around the knot on the back of Ellie’s chair. “Is what your aunt means to say. Happy birthday, from all of us.”

Ellie’s gaze is so gentle, she looks timid. She glances between Joel, you, then Sarah, and back to you. 

“Um, thanks, guys. I guess.” 

In the soft silence, she takes a brief moment, her eyes closed, and then leans forward over the candle and promptly blows out the flame. The kitchen falls into darkness, a second before you reach for the light. 

Sarah claps her hands, the amber electrical light softening her already smooth skin. “What did you wish for?”

Ellie’s smirk returns, her hard edges returning. “Can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”

Sarah rolls her eyes as you gather the plates you and Joel had cleaned just this morning. “I always thought that rule was so stupid. It’s no fun.”

You grin at her as you hand Ellie a plate and then Sarah herself. 

“It’s the secret that gives the wish its magic. All the good things are best kept secret.”

Your hand extends a plate out towards him, but it’s your gaze that meets him first. Mouth slightly parted, you watch him from beneath your long lashes. The light that softens Sarah emboldens the curves of your cheeks, the slope of your nose, the entanglement of your hair against the nape of your neck. A table between you, he hasn’t been this close to you in what feels like days, when it had only been this morning. This morning, when he had never felt further from you, when his own fear had gotten the better of him. 

For so long, the circle of his love ended at the property lines and he had spent years of his life etching in that demarcation, digging in and digging in until the wet earth swallowed him whole. There was nothing else but Sarah and this land because he could not afford to lose either of them, so he held on tight and burrowed deep.

But this deep down, the earth he loved might as well have been a coffin. A tomb. In order to stabilize his daughter, the land, and himself, there had to be less of him. Less to carry. Less to burden. 

Less of him to share. 

He thought – maybe hoped – that those bits of him that had fallen away would always stay gone, another sacrifice in addition to his blood and his sweat into the soil. It was easier to mourn a loss if you never had it in the first place.

But, as he looked at you from across the table in the low light, as your fingers touched his beneath the plate – even for a fraction of a second – the pieces he’d left behind roared to life once again. 

Heat warms him up his arm, down into his chest – and it keeps going. The smell of you, of sweat and sugar and honey and sunlight, invades his head like a dirty wind and the fire inside scorches him as it flushes down his ribs, through his stomach, and right into his groin.

You all but drop the plate into his hand, pulling your fingers away from his touch, gaze diving away. But he can see your nervous swallow, the way your hand shakes when you pick up the knife to cut the cake. 

“Let’s eat.” You smile at the girls, but it’s as weak as your voice, crackling, trembling, overwhelmed. As if you too had been consumed by years of dormant want out of nowhere and now couldn’t possibly put those feelings back into hiding even if you wanted to.

Even if you begged.

The cake is gone in a matter of minutes. 

Ellie lets out a groan, leaning back in her chair, her hands resting over her full stomach. “That was so goddamn good.” 

“It’s inappropriate to lick the plate, right?” Sarah asked, sponging up crumbs with her finger. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” Ellie grins. She snatches up her plate and with her tongue flat against her chin, licks up every last morsel. Sarah snorts, laughter bursting out of her, before doing the exact same thing. It’s not long until both of them are making grotesque noises. 

“You girls act like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks.” Joel sits across from you, his arms folded across his chest, a faint glint in his eye as he glances back and forth between them. He sits low in his chair and his shoulders look especially broad across the back of it. “Y’all are gonna eat me out of house and home.” 

Sarah giggles and wipes her spit-covered chin. “Ellie said she found a really good spot out back to look at the Milky Way. Can we go look?” 

You expect him to ask that they clean up the table first, at least put the dishes in the sink, and not to stay too far into the dark. He’s watching Sarah for a beat too long before he opens his mouth again.

“But then when will Ellie get her present?”

His eyes lock onto you.

“THERE’S MORE?!” Ellie screeches.

The heat in his gaze sends a tangible shock down your throat, across every single one of your ribs, right into your nipples. Your faint gasp is overshadowed by Sarah and Ellie’s yelling – oh my god you didn’t tell me about this what’s wrong with you – please please please can I see it I’ll clean the bathrooms if you just lemme have it please –  but the look is gone a second later when he stands up and jerks his chin over his shoulder to the living room. The girls sprint into the room before he can take his first step. He doesn’t look at you as he follows them, slow, confident, teasing them just a bit.

“What is it?!”

“Is it more comics?”

“More marbles?”

“New clothes?”

“Ew, that would suck.” 

As if deaf to their pleas, Joel slowly walks over to the chest in the corner of the room and just as the girls are about to burst from excitement, he bends down and picks something up from behind it.

A radio. 

The radio.

The same one they had found in town. 

Ellie and Sarah’s eyes widen to the size of the dinner plates sitting on the kitchen table, covered in spit and cake crumbs. They drop to their knees, fingers outstretched like they approached a feral kitten.

“Now, it doesn’t work right.” Joel says, his arms crossed again. “But I thought it might be a good project for you girls. Something to work on together. Maybe learn about magnets and electricity n’shit.” 

His eyes fall on you again, as if you knew all about “magnets and electricity n’shit.” Joel grins again, this time just for you, and something inside of you snaps in half, melts, sparks open; some great weight, one you didn’t even know was there, has been lifted off your shoulders, your heart, and you can breathe properly again. You sink into the blue sofa, hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. 

The idea that you would ever willingly leave this place is laughable.

The idea that you would take Ellie away from this, from Sarah, is agonizing. 

They’re both fiddling with the buttons and twisting the jobs, the novelty of it perhaps the most fascinating. They are silent, more reverent than if they are on hallowed ground. 

“I’ve got some pliers and a screwdriver if you wanna –,”

Perhaps it was the witchcraft of the sisterhood. 

Perhaps they had managed to work out some secret code.

Perhaps they were just lucky. 

The radio lights up and the tear of a trumpet whines out of the speakers. Their yelp of delight is muffled beneath the white-hot music of a jazz band. 

Joel watches with what can only be considered bemusement as the girls leap to their feet and start dancing like no one had ever taught them about rhythm. 

The sofa squeaks, the cushion under your butt tilting up, as he sits down next to you. 

“Not likely to win any competitions any time soon,” he mutters quietly, presumably to you, as you both watch Ellie’s jerky knees and Sarah’s dizzying twirls. You sit, hands in your lap, perched on the edge of the cushion, while he leans into the sofa, arms back in place over his chest. With the way you are positioned towards the radio and him facing straight on, your knees almost touch. 

You wonder if he’s as aware of that chance as you are. 

“Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry.” His voice is deep enough to be heard over the music. He glances at your hands, and then your face. The sincere regret in his eyes makes the blood in your wrists pound. “You didn’t deserve all of those things I said to you this morning. Both you and Ellie have been . . .” he struggles for the word, his bottom lip moving with the swipe of his tongue, “a good change in our lives, and I regret saying the contrary.” His gaze falls back to your hands, your thumb tucked into the hole made by your other fingers. You wouldn’t look away from his face if it was the sun itself. “The fields have been well taken care of . . . and I know Sarah’s grateful for everything you’ve done for her. You’ve changed her life for the better. You’ve changed m–,”

It’s like his voice crumbles and slips off a cliff. His broad shoulders sag forward and then he looks up at you, a desperate sort of hope in eyes. Hope that you understand what he’s trying to say, and hope that you don’t make him say it. 

Oh, but you want him to say it. You want it so badly. 

You nod, this crumb sweeter than anything on the kitchen plates. On some heady sugar high, you smile at him.

“Well, I meant what I said.” He frowns and your grin widens, but then teeters and topples over. Your wrists ache. You have to lose his gaze for what you’re going to say next. “We are very, very grateful you took us in. I know it wasn’t a decision you made lightly, risking so much of you and Sarah for two complete strangers.” You shake your head with disbelief. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that you made the right choice, if I have to.”

You glance up at him – and immediately wish you hadn’t. 

It’s that same look he gave you when you handed him his plate over the kitchen table. Lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed, with a wary uneasiness in his eyes. Like he’s finally figured out what kind of woman you are, and he can’t quite tell what to do with you.

“C’mon you two!” Sarah yells and that hazy bubble that envelopes you bursts. He blinks, as if not remembering where he is. “You gotta dance!”

“Yeah, you old farts!” Ellie pants, red-faced and nearly out of breath. “It’s my birthday so you have to do what I say and I say, let’s boogie!”

You lunge at the chance to be distracted; you turn away from Joel and arch your eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re dancing? Is that what you’re doing? Can hardly tell.” 

Ellie sticks out her tongue while Sarah starts kicking with one foot then bounces to the other, flicking her wrists. “I saw this move on the school’s television!”

Ellie immediately stops the flailing of her limbs and watches her moves. “Teach me!”

Sarah slows it down until Ellie gets the hang of the bounce. Sarah looks much more natural in the rhythm, but at least Ellie is partially on beat. 

“And then I think you do this–,”

Her foot dangling in the air, she loops her ankle around Ellie’s and starts hopping in a circle. Ellie lets out a giggle.

“No way this is a real thing!”

“It is, I swear!”

“You got any moves like that?” Joel asks quietly, but still ensnaring your attention completely. He sunken completely into the sofa, hips low, legs wide. His thumb taps the beat on his thigh. Something about the way he has completely relaxed allows you to unclench your fists and loosen your foot tucked behind your ankle.

“Me?” You chuckle, leaning back on the arm rest. “I never had the time to go to the dancehalls, much less learn complicated moves such as the – Sarah, what is that dance called?”

“Hell if I know!” They’ve switched feet, trying to go counterclockwise this time.

“Complicated moves such as The Hell-if-I-know.” He rewards your terrible joke with a low chuckle. 

“Me neither. I can’t dance for shit.” 

As though he had called her name, Sarah stamps down her foot and rolls her eyes at her father, Ellie trying to follow along with the instructions the singer is giving over the speakers.

“Yes, you can. You taught me The Dip.” 

“That’s not a real move, Sarah–,”

“You can teach her!” Sarah’s brilliant smile extends to her eyes as if she had just announced the best idea in the history of ideas. “Then she’ll know at least one!”

Your fingers return to their fists. Joel stiffens beside you.

“Yeah, you should.” Ellie yells over her shoulder distractedly, one arm raised and the other leg straight out – in complete opposition to what the lyrics said. “Can’t have her embarrassing me in public.”

“C’mon, Dad, just one dance!” Her brown eyes flicker to Ellie and sweat-damp shirt. “It’s Ellie’s birthday!” 

“And for the party, we – must – dance!” Ellie strikes a dramatic pose and Sarah, giggling, swishes her dress with a flourish. With a brief glance at you, she rejoins Ellie, her skirt twirling.

The sofa squeaks as if he’s moving, a soft hand comes to rest high on your back, and panic leaps into your throat.

“Mr. Miller – Joel – you don’t have to – Sarah is just being silly –,”

“Well, it's not like I’m going up there by myself.” 

That rough palm slides over your scapula, then your shoulders, and down your arm. Tugging gently, a soft pinch around the bone of your elbow nearly pulls you to your feet, but sense-memory has you folding your arm back up towards your chest, your knees locked and heels heavy. Immediately he senses your rejection and stops. 

The warm light above threads gold through strands of his silver hair, the ends of his curls long enough to disappear into nothingness, into the halo around him. 

Joel Miller would never, ever hurt you.

Joel Miller is not your husband.

Joel Miller could be your friend.

His light touch releases and just as his fingers drop from your sleeve, your arm unfurls towards him, taking him by the bicep. His eyebrows lift slowly, watching as your fingers curl around his arm. Drawn towards his light like a sunflower, you stand, closer to him than ever before, and smile up at him. Friends go dancing together all the time, right? 

But all the standards and regulations of propriety and social mores were flung out the window the second you, an unmarried woman, stepped foot onto the land of an unmarried man. Nothing about this, about any of this, could be considered conventional.

A step or two away from the sofa, he holds your waist in one hand and yours aloft in the other, fingers interconnected. Respectful. Decent. A good man. No boundary crossing here. 

“Ready for your next lesson?” he asks, a little breathless. Maybe he forgot the steps and he is simply nervous to perform – hm, teach. He does a bit of adjusting, watches his own feet adjust as you stand still in front of him, waiting to be moved.

So, you open your stupid mouth and say,

“See, teaching isn’t so easy, is it?”

You grin and finally his eyes meet yours. Soft as leather, warm as a saddle in sunlight. It’s your turn for necessary air to be drained from your lungs and he decides then to move.

“Gotta lead up to it,” he grumbles, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Can’t just dive right in.” The way he leads is completely out of sync with the music, but you see that it’s intentional, a choice to slow things down. Not quite what you’d expect at the Boston dancehalls, but something far more precious and memorable. He sways with you, as supple as a blade of prairie grass in a warm wind. 

The curve of his shoulder is warm beneath your fingers, your thumb inches from his collar. He is more solid than any other person you’ve ever touched – including Anna. He could stand at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and never be washed away. You cannot imagine what that stability feels like, but you crave it all the same. 

There’s a respectable distance between your hips and his, but you can still smell the sweetness of the cake on his breath, the hot earth he tends to so lovingly, and the tang of sweat. 

“I know you’re a fast learner.” You turn your head towards him, but he gazes straight on. For a moment his face is so stoic you start to wonder if he actually said anything, but then a smile, a small one, flickers across his face. He turns his head towards you, his nose brushing yours, and suddenly you are too close together. Instinctively you pull away – your head, your shoulders, your hands – then find yourself frustrated that this is how you still react. You don’t even mean it. You don’t even want it, this temporary separation. But still Joel stands. He waits for you and sure enough, you sink back into his arms, your palms separating for only a second. “We made a regular farmhand out of you in a handful of weeks. Could get you to a full Dip in days.” 

He’s talking too softly to be easily heard over the banging percussion, the scream of trumpets, the boozy warble of the singer, so you bend closer. Over his shoulder, Ellie and Sarah take turns curtseying and bowing and then locking their elbows together and spinning each other in circles, giggling. 

“They’re alright.” The words hum in your ear, heat warming the air after a flash of lightning, and you fight a full body shudder. You tear your gaze back to him and his smile. His hand hasn’t moved an inch on your back. You worry your palm is getting sweaty. “Just focus on me.” You nod. 

From the radio, the song ends and the band slows to a discordant crash, as exhausted as the ones who danced to their rhythms. Men raucously laugh over the airwaves at their own created chaos and the two girls collapse onto the couch, red-faced and sweaty and laughing. 

“You trust me?” His eyes are brown and dark and smoky, firewood kindling. He really intends to teach you something. You nod slowly. The memory of his hand smacking into the counter breaks apart when his palm slips further down your back, his leg shifting in between yours, and he leans forward to lean you back. Back, back, back, off the edge of the earth. Hair slips off your shoulders as you hang, suspended above the floorboards, cradled by his hand and his thigh, the other hand holding yours to his chest. The world is upside down – in more ways than one. 

When you lift your head, he blocks out the light above for just a moment. Joel, for a moment, is all you can see. He holds you like you weigh nothing, gravity a suggestion to a force of nature like him — and a moment later, he pulls you both upright. 

Your cheeks are burning, your heart roars in your chest, in your ears, and there is no other way this would have ended: you glance at his mouth. He looks at yours. The fingers entwined with yours tighten. 

And then the radio dies. No preamble. No warning. Just ringing silence.

“Welp, it was fun while it lasted.” Ellie huffs, out of breath, smacking her hands against her thighs. 

Sarah wipes away sweat from her forehead with her arm. “Nah, we’ll get it back. I know we can fix it. Right, Dad?”

Joel Miller is still staring at your mouth. 

He’s quiet too long before he drops his gaze and clears his throat. Caught in a daze, you blink and suddenly his warmth is gone. Your hand floats in the air, empty. Joel pulls on the waistline of his pants and turns back to the sofa, nodding.

“Course, we can fix it. But not tonight. Get to bed, both of you.” The gravel of his voice makes his words harsher than they need to be, but Ellie just rolls her eyes and Sarah throws herself onto her feet. 

“C’mon, teenie bopper, I found a mouse skull the other day I forgot to show you.”

Ellie’s eyes widen as she follows Sarah up the stairs. “Like a skull skull? No meat, just bones? Was the rest of the skeleton there?”

Her interrogation continues as they move around the second floor and you can almost hear every word of it. A stark and abrupt reminder that this house echoes – any noises or sounds made can be heard anywhere, in any room, by anyone. 

Your gaze drops to Joel like a stone and with the added weight of whatever he was thinking, it all becomes too much for him. He turns away, denim shoulders nearly up to his ears.

“I’ll clean up.” He waves his hand vaguely to the kitchen. Cake. Plates. Flour on the counter. Oh, that’s right. “You cooked.”

A trade, a sharing of responsibilities between two equal partners. There’s some part of you that knows you should argue, cleaning was what he hired you for, but this is not him telling you as your employer. 

This is . . .

“You did good today,” he says, quickly, his hands on his waist, a step forward, as if he remembered something mid-stride. “It meant a lot, to the both of ‘em. I know you don’t think much of it, but you’re good at this.”

Your face heats, a familiar zing from his words racing down your spine into the bowl of your hips. The next breath you take is a shaky one. “Thanks, Joel. I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

He swallows, then nods. “Night, then.”

“Good night.” 

You might have let yourself believe you had imagined the whole thing, as you walk down the long wood floor to your bedroom, the girls’ chatter now just noise in your head. You might have believed that, after half a decade of being unwanted and undesired, abandoned at the edge of civilization, you extrapolated sentimentality from the first man who looked at you. All your life you doubted yourself; doubted your ability to keep Anna safe, doubted that you’d ever be something more than a pathetic replacement for Ellie’s mother, doubted your own sanity at times when you sat in that dark, dank dug out and listened to the scratchy winds tear apart your husband’s finances. 

But this – this you did not doubt. You did not mistake, or dream up, or lie to yourself. 

Before he let you go, Joel had squeezed your hip, rubbed his thumb against the waistband of your skirt. Let his fingers snag and catch in your blouse.

Whether it was trust or companionship or something ultimately more terrifying, he felt some kind of way about you. 

What kind of way you felt about him, you couldn’t answer honestly. 

And yet for a moment, for a brief moment, you had stepped into his light and, goddamn it, you were right. 

It was warm.

END OF PART II

series masterlist | AO3 Link | part i | part iii

[love4buckybarnes]

HERE IN BROOKLYN

Summary: Stuck for the night in Brooklyn, New York, Y/N meets a stranger at the bar. At first it seemed like a one night stand, but the more time they spend together, the harder it is to let go.

Bucky Barnes x Reader. SMUT WARNING-unprotected sex, oral receiving male&female, and steamy hot.

A/N: hope you enjoy this one. I had a pleasure to writing this one. My inbox is open for anonymous requests.

“This can’t be happening right now!” Y/N exclaimed at the woman behind the desk. “When will the next flight be?”

This was the cherry on top of one of the worst weeks of her life. Her asshole of a boss sent her on a work trip to Brooklyn, New York, in the middle of winter. She worked as a marketing agent for a sales business. Earlier morning on this day, she pitched her strategies to a potential client. It was important because this was the last opportunity to prove herself to her boss. Unfortunately, they rejected her ideas and upon hearing the bad news, she was fired on the spot over the phone. So, here she was at the airport only trying to get back home.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing I can do,” the check-in clerk apologized to calm the frantic woman the best she could. “Because of the oncoming storm, all flights have been canceled until further notice. We will post new flights once we feel it’s safe.” She turned her attention elsewhere to help another customer.

Y/N stood there for a minute, dumbfounded, before storming away. “This is bullshit,” she muttered under her breath.

White powder fell from the sky, covering the ground in a blanket of snow. Icy, bitter air nipped at any exposed skin. Y/N could see the fog of her frustrated breaths. She tightened the thick coat around her as the snow quickened its pace. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, mixing with the cold. Everything felt like it was crashing down on her. Finally, after waiting in the freezing snowfall, the headlights of the cab appeared in the distance.

• • • • •

Bucky laid there on the couch in his living room, listening to the low hum of the TV. All he wanted was to get some much-needed sleep. Whenever his eyes closed, instead of darkness, he would see memories of his past fill his mind. He’s seen a therapist. Any progress he makes, the doubts that whispered in his head held him back. It wasn’t going to be that easy, he knew that. Nothing he could do can change or erase what he’s done.

Instead of some shut-eye he grabbed his coat, and he found himself wandering outside in the cold. He made his way to the local bar down the street.

Bucky took a sip of the bitter liquid that calmed his nerves. Even though he couldn’t get drunk, he still enjoyed the taste and the burn in his throat. With enhanced hearing, his ears picked up the faint sound of boots walking to where he was sitting. In the corner of his eyes, he watched the woman sit down next to him.

“3 shots please,” she requested to the bartender, voice distressed. She choked one down as soon as they have been set down in front of her.

His head cocked to the side to get a better look. Her beauty struck him. She was absolutely breathtaking. Bloodshot eyes met his briefly. He noted the puffiness around the fragile skin as if she had been crying.

Bucky couldn’t help himself. He leaned over, so she could hear him over the loud music and voices. “Rough night?”

The second shot glass was raised up and she paused, looking at him. “Could be better,” she replied dryly. The clear liquid passed her lips. She cringed at the taste in her mouth.

“Yeah, mine too.” He took another sip of his beer. “Are you from around here?”

She shook her head. “I’m here for a business, or was,” she explained. “My boss fired me today because I didn’t get the contract... I was supposed to fly back home tonight until they canceled the flight. So now I’m here.”

Bucky’s face scrunched up at what she said. “Yeah. You’re night is much worse than mine. I’m sorry. That definitely sucks.” He swiveled the stool around that he sat on to face her and stuck out his human arm. “I’m Bucky.”

She looked down at his hand, hesitant at first, before placing hers in his. “Y/N.” She shifted in her seat to get a better look at him, she recognized him. “Wait a second, you’re the Winter Soldier. I’ve watched you on the news.” Y/N found him attractive. The long dark hair she’s seen him with on TV was cut short, and he had the most striking blue eyes she had ever seen.

Not being used to people recognizing him, he looked away. He was mostly afraid they would judge him for the bad things he did, instead of the good. “Which side of me have you seen?”

Y/N frowned at this. “Both. I like the good Bucky.” She drank down the last shot.

Bucky went to say something else but tensed up when her arm reached out, a hand grabbing on to his. Normally, he would freak out whenever someone touched him out of nowhere. That was then, so he relaxed.

She tugged on him. “We should go dance. This is my favorite song.”

At first, he stalled, staying in his seat. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I don’t really dance.”

Y/N ignored his protests and continued to drag him on to the dance floor. She stumbled on her own feet, feeling fuzzy from the alcohol.

Bucky was a bit uncertain, but he followed her anyway. She swayed her hips to the beat with a grin on her face. He stood there, not knowing what to do, nor did he have any intentions to join her. That was until a pair of arms wrapped around his neck. On instinct, he placed his hands on her waist. He decided he needed to loosen up and live a little, mimicking her movements.

Y/N had a boost of confidence from the booze running through her veins. She pushed herself up on to her tippy-toes and pressed her lips on to his.

For a second he was frozen in shock. A rush of something unexplainable came over him, telling him to kiss her back. His palms moved to each side of her face as the kiss deepened. “Want to get out of here?” he asked against her lips. Y/N nodded, and that’s all it took for Bucky to lead her back out into the cold.

• • • • •

As soon as they made it inside of his apartment, she was against the wall, Bucky hot on her tail. Their mouths locked in an intense kiss. Bucky kicked the door closed with his foot as he moved his mouth roughly against hers. His human-hand was placed at the small of her back, guiding her hips to brush against him. Y/N panted for breath when he tore away to pepper her exposed neck with kisses, her head lolling to the side to give him better access.

Bucky had a sudden sense of nerves, causing him to pause his pursuit. “To be honest, I haven’t done this in a long time.” The words he spoke came out in shaky whispers.

She looked at him in a dazed way, her eyes filled with lust. “Do you want to stop?”

To answer her question, Bucky kissed her again. His tongue that wove into her accepting mouth found hers, and they danced together. He hoisted her up by her thighs, her legs wounding themselves around him. By the time they reached his bedroom, most of Y/N’s clothes were thrown every which way, leaving her in only her bra and underwear. Bucky’s mouth made a trail from her lips to her neck. His lips traveled further down to find the curve of one of her breasts. With ease, he popped the clasp of the undergarment and tossed it behind him. Y/N arches at the warmth of his tongue flicking against her nipple. He sucked it into his mouth. Teeth grazed the swollen bud while his hand massaged the other.

“You’re overdressed,” she said, breaking the silence. She gripped the bottom of his shirt. He lifted his arms to assist her.

For a second Bucky’s insecurities got to him and closed his eyes tight, scared of what she’ll think of his metal arm. But all his fears washed away when she didn’t even acknowledge it, pulling him closer towards her. Y/N’s hand found the zipper to his jeans and he kicked them off, his briefs following in the same direction.

He hooked his hands, one on her hip and one on her thigh. Before she knew it, she felt the dip of the bed under her weight as she sunk into the sheets. Their bodies pressed ever so close together, skin to skin. Lips locked, his fingers lacing into her hair. Once again, he let his lips wonder her body until they reached the spot where she wanted to feel them the most.

Hot breath brushed against her clothed core. A cool sensation ran along her slit. Without a warning, her thong was torn off. Light feather kisses littered the inside of her thighs.

A breathy moan seeped out when she finally felt his wet mouth encase her pussy. He suckled on the bundle of nerves. The flat of his tongue licked up in a slow motion. He wrapped his arm around her to pull her closer. The cold feeling came back. She shivered in response as it pressed its way into her entrance. She twitched and writhed under his touch.

Tension rose inside her as she was reaching her peak. At the sound of her moans and motions of her squirming, the movements of his tongue on her clit quickened its pace. His metal fingers moved in a rhythmic motion inside her. She screamed out his name. Her orgasm washed into his mouth, and he sucked her clean.

Bucky crawled back up and kissed her, the taste of herself on his lips exciting her. She flipped them over, wanting to return the favor. Without wasting time, she took his rather large length in her mouth. Tongue flicked and circled around the head.

“Shit baby. That feels incredible,” he said through gritted teeth. His hands found themself tangled into her hair.

She bobbed up and down, massaging his balls. He quivered at the sensations he was feeling. Before he could let go just yet, he pulled her up and was back on top, his knee spreading her legs apart.

They shuddered in unison when the tip of his groin brushed against her entrance. Not being able to contain it any longer, he shoved the rest of his dick all the way inside as far as it could go. He groaned in pleasure at her wetness.

Bucky went slowly at first. He wanted to avoid hurting her, but she urged him to speed up. Her nails dug into his shoulders, crying in ecstasy. His breath fanned over the side of her face and bare skin.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum,” he growled out in a hungry tone. He pounded in to her in fierce strokes. She felt extraordinary against him.

“Me too,” she moaned out, her eyes rolling back.

They both let out a series of almost animalistic moans, the rush of their release sending them into complete bliss. Bucky collapsed on top of her, propping himself up so he doesn’t crush her. He rolled to one side of the bed. Y/N followed him, her arm and leg slung over his torso. Bucky pressed a kiss to her temple, wrapping his arms around her too. The two laid there breathless, like they had the wind knocked out of them.

• • • • •

“Careful, it’s hot,” Bucky warned her, handing her a mug of steaming hot tea. He took a seat next to her on the couch with a cup for himself.

“Thanks.” She sighed at the warmth the mug gave off to her hands, the heat soothing her insides. They were fully dressed and shared a large blanket that bundled around them.

The rest of the night was spent sat on the couch together, talking and getting to know each other. Y/N spoke about small bits of her life, and he told her some things he remembered before he became the Winter Soldier, back when Captain America was his best friend. Soon enough, they both drifted off to sleep against each other. And for once, rather than nightmares, Bucky had pleasant dreams.

The weather cleared up the next day. Bucky and Y/N spent most of it wondering around Brooklyn. He showed her around to some of his favorite places.

Bucky quickly grew fond of Y/N. He felt at ease around her, which is something that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Was it crazy to say it is love at first sight? The things he was feeling, he wished it would never go away. Everything about her made him crave and want more. The little quirks she did like her laugh and the way her eyes crinkled. And when she got shy, she would play with her hair. Y/N’s presence enticed him. The usual worries, the negative thoughts, and all else that beat at Bucky daily went away.

Y/N sensed it too. She saddened more when the day went by. Being around Bucky, she felt light on air as if she was floating and like she was on Cloud 9. There was something in her that was begging her to stay. It told her not to board that flight and go home. But she was afraid of being vulnerable so fast. She was also not used to change.

Later on, they found themselves at a park. Both sat down on a bench, watching families play on the snow and people all around them.

Bucky turned to her. Those steel-blue eyes that were starting to tug on the strings of her heart held sadness. “Do you really have to go?” he asked, his voice gloomy.

Y/N thought for a moment. She almost wanted to say no. “I should get back home.”

“Or you could stay,” he pushed. “You’d like it here and would be happier here. It’s New York. There are opportunities here, you could find a better job, and there’s me.”

Something rubbed her the wrong way. She stood up, whirling around to face him. “You only met me last night, and you already think you know what’s best for me?”

He was taken aback at her outburst. His hands went up in a defensive stance. “No, not at all,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry that you thought that. I just don’t want this to end.”

“You’re just being selfish. I’m sure there’s plenty of girls that you could pick up at the bar that I’m sure would be happy to have sex with you,” Y/N snapped out. Her own words surprised her. As soon as they left her mouth, she regretted them.

Bucky was confused at her words. “You assume that I picked you up at the bar just for sex? Is that what you think all of this was? And hey by the way, you’re the one who came on to me.”

Y/N jabbed at his chest. “Yeah, well, I was upset and had a bit to drink. I didn’t think it would go any further than this.” She wasn’t even upset at him. She honestly didn’t know why she was mad. Maybe it was the fact that .

The commotion stirred attention from a couple of bystanders as they watched the scene unfold.

“I’m not just some guy that uses girls. That’s not me at all,” he retorted back, standing up too.

Y/N became distraught and emotional. Her eyes watered with fresh tears. “It shouldn’t have gone further than it has. I’m supposed to move here all because you got caught in your feelings? Well, I did too. We have to say goodbye.”

“But it doesn’t have to end now. I feel something for once in the longest time.” Bucky felt his stomach turn. His fists balled at his side, clenching and unclenched.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” she croaked out. “I can’t stay. I can’t change everything suddenly for you when we just met.” She turned on her heels and ran off, hurrying down the park. She waved down a nearby taxi.

Bucky just stood there watching what could be the start of his life drive away. The cab disappeared, and his head lowered. He felt stupid. He knew he was in the wrong. She had every right to feel and think like she did. At first, he thought about just forgetting it and going home. But he didn’t. He couldn’t let it go. “Fuck!” he blurted out loudly, scaring the surrounding individuals. He raced down the street and flagged down a taxi as well.

Y/N grabbed her stuff from the conveyor belt. She got there just in time. The plane that will take her home had just landed. Her mind was swirling with many emotions. She felt the guilt eat away at her for being mad at Bucky. She couldn’t blame him. He had been through so much. All he wanted was something good for once. She also wanted it so badly too. But her life isn’t here. She wasn’t about to put it on hold.

Before she could make another step forward, she felt a cold touch on her shoulder. Y/N recognized it as the metal arm that belonged to Bucky. He spun her around. She went to speak, but lost her train of thought when a pair of lips came crashing down on hers.

A few seconds into the kiss, Bucky pulled away. He placed his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. His eyes said everything. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll,” he whispered. “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like you had to change your life. You’re right. I was being selfish. I just, I felt different around you. For once, when I’m around you I was at peace. All the worries and darkness that I have, is pushed aside. It felt so good to have a sense of freedom from the constant battle I have everyday. I didn’t want to lose that.”

Tears fell from Y/N’s eyes at his confession. His thumbs quickly swept them away. “I’m sorry too, for getting mad at you. I let my emotions and doubts get to me. I know you’ve been through a lot. I’m so grateful that I make you feel that way.”

He kissed her again, this time it was soft and full of promises. “You’ll come back, right?” he asked, hopeful.

Y/N smiled, nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course I will, Bucky. I promise.”

They shared one last kiss. It wasn’t a goodbye. It meant see you soon.

Y/N kept that promise.

• • • • •

She leaned against the window, looking out. The plane has just landed. Y/N gleamed with happiness and excitement. She couldn’t help the smile that lit up her face.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to JFK Airport. It is 7:43 pm and 60 degrees out.’

Her happy thoughts drowned out the rest of what the captain was saying. It was the end of March. The snow has melted away. Here she was, back in New York.

Bucky sat at the bar, beer in hand. His mind wandered with delight. He couldn’t stop thinking about it all day today and yesterday. Mid-sip, his extraordinary hearing, his ears perked up at the sound of heels approaching him.

“Rough night?”

His lips curved up in a grin. That voice was something he was impatiently waiting to hear again. Setting the bottle down, he swung around. There she was. The woman who has not left his mind ever since they met stood right in front of him.

“Actually, my night just became even better,” he spoke. The grin on his face broke out into the dorkiest smile.

Y/N’s matched his. “I have some good news to share.”

He arched his brow in response.

She sat down on the stool next to him. “I got an internship,” she began to say. “And if they like me enough, a permanent job. Here in New York to be exact.”

Bucky’s heart swelled, as if it was going to burst out of his chest. He reached over and kissed her. Oh, how much he missed those addicting lips. He pulled away. “That is wonderful. I’m so happy for you. Congratulations, Doll.”

“The good thing is that the people I’m working with I’ve personally worked with in the past,” she said. “So it’s almost a guarantee.”

“Well, we need to celebrate. How about I take you on a proper date?”

Y/N’s heart soared. “I can’t say no to that.”

This was the beginning of a new start for both of them, together.

[whythinktoomuch]

i. apocalypse now & then

Kara touched down, her boots meeting the earth with a metallic clunk that was promptly swallowed up in the dust and utter grayness of her surroundings. The warnings came immediately—insistent beeps, bright red numbers and figures flashing before her eyes.

“How’s it looking?” asked the tinny voice in her helmet, and Kara sighed.

“Yeah, you were right. Place is infested,” she said, studying the mess of debris and desolation that seemed to feed directly into the faint horizon in every direction. “Kryptonite readings are off the charts. There’s either a tower nearby, or mines just planted all over. Maybe even both, if i’m Iucky.”

Alex let out a harsh breath. “Look, I know you’re not going to leave until you find those people, but you better watch your fucking back out there, okay?”

“Hm… don’t I always though?”

“You ask that every single time, and every single goddamn time, I have to re-mind you of all—”

“All right, all right…” Kara said, rolling her eyes. “Just stop worrying so loudly already, jeez. I’ll keep you posted the entire time.”

“Like that was ever an option.”

“Love you too,” Kara said breezily, and she began her search.

She explored the area in proportioned sections, slipping periodically into x-ray vision, keeping her feet drifting an inch off the ground at all times. You just never knew these days. By now, Kara had stepped on enough lead-wrapped kryptonite mines for one lifetime, which coincidentally had been the same number of times it took to gray almost the entirety of Alex’s head. Or so Alex claimed anyway.

Apparently, over two decades of this sort of living could do that to a person: make them older, but also, steal away every last bit of their sense of humor. 

--

Whenever Kara happened upon a particularly extensive blind spot—jagged slabs of lead piled on top of each other—she took her time. Carefully sifted her way through all that rubble, with a spare bit of rebar or her heat vision from a safe distance. Calling out to any potential survivors that could have been trapped underneath. But as she steadily neared hour two of her search, it was starting to look like a lost cause. That whoever had sent that distress signal must have since succumbed to the environment, like so many others already had done before them.

Then Kara heard it.

Whipping her head around, Kara strained her ears to their very limit, all the while silently cursing how muffled everything sounded in this godforsaken suit of hers. It took a minute or so to hone in on it, but she finally made out the distant voice.

Help us. Save us. We’re down here.

Kara snapped into action, already hurtling full-speed toward the source of the cry. “Alex, I found them.”

“About fuckin’ time,” Alex said, but the note of relief carried through the speakers loud and clear. It always did, of course, given the scarcity of such a feeling as of late. “All right, get them out of there, and hurry your ass up. You’ve already been out there for too long.”

The voice grew louder and more distinct as Kara approached it, and eventually, she could even distinguish other people in the mix—their whispers, the muted beats of their heart seemingly punctuating every word, and all the shallow breaths of air in between. She counted at least five separate individuals, five more lives that she could potentially save from this impossible landscape.

But by the time Kara reached the point where the voice was sounding from below rather than from the distance, her excitement had all but waned, receded back into the ever present anxiety hanging in the air.

“… Fuck,” she huffed out, staring at the large swathe of broken rock and dirt and twisted metal beneath her, the letter K spray-painted all over the surface in a faded green. “Alex. They’re in a mine-rigged shelter.”

“Forget it then. Just get out of there,” Alex said, all rather predictably. “We can send an extraction team with defusers in the morning.”

“But that’ll take too long,” Kara protested. “It would take days, just for a task force to cover all that distance, and these people need help now.”

“No. I want you to put down a marker and come right the fuck back home,” Alex said. “That’s your last kryptonite filtration suit! If anything happens, if you sustain even the slightest bit of damage out there, you could—”

Kara cut the feed and swiftly locked her comms from all available channels, employing one of the few tips Winn had passed onto her before he died. Because Alex didn’t understand. How could she, when she wasn’t the one who had to listen to these desperate cries for help from people just barely out of reach.

She floated outside the presumed blast radius, planted her feet firmly to the ground, and went to work. Uncovering the buried shelter bit by bit, one sizable mass of charred rubble dug up after the other. It wasn’t easy. The kryptonite in the area, though not exposed, was much too close for comfort even through her suit. And it made the sun hotter, everything heavier, and Kara’s progress as slow as it could possibly be.

But all that—the sweat gathering on her brow, the soreness burning up her lower back—was a very small price to pay when weighed against the lives of at least five people in need. So, Kara kept going. She kept burrowing deeper into the earth with her bare hands, until the sun was but a small twinkle above her head and her fingertips were brushing against a patch of warmed metal.

And she could hear them better now. They were so close.

Kara pressed her palm against what had to be the outer wall of their shelter. “Hey, can you hear me in there?”

“Please help us!” came the frantic response, only somewhat muffled now. “Please get us out! We can’t breathe in here!”

“Okay! Okay… I’m gonna get you out, okay?” Kara shouted back, heart thumping hard in her ears. “Just… hang on.”

A quick once-over was all it took to determine that the wall before her—like most other surfaces nowadays—was naught but a few inches of commercial steel, coated in a thin layer of lead. And as such, all it would to take, of course, to break into such a structure was—THUNK!—a single punch from the Girl of Steel herself.

Kara ripped a hole in the wall, using her heat vision to melt down the edges as she tugged the entire thing apart. Eventually satisfied with her efforts, she was just about to crawl through her rather crude but functional doorway when the speakers in her helmet abruptly flipped back on.

“—him back to life, and just… throttle him for showing you that trick!” Alex was practically hollering in her ear. “Why would you ever need to do that anyway? The whole frickin’ point of the—”

“Whoa, Alex, Alex, it’s fine! I’m fine! Just shh!” Kara hastily cut her off. “I’ve pretty much got my foot in the door already, okay? So, I’m helping these people whether you like it or not.”

“Yeah, you fucking better,” Alex said with a scoff. “I want to look these people in the eye while you explain to me what was so goddamn special about them that you had to…”  

And Kara barked out a laugh, shaking her head in wonder as Alex continued to chew her out in a way that only sisters could, apparently. “Hey, you can do whatever you want, okay? Just let me bring them home first.”

“Fine. Just don’t kill the comms this time.”

“Oh, I would never.”

“Kara, I fucking swear to—”

But the rest of all that swearing quickly faded into the backdrop, as Kara finally poked her head into what should have been just another underground refuge from everything their world now had to offer. Because ten feet below from where she had burrowed her way in, was not a handful of dehydrated people waiting to be rescued—only masses upon masses of thick coils and plates of smooth black metal shifting about.

That’s when Kara realized that it’d been quite some time since she’d heard a cry for help. And soon after that was when a muted click! sounded, then somewhere down there in the midst of all that darkness and mechanical movement, came another loop of voices calling out to her.

“Oh shit…” Kara whispered, and at least ten sets of glassy eyes flicked up to stare at her. The pre-recorded voices immediately cut out, and the entire room lit up in a vibrant green as the machines all powered up with a collective hum. “Shit, shit, shit, you were right!”

“Right about what?” Alex demanded, but Kara was too busy heeding her long overdue advice of getting the fuck out there to respond.

Kara burst from the ground in a flurry of dust and clattering scrap metal, already heading for the horizon at full-speed. She needed to put as much distance as possible between her and the decoy shelter. It was nothing short of an honest-to-Rao miracle that her sudden escape hadn’t tripped any of the mines on-site, but now, it was only a matter of time.

Still hurtling away, Kara threw a glance over her shoulder just in time to see the first three drones break through the surface, already mindlessly chasing after her. Then the third and the fourth crashed right on through after them, which abruptly led to a series of rapid beeping, which abruptly led to a violent disturbance in the air that stole away all the sound from the world and knocked Kara right out of the sky.

(next part here)

[4dtk]

op.47 (you're the space in between the notes) — ii. exposition

pairing: soloist!gojo x violinist!reader (fem)

summary: gojo satoru always had a place in your life, whether it’s from the endless teasing at the age of ten to the dashing photoshoot of him with his violin in the concert you aimed to meet him again at. although when you’re caught in a messy situation, your childhood friend’s first solution is to announce that you’re dating. and so you’re stuck in this predicament: for you to figure out your feelings and for gojo to get one more chance. at what? even he doesn’t know.

tags: fake dating au, extreme slow burn (check masterlist for the full tags!)

word count: 8.2k

a/n: ooh. complications. the breaks for this is REALLY weird, i originally wanted to put the last scene as a single chapter but decided against it lol. also thx to @moonboohoo for always beta reading my shit LMAO 😭

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @fiona782

previous │ masterlist │ next

“are you aware of the story, guys?” nanami asks, going over the details of your relationship, takeout from the same restaurant yesterday lay on the table, “your first test’s coming up, (y/n).”

the afterparty of the infamous Menuhin Competition was the first event that you were put to the test. that was where gojo was invited to. he was still far from getting a spot in the judge’s panel but was called to the event anyway to meet the aspiring young violinists.

following up on the dating statement two days ago, you had to follow the white-haired male as his significant other, greeting other renowned and respected figures in the classical music scene that even you couldn't fathom you were meeting. smoothing out the fancy dress gifted to you by nanami at the last minute, you secured a hand over your clutch.

“the… paparazzi?” you voiced your concern with a small voice. nanami gestures with a shake of his head and a brief glance to gojo, “they’re gone for now.”

“okay. okay, yep, i remember every detail,” there’s a firmness in your voice, trusting in your good memory to not fail you at such essential times. this event, amongst many others, felt like a buildup before you faced the final boss. except, you didn’t know what the last challenge entailed.

was it going to be in the public’s eye? were publishing firms and paparazzi going to be there? were you meant to stage your break-up and potentially never hear from gojo ever again?

that last one made you shiver, the weight of gojo’s hand in yours feeling awfully comforting compared to the last time. the onslaught of cameras came almost immediately after exiting the car, however, at least thankful for the one thing anchoring you from running away.

squeezing his hand became second nature, showing your nervousness through squeezes where words were stuck in your throat. gojo proceeds smoothly, bowing and waving at the cameras like it was his second nature. he tugs on you gently, the grasp turning into something more intimate as he interlocks your fingers. all snarky remarks are gone from your head, focusing rather on the warm hand pulling you into the afterparty. gojo shuts down any questions directed to you, concentrating on making you feel your most comfortable.

“come,” gojo smiles amid the noisy interruptions of camera shutters going off, “stay close to me, ’kay?”

the gentle smile separates itself from the one-sided smirks he usually donned, sparking a warmth in your heart as you followed him close. he manoeuvres around the party with ease, nailing the greetings and subtle introductions to people he wasn’t so familiar with.

with every word he mutters, you get pulled in deeper and deeper, wishing what it’d be like if the words weren’t just a front. if they were said with meaning as he translates his definition of love to you. you’re given a glance into how gojo would be as your lover, and you’re cursing yourself for how much you enjoy it. the dumb, schoolgirl feelings make their comeback from years ago, recalling how you’d get dizzy from just a smirk from the violinist.

you decide to let yourself go for just one night.

“she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“i have nothing but adoration for this woman beside me.”

a kiss on your cheek has you tensing up, ignoring the heat blowing up on your cheeks, “a common phrase, but (y/n) serves as my muse when i’m struggling in practice.”

the last time the violinist is asked about the ‘girl on his arm’, it makes you melt into a puddle, in awe of gojo’s unfazed state. while his voice remains smooth as silk, your heart is heading a hundred miles per hour.

“yeah... i think she opens up a whole new perspective. (y/n)'s given my playing meaning and the space in between every note no longer feel empty. she’s done that much for me.”

there’s the same smile, again, raising your intertwined hands to his lips while his eyes stay trained on yours. they were soft and vulnerable and gentle, something you’d only show to your lover.

and god, you want to believe him so bad.

“ah! so you’re the mysterious woman who has swept satoru up by his feet?” a prying sponsor voices his opinion after an hour deep into the party. he looks you up and down with a hint of a scowl, the side-eyeing going off the charts.

gojo doesn’t miss the way your body sags at the sponsor’s body language, though, swooping in the save the day once again. “i’d say i was the one who swept her off her feet, Mr. Yamamoto,”

gojo jokes, bringing you closer, “better than you did with your wife, i suppose.”

you could only smile and bow your head quietly, struggling to keep in the giggle spilling from your lips.

“and here we have Mr. Yamamoto, classic misogynist. he knows he can stop supporting gojo at any time, but the guy knows that he’d lose many business partners if the sponsors stop. he’s basically forced to continue contributing on behalf of his company,” nanami explains, pointing to a picture on a flow chart.

“huh, i thought that guy dropped off a long time ago. i hadn’t bothered to meet him because he doesn’t even come to my concerts,” gojo states calmly, putting on an disinterested expression as nanami continues the introduction for you.

Mr. Yamamoto grunts at his blow, clearly irritated by gojo’s cheeky quip. he’s torn between two options but settles for the one that saves his ass. “enjoy the party, lovebirds,” he basically spits, bitterly walking away from the loss yet again as gojo shoots you a secret smile over his shoulder.

a gasp interrupts your fit of giggles, coming from beside you as gojo nods to the curious heads turning your way. the routine squeeze from you catches his attention, turning to face the girl who had come up. you’re expecting the admiration to go to the world-class soloist, however, you’re surprised when she calls out your name instead.

"(y/n)-sensei?"

your shock is unmatched when you recognise the features of the girl’s face, her grin spreading from ear to ear when you call out her name.

“akane-chan!” a joyful sound spills from your lips, cooing at the familiar features you’ve grown to love when you took up the job of teaching her violin.

it wasn’t a surprise that she was present at the event. plus, growing up as the daughter of one of the most renowned violinists had its perks. a stay-at-home dad slash teacher, non-stop education about theory, promises of a snack when she finished a scale in tune.

the forceful nature of akane’s father reaped some benefits, but he found her focusing less and less each day.

that’s where you came into the picture.

having just finished your graduation recital, you were left to ponder about jobs. they were hard to come by for fresh graduates, especially with wedding or event gigs since you personally preferred chamber music.

well... to enter a professional orchestra, you’d basically have to be crazy talented. although for now, you decide to stick to small gigs, amateur orchestras and... casual teaching?

the stumble over your words was embarrassing, to say the least, when the violinist had called, inquiring about your rates and services.

“i’m sorry, sir? what services are you talking about?”

“classes, miss. someone recommended me to you, as you’ve studied with the suzuki violin method before,” he says,

“who... recommended me?” you asked at the time, heading over to the practice room to get the necessary books.

“ah, that’s just a minor detail, don’t you worry about that.”

akane came to love you as a teacher despite your flaws, brushing up your skills with your own instructor when you had the chance to. her smile stays bright regardless of her mistakes and shortcomings, naturally finding her own talent as she grows older.

“you never told me your dad was Mr. Joshua Bell,” whispering, you revel in the laugh coming from her at the inside joke you shared, letting go of gojo’s hand as you squatted down.

“how are you, akane?”

now at twelve, you can see her father’s traits in her, mirroring the parent as he steps up to the three of you. he holds up a hand to prevent you from standing up, encouraging that you continue the conversation with akane. she gushes about her new school and teacher while talking about the pieces she’s currently learning, from Bach’s gigue to corelli’s allegro, while your eyes and ears stay attentive to her.

you’re oblivious to the conversation beside you, as well as the way gojo’s looking at you with a fond smile. even gojo satoru, a world-class soloist praised for his accuracy and meticulous manner of playing the violin, found himself struggling to maintain stability when he looks at you.

he feels as light as a feather when he’s near to you, taken away into a walk-on-air spectacle like how howl guides sophie through the air. at the peak of his fluttering heart, only the two of you existed while the rest of the world stay rooted to the ground.

where gojo’s hand reaches the highest pitch on the fingerboard, you take him with you, providing clarity and wholeness to a note that would usually sound like a whining child to him. his heart flutters again when he hears your laughter and adoration towards the girl.

and that’s when he realises he’s fucked, a feeling he thought he’d only witness in cheesy rom-coms. a feeling like that oh. that appears time and time again in books.

his smile fades as Bell cuts in, “you’re staring again, gojo.”

gojo could only sigh, looking back to the american violinist with a solemn look, the usual sparkling eyes dull with the awareness of his liking to you.

“you still haven’t said anything?” he says, sipping from his wine glass. gojo widens his eyes and whispers.

“i- you- wait, how do you know?”

Bell only purses his lips, “when i saw the news, i was happy for you, but... now you’re staring longingly again and well...”

gojo cringes at how easily he’s read like a book, expecting nothing less from his mentor from before. there’s visible distress in the way gojo’s body deflates and how nervously he’s fiddling with the fabric of his suit, his collected facade stripped away so quickly.

“you’d best be sweeping her up for real this time, gojo. she’s not like any fish in the sea for you, but she is still available in other oceans. it’s a matter of time before the space in between every note becomes empty again,” he huffs at the cheesy line he used earlier, no doubt overheard by the american violinist in conversation. gojo doesn’t have the time to sort out his thoughts before you pat akane’s head, rising from your position to greet the parent with an outstretched hand.

“nice to see you again, Mr. Bell!”

as you indulge in the conversation with your former ‘boss’, your empty hand unconsciously reaches for your date’s, unaware of the sweaty palms gojo had. if you had noticed, either way, you give it no thought as the ease of speaking with a familiar face comes with no difficulty.

“hey, you feelin’ okay?” gojo asks later, uncharacteristically soft that has you raising a curious brow. he’s brought you to the in-house bar right after the exchange, eager to quench his thirst with some water.

“why’re you so doting today?” you nudge him back playfully with a question, foot continuing the tap on the barstool to the classical music that travels throughout the large hall. it boasts a calm melody of chamber music, specifically Hadyn’s, but gojo is anything but calm.

“why can’t i ask about you? i think it’s fitting for me as your boyfriend, no?” gojo tightens his hold on your hand, shielding you from the passing attendees who only give him knowing smiles. “and why are you so short?”

it’s true, how much taller he is than you even when you were sitting. that only garners a roll of your eyes, but you choose not to answer, allowing yourself to recharge through your silence. gojo, on the other hand, desperately hopes his his confidence distracts you from how slimy and sweaty and clammy his palms feel— “...ay?”

“huh?”

“oh uhm- just... don’t leave me, okay? i’m not used to these kind of events.” there's a small laugh in your next confession, “i’m not sure what i’ll do if you wander off to talk to old geezers.”

a grin stretches on gojo’s face, voice now dropped to a murmur as he places yet another kiss on the back of your hand that you purposely avoid his gaze in your flustered state, “yeah, yeah, i won’t.”

“that would be cruel of me, hm?”

as the night progresses, gojo finds his energy depleting more and more, stepping up only when busybodies wanted to find out about your relationship. a wave to akane, a pat on the back to Mr. Bell and a plethora of goodbyes to everyone who attended, you both find yourself relieved as you settle in the car that drives you back.

gojo is uncharacteristically quiet, the ride home being as uncomfortable as you felt at the party. albeit, you decide not to press it, sending the other a squeeze that you’ve become accustomed to. gojo relaxes at that, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips even if his head’s turned away.

that night is exchanged with silent glances and nods of acknowledgement, the mood a direct opposite of the one earlier. the dimness in his eyes worries you, not possessing the shine you always knew, even at his lowest.

perhaps you weren’t one to speak when you were gone for half of his life. what would you know about his lows?

the next few hours are spent thinking about gojo and the way he felt in your hands, tracing over the skin he’s held so tight all night and wondering if you’d ever be able to look at him freely and call out his name without reserve again.

“no no, (y/n), you’re forgetting to stretch the legato note as long as you can. you’re rushing to go to the next phrase, and that’s fine if you’re gonna play like a robot, but…” your teacher sighs, “i apologise, can i just inquire if that’s the way you wish to play it?”

you grunt in response, “no, not really. i- i can feel myself rushing but, i’m always just too excited that i’m gonna miss it, y’know?”

“honey, you’re the only one controlling the piece. it’s a solo piece for a reason; of course it’d be different if you were residing in an orchestra, but hey, you did graduate with soloist studies and you’re taking lessons from a fellow solo study kid.”

the joking tone eases your nerves just a bit, and you calm down even more when she places a hand on your shoulder, “you’re a talented one, (y/n), but when you get nervous, there’s that tendency to abandon the things we’ve gone over. it’s natural human instinct, but you could also practice the nerves away. i know you can.”

your mind goes over the short conversation with your instructor on the ride home, instilling the need to relax into your brain whenever you tackle difficult passages. your fingertips always felt like they were put on autopilot as you liked memorising pieces beforehand. you figured that maybe that could be the reason why you’re anxious — extremely anxious to finish the piece that would’ve stayed true to how the composer would’ve liked it.

classical music could only live on through interpretations, however. if there were various other violinists playing a single Bach piece in the same way, then classical music would’ve died from the first day. you’re well aware of that, yet you can’t bring yourself to stray from the rules and the general connotation of the piece. with a soft whisper, you wished to yourself to continually remember that fact, to always push yourself out of the box.

“ah man, when are they gonna show their faces again?” your ears pick up on the voice. you recognise it from the first time you’re met with DSLRs shoved into your faces, standing out the most against the crowd as he dared to ask the first question, “mr. gojo? what is your relationship with this person?” if he’s here, then there definitely are others too.

now, there’s one more shameless wish you’d make to whatever deity was up there. while you hide behind a pillar, you want nothing more than to dash your way through the flashes of those animals. but you wouldn’t make it, obviously, having failed the school fitness test the first time you took it. It’s not like you were surprised but still…

shaking the irrelevant memory from your head, you sift through the different options that could take. there’s the option to carry on in the same direction you came from toward your teacher’s house, although you’d have to take the bus. you didn’t mind, except you remembered she mentioned that she had an outing with her spouse.

the second involves running through the nosy reporters camping outside, praying and hoping that they wouldn’t grope at your bag and case straps. you already ruled that one out, not trusting your sprint timings wholeheartedly.

the third option involves either nanami or gojo, where you could knock one or two fellas out together before you break into a sprint. it didn’t seem too bad of an idea, except for the fact that you’d probably be shamed in countless articles for taking out the paparazzi with a sweet punch that made your knuckles ache.

and the fourth option only involved you: braving the stormy seas yourself while your head is kept held high, ignoring every single question and every single prompt sent your way until you satisfyingly slam the fucking door in their faces.

with a quick check to your phone, your first thought is to contact nanami. the first thing the phone does is go straight to voicemail, which makes you roll your eyes in exasperation. this meant you had to call gojo, who would never let you live it down with his constant teasing. you really do need my help, don’t you? you owe me one now!

his infuriating voice circles around in your head, letting out a shaky breath and a calculated step, gravel crunching under your shoe. a renewed resolution fills your bones when the first flash of cameras start, focusing your energy on your front door as if you could teleport there in an instant. it attracts many other similar flashes, making you tense your hands around your phone and you take long strides to make sure you’d reach your front door fast.

“hey, hi, miss (y/n)! could you spare us a few ques—” one cuts off the other, others stumble over their feet just to get the microphone all up in your face. “are you dating him only to get lessons from him?”

“miss (y/n)! how has it been like dating the gojo satoru? is he as passionate in the bedroom as is he on stage?” your face contorts in something of disgust at the question, albeit entertaining the thought for just a second. it sends your cheek flushing and your mouth letting out a poorly stifled giggle. one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there soon.

the questions are mild, ranging from asking about your behind-closed-doors dynamics of the relationship or other focused questions about gojo’s plans for touring. you were even offered a piece of paper, with a plead to get an autograph from the soloist. with your eyes guided to the floor you see that among sports shoes and loafers, a pair of dress shoes stand out the most.

“did you expect the untouchable gojo satoru to date someone like you?” it’s delivered like a rhetorical question, something to mock you with. your breath hitches.

dress shoes. those words sounded from the lone reporter from your right penetrate through the space like a bullet. he looks how you’d expect him to look: a gloomy coat, tailored pants, polished shoes, as if he’s just stepped right out of a film noir. the reporter shifts in his place, as if revolted that he was sent to this job.

“well?”

his aura certainly affected the other paparazzi, as well, carrying it around like a stubborn odour only he was able to utilise well. lifting your gaze, you stare right into nothing, eyes hidden behind a cap that didn’t match his dress code very well. it glues you to the spot nonetheless, hands reaching for something to ground yourself. one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there soon, but the man had more words to contribute.

“i can’t see how such a renowned soloist would set time aside to date-”

“i—” mumbling out your words, the rest leaned forward to hear your answer, seemingly expecting a corny hollywood plot of catching gojo’s eye. the words die in your mouth, however, when another stern, yet familiar voice cuts through. you thank the heavens, visibly relaxing at gojo coming to the rescue.

paparazzi rush to him instead, snapping out of their daze before they bombard him with questions originally directed to you. you offer a small smile among the chaos, which gojo returns briefly as he strides purposefully toward you. he towers over you comfortably, shielding you.

“do you… guys fancy being sued?” he asks menacingly, a sick smile appearing on his face. his voice is laced with venom. “because i certainly don’t! i have my lawyer’s number in my phone, surely you wouldn’t want me to diaaaal—” he fishes out his phone, feigning the act of searching for the number. “—her number, right?”

one of them foolishly asks, “your lawyer’s a woman?”

“like i’d let a man be my lawyer.” gojo replies without missing a beat, a bright grin plastered on his face.

you’re not sure what gojo does, with his eyes or mouth or expression, but with one point of his finger the lot of them are scurrying out of the lobby. the man stuck in the 1930s fashion scene trods away silently, but not before giving you both a piercing glance.

“satoru! thank god,” you laughed, wiping off the sweaty palms with your shirt, “i was gonna call nanami but he- he didn’t answer so, i just came in here-”

gojo murmurs something that you didn’t catch.

“huh?”

“why didn’t you call me, then?” his features are pulled into an expression of worry.

you search his face for a joke, finding none when his hands are placed on your shoulders before they reach your hands. if anything, it confirms his feelings. “i... i didn’t want to owe you a favour so- y’know, because who knows what you’ll make me do right?”

you laugh. he doesn’t. rather, he pulls you into the lift that conveniently made its way down, dragging you protectively in and out the elevator, then into your flat. the way gojo maneuvers around your flat almost convinces you that he was the one who lived there, brought back to reality when there’s occasional questions about where certain things are.

soon, you join him to avoid shouting from the living room, surprised to see that he was preparing something for you. eggs, some bread, custard, burning butter in the saucepan. it sizzled like pavement on a scorching hot day and immediately you push past him to lower the heat.

“please don’t burn down my house. nor my pans,” you state, spreading the butter to all sides of the pan. wordlessly, gojo passes you the bowl of soaked bread, a job that he already completed. despite the setting of the sun, you accept his kind act of preparing french toast, a breakfast meal, even if you had to step in to help him. “did you add oil?”

“i thought-” it was rare to see him tongue-tied. “isn’t butter enough?”

“nope! it would burn the bread otherwise, it’s like a safety net, i guess,” you recoil at the sounds when the bread hits the pan after you add in oil, mixing it around calmly with a spatula. “think you can handle it now?”

gojo’s wince makes you laugh out loud, eyeing the angry sizzles of the butter before you grab his hand gently. “c’mere.”

he looks like a kid, flinching every time a bit of butter jumps from the pan. each time it makes you giggle at him, using all your might to uncurl his tight fists. gojo relaxes eventually, letting your smaller hand wrap around his as you juggle two acts at once. dunking the bread in the poorly whisked custard while flipping over the gradually darkening bread. it takes gojo by surprise, remembering when you tried to help your mother as a kid, only to run away when she asked you to watch something over the stove.

he remembers laughing uncontrollably at you before taking up the task, describing to you when and how to stir the thick soup. it smelled delicious each time your mother added a new ingredient, as it does now when the butter seeps into the bread. although the roles are reversed, he can’t help but smile fondly at the memory — so much so that he doesn’t notice that he’s doing it on his own, now.

“you’re a pro now, satoru,” the warm, genuine smile you give him catches him off guard as you move around the kitchen again, placing two plates on the countertop next to him. two bodies, like years ago, understand familiarity with the other, giving space to the other whenever either of you reached for something.

it was exactly how gojo instinctively moved his body so your violin bow wouldn’t hit the cupboard, or when you’d duck under his arm in crowded trains. sure, you were grown up, with unsaid feelings and complicated lives, but he’s glad that he never lost that with you.

imagining domestic life with you wasn’t difficult, either, considering how much he’s resided in your life for the past few weeks. a drowsy good morning or an excitable good night, or maybe a simple set of the table together when you’re preparing something small for lunch. hell, he was sure that supper took up more of your stomach than lunch, thinking back to the many times you two would stay up late to watch new shows on disney+.

“okay, you know how to take it out of the pan?” you ask as you prepare the fruits and maple syrup, plating them accordingly: more strawberries for you and more blueberries for satoru. the other decides not to risk it, shaking his head.

“you can either use the spatula or... a fork!” brandishing a fork, you stick it into the softened bread, “if you’re worried it’ll fall,” your actions follow the words you mumble to yourself. “make sure your plate’s right next to the rim of the pan, so the butter won’t drip, and you’re done!”

gojo smiles, azure eyes zoned in on yours while his hair welcomes the half-past-six p.m. breeze, along with the intrusive sunset that paints your kitchen with an array of colours. they boast their hues, tempting either of you to capture a photo while the other suggests other appealing angles.

none of you are rushing to do that, though, locked instead in the moment, that the only thing moving is the light from the windows.

the soloist’s bright hair glimmers under the sun, even shimmering like glitter and sequins and starlight as they dance comically on his head. the wind and rays have cooled down by now, but gojo satoru still looks like a god, glancing down at you with affection in his eyes that he reserves for no one else.

still, it takes your breath away, even if you believe it to be fake. “thanks, babe,” gojo gives into himself just this one time, planting a kiss onto the crown of your head. “i’ll do the other one too. thanks for your help.”

he recovers quickly, but you take a while, coming out of your stupor only when he required more space in front of the stove. you weakly and barely manage conversation later, distracted by everything about him from head to toe as he talks. from the way he jabs his fork into the bread to the way he looks up at you when you’re talking, you’re hooked.

you’re indescribably hooked and undeniably hopeless.

as the events increase in number, the front the both of you put on becomes more manageable. the kisses on the cheek don’t feel awkward, the interlock of your fingers feel routine, and the exchanges you have reflect those of a real couple. an invitation from one of his older mentors, who was the conductor for the night, came next, thankfully with minimal interactions since it was a concert.

“it’s not going to be good if you fall asleep on me, babe,” gojo whispers, squeezing and unsqueezing your hand, “cameras.” he simply states, pleading with the striking blue of his eyes as he places your locked hands on his lips. the audience is still filling in as the orchestra slowly gets to their seats on stage, snippets of the woodwinds tuning while casual chatter is heard.

“well, if you’re gonna sleep, at least do it on my shoulder, ’kay?”

you hum, opting not to listen to the man as you adjust your head on your fist, elbow propped up on the armrest of the seat. there’s a look of disgust when he kisses your intertwined hands, tugging them away from his lips when you feel the stickiness of the sweet he ate earlier.

“you’re gonna get ants all over my hand, stop...” a slight lilt takes place in your sentence despite your sleepiness, and gojo knows you don’t mean any of that when you tighten your hold on his hand. the other just shrugs, turning to the programme book to read up about the symphonies being played tonight.

luckily for you, there’s no interaction with other artists before the concert, allowing for you two to be in your own little bubble before the lights dim and the announcement starts. with a quick check to the side of your phone, you make sure that it’s on silent.

the applause happens instantly when the conductor makes his way out, meeting eyes with gojo as a gesture of thanks. the white-haired man nods in response, naturally getting his head in tune as he hums an A just in time with the oboe.

“oh man, 442 Hz?” gojo sighed, leaning over to murmur to you, “442 messes up my perfect pitch,” you roll your eyes.

“yes, yes, satoru, you have perfect pitch. you don’t have to remind me,” with a playful shove, you nudge him with your shoulder while you stifle a smile. the upward curl of the corners of gojo’s lips is almost embarrassing if you hadn’t smiled yourself, but all of that is amplified when the symphony starts out powerfully.

it starts out so powerfully that he sees the sparkle in your eyes at how the instruments blend. they carry the melody so coherently that it’s a rollercoaster ride, and you react with a gasp that’s masked by the triumphant brass theme.

and when the strings come in, he’s convinced you’re floating amongst the clouds in moments of bliss as you appreciate the harmony and passion. like him, you’re flying high in the skies as the fingers on your lap mimic the notes the orchestra played. you don’t care if they’re correct or not, but there’s no hesitation in the way you lose yourself in the composer’s visions of the piece.

gojo’s lost for a completely different reason, though. the same striking blue eyes that stared boringly into repetitive reporters and droning interviewers finally softens when it’s settled on you. at the heart of his passion for classical music, he’s seen you laugh, cry, raise an eyebrow at many, many pieces, but nothing quite pulls at his heart than the scene in front of him.

gojo satoru’s decided that he’s willing to do anything. he keeps this small little secret hidden in his heart, the smile on his face never leaving even when the symphony wears down into the central theme with a single violin.

but in that moment of soaring and admiring, gojo’s wings turns to wax. he’s flying too close to the sun with heights greater than olympus that when he falls, the descent down would be a long and hard one.

does she really want you, satoru? accolades linked to your name only make her crave more for the perfection she lacked. you left her behind, didn’t you? what makes you think she’d want you to go back to where you left her stranded?

gojo’s smile fades when his thoughts drift around uncertainty and doubt, never forgetting the frustration you tried to mask in classes.

“i think i could probably play that. what d’ya say?” you leaned over to joke. your eyes stay glued onto the concertmaster with awe, thankfully distracted enough to not notice the gentle sigh gojo lets out.

“yeah, you could do it.” the atypical relaxed tone he used seemed out of the blue, the rustle of your clothes standing out when you turn to him.

i mean it. i mean it. i mean it, (y/n). i know you can play that, effortlessly, flawlessly with the articulation down to its last detail because you always emphasised that in your practice sessions, even if i never understood it.

i mean it.

“you mean that?” you smile, giddy with sleep that you can’t bother to care about the insecurity clawing at your throat, “if the crazy talented satoru says so, then maybe i could.”

no, you don’t. no, you don’t. no, you don’t, gojo. you don't know my ins and outs, with the wooden instrument that feels so heavy after every rehearsal.

no, you don’t.

you’re glad for the easy-to-fake facade, turning away to face the stage while the other could only shake his head. his attention was brought back to the main stage of his mentor’s intense conducting and musicians moving in sync and hopes you don’t notice the small glances he shoots your way.

fatigue catches up to you, though, and you’re left drifting in and out of consciousness around the third movement. with reluctance, your head takes residence on gojo’s shoulder, liking the shirt he’s chosen today a little too much.

“we’ve got another symphony after this intermission, i don’t think i can hang on,” you groan, blinking your eyes promptly to rid of the sleepiness. in your bouts of drowsiness, it led you to be more clingy with the soloist, hanging onto his arm for dear life. your words slur together from the intense weariness, and it makes you all the more cuter.

“babe, we can leave if you want, you know? technically only i was supposed to come, but... you insisted-”

you slapped his arm, “nanami asked me to go. i’m not about to disrespect your manager, satoru.”

he rolls his eyes, “well... if nanami said that, then, that settles it!” the familiar, upbeat tone returns, “let’s get you out of here!”

you’re not ready for whatever gojo had up his sleeve, but in a blink of an eye, he’s got you in his arms as he speeds down the escalator. concert-goers are shooting you weird looks as you struggle between wanting to enjoy gojo’s secure embrace and cringing from the questionable furrow of eyebrows.

“h-hey! wait, shouldn’t we go back for the second half? what... satoru, slow down!” his ears was sewed shut, letting out a laugh at the adrenaline that’s flowing through his veins. yours was flowing through your body for an entirely different reason, tense and uptight that contrasted with the carefree personality that gojo possessed.

it wasn’t anything unusual from the standard nature of your childhood friend, but you do notice that the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit more, and the flush on his cheeks look a little too inviting.

with a jerk of your head, you try your best to push away the thoughts, but gojo’s beam remains as radiant as ever. it’s accompanied by a laugh, and it sounds like a schoolboy’s laughter, innocent and pure, that it has you smiling too.

he’s out of the building in a second before the instant change of temperature makes you sigh.

“i can run, you know?” in your haste to show your commitment, you remove your heels with your free hand. the comment he makes after earns him a flick to the forehead.

“didn’t you fail the school fitness test?” gojo teases but lets you down, either way. with silent movements, he removes his footwear for you, who laughs when your feet’s significantly smaller in the dress shoes. there’s so much space! you exclaim, and he reaches forward to take your heels from you.

amidst your interaction, satoru loves the way your hair flutters in the wind. it’s like the wind dances in between your locks as your eyes hold galaxies beyond wonders. he notes how it shines hazel under the street lamps, despite staring into black irises time and time.

“do you trust me?” it’s clear that gojo’s writing out the same exact story as before. but like a fool, you mutter out a ‘yes’ anyway and place your hand in his, noticing the comforting warmth that you always told yourself to ignore. you’re taken back by the strong wind against your face. just like the previous time of running away from your mcdonald’s.

today felt no different. the only thing hindering you was your bewilderment and, well, your dress.

the glimmer in his eyes looked like it returned for once, and you were able to witness, again, the boyish smile satoru always bore. his cackle is contagious, no matter how maniacal it may sound. his bangs that always fell into his eyes was still there, but no matter how much he complained, you were glad that he didn’t cut it.

you began to notice different things about satoru, and you weren’t sure if the pit you were falling into had a landing or not. the annoying voice in your head stayed, took residence, set up its damn home in your head.

it was always there, but this fleeting feeling of seeing satoru in a different light was something new. it wasn’t on a pedestal, but one that had you on it with him.

you’re not equal on skills, sure, but as people? that’s all you ever want.

gojo’s pulling you through shortcuts and through traffic lights, disregarding the speed he’s guiding you at. you don’t blame him, though, knowing he was thrilled enough to leave the concert, with you lucky enough to be included in his escapade. he finally stops.

“recognise the building?” satoru calls back to you, feet coming to a still as the tall skyscraper looms over the both of you.

you stumble to a halt in his shoes, heels clicking on the floor as you glance up at the countless flats built up high in front of you.

“oh my god, did they revamp it?”

anticipation turns into excitement, a grin spreading on your face as you take the turn to tug on gojo’s hand. you’re glad they kept the same old structure to the building: a left turn to pass by the in-house supermarket and straight down to the elevator that you took each time after rehearsals.

it was meant to be a one-time ride, exploring the tall, intimidating buildings with rooftop gardens every ten floors. the structure was winding and confusing, so you, at ten, told satoru with a finger that “we’ll only take this lift and only this lift.”

he’d whine and gesture to the expanse of the area, finally relenting when you said you’d leave him behind.

“okay, okay! you know i’m bad with directions. you don’t have to rub it in...”

you deadpan without missing a beat, “just like you rubbed it in the conductor’s face when he started on the wrong line for the second violins?”

the eleven-year-old gojo could only laugh at you, “but it’s true!” his hair is barely dropping over his eyes, unevenly cut because of a reckless hand that decided his hair looked terrible one day.

“it’s also true that your haircut is ugly as hell,” you sputter out, immediately running toward the lift as a way to escape from the other. you and satoru’s laughs fill the space, prompting the adults around you to coo at the youthful nature of your friendship.

“well,” you look over at the gojo you know now, admiring the head of hair that’s caught your eye in the first place, “your haircut’s not too shabby this time.”

gojo pushes you with a glare of faux anger, hooking your arm around his to get into that very same elevator. the third rooftop garden was the one you always frequented, standing tall at 30 floors up that you could see the world and not worry about a thing.

in a quiet minute, you’re out of the elevator and admiring how insignificant life felt on the ground. up here, you could say anything and fall asleep without care later in your bed. the rooftop garden was your sanctuary for rants of the infuriating guest concertmaster that you couldn’t make known to your conductor otherwise.

you’re the first one to leave his side, going straight to the parapet to look at the bright lights of the residential place in the city. it seems magical, quickly spotting the concert hall from where you were. although soon, the sky flushes over, turning crimson with the hint of rain just as you were starting to enjoy the night.

“why did you bring me here?” your hands clutch onto the parapet in nervousness upon hearing the other come up beside you.

“to make another memory, i guess. there’s too many that’s frozen in the past that it felt wrong to be fake dating. it felt wrong only for our memories to consist of those in front of the camera.”

you whistle at that, “so much depth... playing professionally really changed you,” with a dramatic hand, the back of it meets your forehead, “oh, satoru! fame changed you!” gojo sports a snicker which you reply with, glancing at you with relaxed features. you try your best to ignore his piercing stare, but you get drawn in soon enough that you’re matching his position on the parapet as your surroundings get quieter and quieter.

you know his breath is held by the way he’s frozen like the icy blues of his irises, and similarly, you find your breath being taken away, too. none of you break away when the first drop of precipitation falls, building up one by one on your cheek, hair, outfit, until it becomes a decent bout of rainfall.

at that moment, you feel like you’ve been portrayed as a painting with you as the artist. gojo looks over the uneven brush strokes and chunks of paint that hinders your ability to blend your colours amidst your stiff pose.

you can hardly reach the ends of the frame, and you’re struggling. with every hand that reaches out, you push away. no, no, i’m the artist, you say. i need to do this myself, you say.

and with brush strokes light enough as watercolour, all gojo wants to do is wipe away the tears that stain the canvas, the tears that wash away your hard work. he knows you’re more than capable of existing alone as your own painting,

even if your mediums differ from one another. although, you’re still learning to see yourself in the eyes of others, unrestricted by the massive frame coated gold from expectations.

your eyes linger over the vast city, taking in the lights that pollute the sky. your wish to see the stars doesn’t go unanswered, realising that the spheres of fire in the sky took place in satoru’s captivating eyes instead.

everything is crystal clear as his irises are now: the way your skin feels electrifying from head to toe and the clammy hands that you fumble with. you’re well aware of the unrelenting stare from him and the droplets falling from the sky.

“hi,” you whisper.

there’s a hint of red on his cheeks, “hey, you.” you’ve lost your cool, hiding your face in your arms as your ears pick up on the rise of the downpour, of the sweet chuckle spilling from his lips.

“stop staring at me like that, you idiot!” you mumble, face hot at the confidence gojo displayed when in reality, all he could centre in on was your flustered voice.

satoru says nothing but a grin, taking the chance to inch closer while the rain starts to soak both of your clothes. it sticks to your skin annoyingly like how the violinist usually does, pestering you endlessly to this day.

even now, you’re afraid for the crash of your heart and the descent into the pit.

down, down, down you fall, but you’re almost certain of a landing when satoru’s hand grips onto your waist. the rain droplets felt like a gift from the gods, cascading down his face and amplifying his features.

it’s the last thing you admire before his lips meet yours, and the landing is rough, miscalculated. there’s a clash of teeth and an embarrassed laugh from you before you go back in.

this time, you’re the one holding his face, coming onto the kiss fully. your heart fills up with ecstasy when his arms wrap around your waist, just like the many nights you’ve imagined. it feels hot to the touch, his body against yours and his tongue inside your mouth.

you can’t get enough of him in the heated moment, hands winding around his neck to deepen it. you exhale through your nose when satoru smiles into your lips, causing you to do the same.

in a gentle lift, he brings you off the ground just a little, causing your laughter to fill the space. if anything, satoru’s laugh feels like a weekend morning, now, dancing around your ears like a fairy that makes your stomach turn and churn and stir (in a good way).

the rain is loud in your ears, banging on your eardrums as it’s begging to be let in, but all you can hear is the beat of your heart. with the very same beat of your heart that echoed in your ears when you watched gojo grudgingly. it rang in your ears when you glared at his name on the programme booklet of yet another concert.

no. no no no no...

a noise of surprise escapes you once your heart realises its mistake of blurring the lines, travelling too close to the other side.

you pull back from gojo harshly.

and the hurt expression that appears starts to pull at your heartstrings, making your fingers twitch as it pairs with the heaviness you felt.

it was the heaviness of a promise you made to yourself. and when you realised you let your heart fall again for the one boy you had met at six, you were almost certain there was nothing else to pull you back up from the pit.

scrambling for an excuse, your hands go through the cycle of tensing and un-tensing, seemingly unable and unsure of how to work your hands like a normal person. you almost want to lean back in with his swollen lips tempting you, sensitive from only a few seconds of kissing, while yours longed for any sort of heat in the cold weather. his eyes bore into yours.

“sorry.” gojo mumbles it too softly for his liking, not even sure if you heard it with the noisy background, but he takes your nervous laugh as a response. the rain now becomes a racket against his ears, like nails on a chalkboard as your rejection renders him speechless.

gojo counters it with a nervous laugh of his own, but it doesn’t quite reach his ears, let alone his cheeks. you take one for the both of you, knowing your fake smile was the last thing you wanted on your face.

“let’s go, satoru,” it’s said quietly with the poor attempt of a smile, void of most emotion when you grab his hand. it felt weird, now, the callouses uncomfortable and prickly against your skin as you depart from the building where you had the most memories.

“i... just got a bit shocked, that’s all,” you mumbled, thumb caressing his skin which had turned cold, certainly not only from the rain, “i liked it, satoru, don’t worry.” you turn back too fast to see the sad smile spread across his face, and he instead took a moment to savour the last bits of your affection before eventually facing the problem tomorrow.

ijichi doesn’t seem to recover from shock even after he’s dropped you off at your home, the heavy rain driving off the nosy reporters. and as the night progresses, no words are exchanged, and you’re almost glad for the ignorant nature the two of you possessed.

how you always naturally let time do its thing.

[watermelonlipstick]

Parking Lot

This is a love letter to the Dean who told Cassie everything about his life after knowing her for 2 weeks and who didn’t see What Is And What Should Never Be as a horror show until he saw his bond with Sam was gone. I don’t think it would work for a later seasons Dean, who had pretty conclusively abandoned this idea for himself. I’d love any advice or critiques!!

Title: Parking Lot

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3801

Summary: A parking lot quickie leads to an illuminating argument between Dean and the reader.

Warnings: Swearing, smut, angst, ~*idiots in love*~, fluff

           In a couple ways it seemed like a lesson; you really shouldn’t have been fooling around in a parking lot no matter how late at night it was. Especially not a bar’s parking lot, potentially more likely to be busy at this hour, shadows be damned.

           But it wasn’t all your fault, not by a long shot. Dean knew exactly what he was doing, getting a Manhattan rather than his standard straight bourbon just for the cherry, rolling it around with his tongue and licking his fingers of the juice while you waited for the guys you were playing pool against to shoot.

           If Sam had been there you might’ve been able to keep it together for politeness’s sake, but you didn’t give a shit about these people and you weren’t doing research for a case, just blowing off steam post-job before heading out of town in the morning.

           Two could play at Dean’s game, though, you arching your back deep into the table to make a shot and practically purring “your turn” when he was up, hovering close enough to see the goosebumps spread over his neck when he smirked and obeyed. He finished the game lightning fast with a string of laser-focused shots and you silently downed the rest of his drink as the guys ponied up, tossing thick folds of cash onto the table and shaking Dean’s hand. You didn’t even feel guilty for hustling them, partly for their ignoring you but mostly for the distraction of Dean’s hands reracking the balls and grabbing your coat, sliding a palm to your lower back with his pinky just barely under your waistband. It was all you could do to wait until you get to the back of the parking lot to shove him up against the Impala and bite his bottom lip almost too hard before slipping your tongue into his mouth.

           You felt the smile and heard the groan at the same time, both pouring into your mouth as you ripped at Dean’s jacket, trying to yank his flannel off his shoulders with it. You abandoned the project to paw at Dean’s tee once you’d gotten the outer layers bunched down around his elbows, kissing him hungry and dark like he was yours to take.

           One of Dean’s bitten off groans trailed off into a barely-there whimper. For all his posturing he loved this, when he could give up being predator and let go for a few minutes to be your prey. He didn’t start fumbling for the door handle until you flicked open his belt, his other hand clutching at a handful of hair at the back of your neck and kissing down your jugular fast and hard. Imagining the way Sam was going to roll his eyes at the hickeys only added adrenaline while Dean finally got the backseat door open, sliding you in and unfurling on top of you. Still working on his jeans, you dragged him tight between your legs.

           “You are—so—mean,” you grinned between kisses. “Teasing me like—that.”

           Dean’s eyebrows kicked up on his forehead, playing dumb like you knew he would. “Me? Never.” His act dropped the moment you finally got his fly open, wrapping your hand around his cock through his boxers and punching all the air out of his lungs. His head rolled back on his neck almost violently, impossibly long eyelashes grazing his cheekbones and lips parted around a breathy “fuck.”

           His switch flipped, Dean scrambled to strip you as fast as possible. You tried to help him in large part to avoid tearing your clothes, ending up crushed into the leather of the bench seat somehow with one leg fully out of your jeans and underwear, the other knee tangled up in the fabric. He’d shoved up your shirt and bra and it would’ve been uncomfortable and tight if any of your senses had been turned to it instead of Dean wetting his middle finger to slip-slide along your clit, murmuring something about “I love it when you do that,” into the side of your neck as he swirled circles into you. After a few moments you were writhing in the seat and Dean pulled that finger back up, sucking you off of it before pushing it up inside you, then another.

           “Fuck me, Jesus Christ Dean,” you moaned against his tongue, yanking him forward until he guided himself into you. The stunted warm-up helped but that first push was always a shock, and whatever sound you made was loud enough that Dean covered your mouth with his hand, grinning conspiratorially down over fingers still steeped in you as he thumped you into the car door.

           “Quiet—someone’s going to hear you.”

           You bit his hand and Dean yelped with a chuckle, pulling it back before you roped around his neck and kissed him lasciviously. “Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” you smirked.

           He stabilized himself against the Impala’s door to pound into you harder, you wrapping your legs around his waist and whisper-moaning filthy nothings into his ear, biting his neck until suddenly you felt that finely honed awareness pique in the back of your mind, flaring hot enough to burn and you froze, thighs clamped tight around Dean.

           “Baby, I—”

           “Don’t fucking move—did you hear that?” you hissed.

           Dean tried to pull back and tensed hard, shuddering into you as you tried to lift your head to see as surreptitiously as possible before the delayed processing hit you. When you looked up at Dean he didn’t meet your eyes, wincing over one shoulder with his arms still planted.

           “Tell me you didn’t,” you whispered.

           He was silent for a half-second, still didn’t meet your eyes. “I tried t—you fucking death-gripped me with your legs, what was I supp—”

           “Oh my god, get off of me,” you yelped, trying your best to sit up and snatch at anything to clean yourself up before realizing it was useless. “FUCK! Fuck, Dean, fuck, what’re we going to—I can’t be—”

           He leaned back into the seat to get back into his jeans and fasten his belt. “One thing at a time, okay? They’ve got like pills and stuff right? We don’t even know if it’ll take.”

           You rolled your eyes angrily at him as you jammed your leg back into your jeans. “Our fucking luck it’s already triplets.” You ran a hand through your hair and took a deep, hard breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

           “No, I get it.” He slumped into the seat next to you. A long beat passed, you and Dean both sitting stupid, half-dressed in jeans and untied boots, hair all over the place. He cleared his throat. “Wanna head out?” His voice was small and rough; you knew he was sorry and maybe a little embarrassed. If you were more highly evolved you might’ve been able to console him more in that moment, but your heart was bounding through your chest about what was going to happen next—if. You managed to squeeze his hand in solidarity if nothing else before grabbing your stuff and moving to the front seat.

           Minutes of silent road passed before Dean reached over and covered your knee with his hand. You capped it with one of yours and saw his lips twitch up at the corner in response.

           He glanced over at you tentatively. “Maybe it uh, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know?”

           Your incredulity spun you around in your seat so you were fully squared to him. “What?”

           It was dark in the car but you thought maybe Dean’s cheeks started to look pink. “I don’t know, teaching a little squirt how to play catch or whatever, might be cute.”

           “You cannot be serious.”

           His eyes flicked back over to you and his lips pursed out, trying to look non-plussed. “Whatever. Just trying to make you feel better.”

           “No, you’re not. Because that exact possibility is scaring the shit out of me right now and two minutes ago you were trying to convince me we were going to pill this away. So it’s—is that something you want? Having a kid someday?”

           Dean took his hand back under the guise of using two hands to turn the steering wheel.  “No.”

           You waited, willed your own heartbeat to slow down. As you knew he would, Dean kept talking, keeping his eyes on the road more to avoid the vulnerability of looking in your eyes rather than out of necessity on the long, straight stretch of road. “I don’t know. It really seems that bad to you? Having something that’s really, like, ours? Just you and me?”

           “We’re not talking about a something, Dean, we’re talking about a fucking kid.”

           “Jesus, fine, forget it. Sorry I asked.”

           His knuckles went white on the steering wheel and underlined that Dean Was Done Talking. What an absolute waste of a fun little night out, leaving Sam to have a couple hours alone. Now instead of getting back looser to a well-rested Sam, you were going to barrel into this crappy motel terrified with a pissed off Dean, dropping it all at the younger Winchester’s feet to deal with (again).

           It took you until the motel parking lot to muster up the courage to touch Dean’s wrist. “Can we talk for a second?” Dean pretended to be annoyed but you could tell it was an act shielding a spot of tenderness. He flopped his hands in his lap and looked over at you expectantly. “Maybe it’s dumb to even talk about this; like you said, it might be nothing. But I just—I mean if—do you really want that? What would that even look like? Not even with me or whatever obviously but leaving hunting, leaving Sam—”

           “Leaving Sam? Who said anything about leaving Sam?”

           “You volunteering him as nanny?”

           Dean sort of half-rolled his eyes and shifted to face you. “You know as well as I do that Sam doesn’t want to be doing this, not forever. I’m not saying we should be fucking trying, obviously, I’m just—I’m going to stick around no matter what happens. I wouldn’t ditch you with my mistake.”

           You scoffed. “How noble.”

           “Not like that. But I’m not a complete moron, I know we’ve played with fire a couple times and I know what I’m doing.”

           “I guess I just figured that was heat of the moment stuff.”

           A flash of something passed over his face, gone almost too fast for you to decipher. Offense? Sadness? “Yeah, part of it. But you—you’ve never even thought about it?”

           “Thought about how I’d get a couple hundred dollars and find a clinic, yeah. I—we can’t be hunters with a baby. And I won’t be stashed in some safe house somewhere, see you and Sam for a day or two every couple months, be the loner single mom who can’t tell anyone anything about her life.”

           “Single mom? I’m not a fucking deadbeat. I just said I wouldn’t make you deal alone.”

           You shot him an exasperated look and took a deliberate breath to keep from rising to the bait. “So what, now you want to get married? Dean, I’m not even really your damn girlfriend.”

           He reached for the handle fast enough that you had to scramble across the seat after him, Dean pausing in the open door. “Look, if it’s not what you want, that’s fucking fine. But don’t patronize me. Not my fucking girlfriend? Fuck you.”

           You flew across the Impala and out of the passenger door, following Dean as he stormed across the asphalt. “Fuck me? How are you mad at me?”

           He spun on his heel in the parking lot. “I tell you I’m willing to leave all of this—all of everything I really know, fucked up as that is—for you, would make you my whole future and you, you—your response is that you’re not even my girlfriend? Yeah, fuck you.”

           “Dean, that’s not what I—” but he had already started storming back to the room. “DEAN!” you yelled, standing stock still in the middle of the lot. He paused with his back to you for what felt like a long second before turning back around. “I don’t want to bring this back to Sam. I’m sorry, okay? I’m just—I’m scared shitless about something that might not even happen and then you spring the idea of some shotgun wedding on me—”

           He rolled his eyes without even a hair of humor, the muscles in his jaw tensing hard enough to catch the cold overhead light. “See, how can you—” he started, before taking a deep, deliberate breath and starting over in a tone that was forced calm. “That’s everything I ha—that’s all I can give you, is loving you and fucking being there for you. So if it’s that fucking cheap or skanky to you then I’m sorry for wasting your fucking time.” When you didn’t respond his spine straightened a few degrees. “What? Say something. Tell me how stupid I am for suggesting that being tied together might not ruin your fucking life.”

           You felt that your mouth had fallen open but didn’t care. “You love me?”

           Dean’s face contorted like he was looking at a mirage of something bizarre, curious and disbelieving and frustrated. “I lo—of course I love you, what the fuck?”

           “Y—you’ve never said that to me.”

           “What? Yes I have.” His voice softened a shade, the certainty his anger had afforded him beginning to slip away like sand at high tide, but his eyebrows stayed indignant.

           You’d never been more certain of anything in your life, that Dean had never said that, because it was something you wanted constantly. Craved, even. Were kept awake at night by; the desire to have your feelings for Dean reciprocated too intense even to dream about. So you justified and bargained with yourself: if fooling around and this kind of casual commitment—girl who would cover him and Sam in a firefight and didn’t hound him for a label—was what he wanted, it was what you would give. Anything for more time with him or the chance to kiss those lips, to see the way he looked first thing in the morning, to get annoyed at his bullshit idiosyncrasies.            

           “No, you haven’t.” So many more words tried to burst forward from you that you had to bite your lip to be sure your mouth stayed closed.

           Dean held your eyes, willing you to say something until he lost his patience. “Who says that stupid shit all the time anyway? You know I love you; I’d do fucking anything for you.” His voice had started to rise again but the heat behind it was some sort of hungry desperation, not hurt rage. “I’m—you don’t think I love you?”

           You started to feel completely exposed by the industrial light, seared alive by green eyes. Shifting your weight from foot to foot didn’t help, and you fought angrily against the lump forming in your throat.

           He looked over his shoulder and the barked “FUCK!” startled you despite yourself. “Kid, I—FUCK, that’s what this is? I loved you since that first fucking hunt in Cleveland! You really think I’m just…? This isn’t some Beaver Cleaver ‘I put you in a family way’ bullshit, I—I don’t know, I just, with you it feels like for the first time maybe it’s not insane to think that I could—that we could—whatever, man, I’m not fucking talking about this.” A hand shot up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic you recognized immediately.

           You took two big steps toward him. “Dean, I just—I didn’t know. That’s—I mean I’m not going to say I’ve been thinking about it; but it—it’s more because I didn’t even think it was on the table, you know? I thought we were, I don’t know, really close friends that sleep together.”

           Dean’s eyebrows flew up his forehead and he blew an almost-laugh out of his nose. “I don’t even know what to say to that. Never heard of any friends that live together and fuck raw.” His tongue slid along his molars and he sucked his teeth looking down at the ground, flicker of a despondent, self-deprecating smile twitching his lips. “Uh, noted, I guess. Sorry I misunderstoo—” and his eyes on the blacktop prevented him from seeing you cross the few strides between you, catching him off guard when you kissed him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to feel everything you wanted to say, wanted to scream (at him, from the rooftops, ohmygodhelovesme) take a backseat for a moment. He grunted at the impact, stunned for a half-beat before surging forward into you, wrapping into your hair and pawing at your hips with desperate effort to get closer. Feeling the grin against your mouth, you wished you weren’t standing in the absolute middle of the parking lot, frenzy to have something to push each other against building to a fever pitch inside you when Dean tugged your hair back to look at your face.

           He looked downright pornographic; swollen, flushed pout and impossible lashes framing bedroom eyes Marilyn or Sophia would’ve envied. A washing of cockiness only amplified the effect, those pillowy lips pulling into a lazy smirk. “So is this a really-close-friends kiss or what? Trying to figure out how much tongue I’m supposed to slip you.”

           You giggled good-naturedly, letting the weight of your head press into his palm. “You are such an asshole.”

           “Yeah, you fuckin’ love it.” He sucked on that sweet pulse spot under your ear deeply, some accessory movement with his tongue enough to make you see stars and miss that it was you letting out that ungraceful whine-moan. When Dean spoke the air passing over your spit-slick neck exploded in goosebumps. “And I love you.”

           Dean kissed you in that searching, delicious, eat-you-alive way he sometimes did after a particularly victorious hunt when he either had all the time in the world or didn’t give a fuck about making it; soothing-probing with a little edge of danger that hypnotized you. It pulled at the sweater of your being and tugged, steady and cloying until you were something loose and ephemerous in Dean’s hands, something equally likely to float away or explode right there in that parking lot, clearing a hundred miles in every direction and leaving behind only the imprint of your craving for him. It’s a miracle your brain was able to function at all. In the best circumstances this flayed you open and coming on the heels of having the most beautiful gift you could imagine dropped at your feet—Dean loves you, he loves you and always has—it felt like it could stop your heart and you wouldn’t care.

           “I need about twenty minutes in a cold shower or I promise I’ll knock you up right the fuck here,” Dean growled, low with sin directly into your ear.

           You laughed breathily. “I thought you said that might be a good thing.”

           His chuckle was rough as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. He rested there for a moment before murmuring into your hair. “You really thought we were just messing around?”

           “Dean, come on, I—don’t make me say it.”

           “Say what?”

           You swallowed shakily, tried to get a handle on your thoughts through the endorphins. “You—I—I’ve had it bad for you, thought if I really like, acknowledged it that it might fuck up what I did get to have of you or that some commitment would freak you out or whatever so I just—I don’t know, tried to be cool about it. Obviously we’ve always been kind of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ when we were apart—”

           Dean cut off your rambling. “Uh, has there been something you’ve been ‘don’t tell’-ing? I wasn’t ‘don’t ask don’t tell’-ing.”

           “You haven’t?” you asked, surprised enough to be knocked off your nebulous trail of thought.

           “No, I mean—no. You would’ve been fine with that?” The disbelief was so clear on his face it was practically casting a glow around him.

           “Not fine with it—of course not—the thought of it kept me up nights, but I didn’t you to think I was some jealous freak.”

           A smile spread over his face slowly, butter on hot toast. “So you would’ve been jealous?”

           “I was jealous, I thought that’s what was happening.”

           Dean’s head lolled back on his neck a few degrees, smirk cementing itself in place. “That’s kinda hot.”

           It took the tension out of the moment and you chuckled under your breath, glancing down at your feet. “Yeah, you would say that right now, psycho.” It was breathy and shaky but Dean let you have it, throwing his elbow around your neck affectionately and tucking you into his side. With a kiss to the crown of your head, he started you both walking to the room lazily. At the door, you stilled him as he reached for the knob.

           “Would you really want to keep it? Like, no bullshit, if that’s the situation, that I’m actually—you know, you wouldn’t want me to…?”

           He licked his lips and bit the bottom one. They parted for a moment before he began to speak as his gaze flicked between your eyes. “Babe,” he finally breathed, and there was a note of croak there. “I’m in this for the long haul. If that’s where we’re going then we’ll deal with it. If you don’t—if you’re not there, I get it, but for me, I—yeah. If it’s going to be anyone for me, it’s you.”

           “Even now?”

           “I could think of worse things. Worse things have happened to me this week, probably.”

           There were so many follow up questions running through your mind, so many rock-solid certainties that Dean wouldn’t really be able to quit hunting, that even figuring out how to go to an OB-gyn on fake IDs was likely to be more complicated than either of you realized, but his lack of hesitation was so sweet, so earnest, and you were still riding that he loves me high. And you might’ve gotten lucky; it might be nothing, no parking lot baby to contend with, just a tense reminder to be more careful next time. It was easier than you might’ve thought to give yourself permission to relish it for the night, consequences be damned.  

-

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[minor-solemnity]

Never Gonna Give (You Up) pt.2

(content warning: some smut)

You really should get up.

You should.

You don’t. What you do instead is simple: you kiss him. You bend over his chest, one hand clutching his side the other pressed into the pillow and you kiss him with the fervour that only seven years of bottled up chemistry can conjure.

Riddle is unusually quiet as you lead him away from the party. His eyes are focused firmly on the ground, as though he’s worried that if he doesn’t watch his step, he’ll stumble. You watch him out the corner of your eye, taking in the slight sheen of sweat, the way his skin, save for the raw acid burns on his chest, is even paler than usual, his pinched expression. “You know, I’m surprised you’re not screaming bloody murder,” You say, trying to keep your voice light and casual and not like you’re about to start panicking over the state of his chest. “I always thought Slytherins were a bunch of posh crybabies.”

You suppose it’s good to know that Riddle is not so injured that he can’t summon up the strength to glare at you. “And I always thought that Gryffindors were meant to be chivalrous and honourable but the way you looked when Slughorn asked you escort me to hospital wing suggests otherwise.” He snaps and you feel at once both indignantly angry and… guilty. You feel guilty. And you hate it.

“Oh please, you’d be as annoyed as I was if the roles were reversed. Because of you, I won’t be able to meet Beaufort and having her as a character reference is essential if I even have a hope of becoming a curse-breaker. You know as well as I do what’s waiting for me after Hogwarts otherwise.” You say, all the sorrow and frustration you feel over your missed opportunity leaches into your voice and the grip you have on RIddle’s arm tightens without you meaning to. You’re not wrong either, wizarding society is still of the collective opinion that witches if they’re from a good family should be married off as quickly as possible, and if they’re not, are looking at jobs in retail and teaching. Particularly intelligent and insightful witches might be lucky enough to go into research and academia but generally, any witch wanting to do something a bit more exciting with their life is shit out of luck.

Riddle shoots you a surprised look like he hadn’t expected your response. To your own surprise, he doesn’t have a quippy retort ready to skewer you with and you walk the rest of the way to the entrance hall in stony silence.

You begin to move towards the staircase intent of getting him to the hospital wing as quickly as possible. Your reasons are twofold: firstly, with any luck, once he’s under the care of Madam Montague, you’ll be able to return to the party and hopefully be in time to at least make yourself known to Beaufort; secondly, Riddle, as much as he’s trying to hide it, is clearly in a great deal of pain. The slight tremor in his shoulders has turned into full-body shakes and his eyes, usually so sharp and erudite, are clouded in pain and have a far-away look to them. It’s unsettling to see him so vulnerable. You’ve spent so much of your time at Hogwarts wishing to see Riddle cut down to size but now you’re witnessing it, you find that you’re really not enjoying it.

“Come on, let’s just get to Madam Montague,” You mutter, trying to pull him along but Riddle won’t budge. In fact, he begins to stumble in the opposite direction towards the dungeons. “What are you doing? We have to go to the hospital wing! Riddle, you’re hurt—”

“I’m not going there - I have… I’ll be able to fix this if I can get to my dorm.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, you can’t possibly fix this yourself.” You exclaim half exasperated half pleading. He fixes you with a glare that would be a lot more intimidating if, at that moment, he didn’t sway violently on his feet and you weren’t forced to steady him by looping both your arms over his shoulders. Riddle sags into you, his body pressing against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder. The way your stomach clenches at the close proximity is entirely inappropriate.

“Just go back to the party, that’s clearly where you’d rather be,” You think he might be aiming for scathing but something horribly vulnerable has crept into his words. “Beaufort’s probably still there.”

The fact that Riddle is allowing you to leave, to enjoy the rest of your night, to maybe secure a job is… You feel… Odd. Confused. Sad. Sad that he thinks that you’d leave him to stumble back to his dorm on his own. For the first time since you’ve known him, you wonder if he’s ever had someone to rely on before. If the air of self-sufficiency and aloofness is something that comes naturally to him, or if it’s something he’s had to learn.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can barely stand up by yourself; I’m not going to leave you to potentially faint on your way to your dorm.” When you disentangle yourself from him and resume your journey and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat that you will not for the sake of your sanity interpret as disappointment. “Like you said: Gryffindors: known for our chivalry and honour.” And he must be delirious because he actually laughs.

The Slytherin common room is exactly what you imagined it would be: dark, luxurious, refined, and so unlike the cosiness of the Gryffindor tower. Thankfully, Riddle’s room is empty when you’re finally inside. He pulls off his ruined dress robes, leaving him only in his trousers. You avert your eyes out of respect for his privacy and not because the sight of his lithe torso is at all appealing. He manages to get to his bed and starts rummaging around in the chest of drawers beside it, leaving you standing in the doorway, entirely unsure of what it is that you’re supposed to do next.

Jar in hand, he more or less collapses onto his bed. Wounded as he is, he still manages to look outrageously good. The low light from the candelabra casts him in a muted, golden glow, adding colour to his complexion and softening the wounds on his chest. You swallow thickly and internally berate yourself for having such thoughts because this is Riddle, and even if he weren’t your sworn enemy, he’s still injured and hurting and that should be your first priority.

You watch as he struggles to open one of the jars for a second before you make up your mind. Summoning every shred of Gryffindor bravery you possess, you walk towards him, ignoring the look of sheer surprise and alarm that settles on his face as you stop in front of him. “Here, just let me— let me help,” You murmur, your breath catching in your throat because this feels… This feels intimate and new. You’re fairly sure that whatever happens next, your relationship with Riddle has been changed irrevocably. The seconds tick past and you just watch each other. The air seems to thicken around you and the atmosphere grows charged and tense with something that you don’t have a name for.

Slowly, he nods and you gently manoeuvre him so that he’s lying on his back, propped up by his pillows. Next, you reach for the jar that he’d been holding, unscrewing the lid and scooping some of the clear, jelly-like substance into your fingers. There’s an awkward moment when you try and figure out the best way of reaching his chest before you grit your teeth and straddle his hips.

Despite his current state, Riddle still manages to look far too smug for your liking. He raises an eyebrow and smirks up at you from your perch on his thighs. Despite the furious blush that creeps up your neck and along your cheeks, you manage to keep your voice steady as you say, “Don’t make this weird, Riddle.” He starts to chuckle lowly before it’s cut off by a gasp as you start to rub the salve on his wounds.

Your fingers brush against his chest and you find yourself entranced by how warm his skin is, how he tenses under your hands as though he wasn’t expecting and isn’t used to gentleness, how his breathing slowly evens out as the salve does its job and the burns start to scab and heal. A slow, curling heat wraps its way around you, making your heart stutter and your blood thrum in a way that is so deliciously intoxicating that you don’t even notice that your hands have travelled down his chest and are now skimming his sides, edging lower and lower to the waistline of his trousers.

You’re brought back to reality when he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, his dark eyes glitter in the dim candlelight and a slow, easy smirk curls his upper lip. He moves his free hand to your waist and he watches you closely, taking in every twitch, every shiver, every sharp, stuttering intake of breath. “So, I should go and let you rest…?” You hate the way it comes out as a question, the slight upturn in your voice revealing the nerves that tangle and twist inside you.

“That would be sensible, yes,” Tom agrees, even as his hand slides up your waist and along the curves of your breasts.

You really should get up.

You should.

You don’t. What you do instead is simple: you kiss him. You bend over his chest, one hand clutching his side the other pressed into the pillow and you kiss him with the fervour that only seven years of bottled up chemistry can conjure. He responds immediately, let’s go of your wrist to tangle his fingers through your hair, drags you closer until the spaces between you are taken over by the feeling of his body, firm and solid and sure beneath you. His other hand slips under your dress robes, gliding up your thigh and pulling the silky fabric up until it’s bunched around your waist and his hand splays across the swell of your arse, exploring and gripping and kneading. Every part of you that he touches is on fire and pleasure curls inside of you like bonfire smoke: rich and thick and all-consuming.

A moan escapes you as he rolls his hips against yours and he tugs your hair sending small shockwaves of muted pain and pleasure tingling down your spine. You pull away from him to catch your breath and for a moment you just stare at each other. His eyes are nearly all pupil and there’s a delectable flush spreading across his cheeks and there’s something else as well. It’s the way he’s looking at you, you realise. Turned on and hot and wanting, yes, but under all that… there’s something like awe in his eyes.

That alone is enough to make you reach down and start tugging at his belt, hands fumbling with nerves and then he’s kicking off his trousers and you’re pulling your robes above your head with a frantic kind of desperation that would surprise you if it wasn’t so fucking obvious to you now. The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference and you have never been indifferent towards Riddle. Your clothes land in a haphazard pile at the foot of his bed, and suddenly his arms are around you and he’s flipping you over and pressing against you, grinding down as he sucks a bruise along the underside of your jaw before trailing kisses down your neck and along your collarbones, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud of one nipple. “So good,” He whispers into your skin, “Always knew you’d be so good for me.” And something inside of you sings at the admission, at the implication.

The franticness of earlier fades into something slower, though no less intense, and you take the opportunity to snake your hand down his body and curl a fist around him, stroking long and slow, revelling in the way he feels in your hand: heavy and hot and thick in. You are rewarded by a quiet, broken gasp and his fingers and tongue caressing every part of you he can reach. His fingers slip between your legs and you’re already so close to edge that all it takes is a few clever strokes and you’re tumbling into the ravine, back arching, toes curling and you’re dimly aware of him tensing above you and then he’s falling right along with you.

In the moments following, anxiety and uncertainty begins to creep through your afterglow, and you shift against him, unsure if you should gather your things and leave. You start to push yourself up but are stopped by a hand on your shoulder. Tom (because you should start calling him that, anything else feels like an erasure of what’s just happened, and despite the worry, you don’t want to erase this) gently pulls you back down, tucking you against his side as he runs his fingers through your hair. The anxiety fades and you fall asleep with your head nestled in the crook of his neck and his arm curled around your waist.

***

In the three weeks since Slughorn’s party, you’ve made several appearances in Tom’s dorms. There had been one particularly embarrassing moment when Abraxas Malfoy had walked in, rolled his eyes and muttered ‘finally. But also, gross’ before he'd made a speedy exit after Tom had threatened to poison his favourite peacock. 

You still argue and you’re still horribly competitive; you’re fairly sure that those aspects of your relationship with Tom are dyed in the wool by this point. But now he edits your essays and you bring him coffee when he spends too long in the library. You eat breakfast together. It feels good. It feels natural.

It’s over one breakfast on a nondescript Friday morning that the letter arrives. Tom passes it to you along with a mug of tea and you frown at the unfamiliar handwriting. You scan it quickly and your curiosity quickly turns into disbelieving excitement. “Christella Beaufort wants to meet me.” You whisper, eyes wide, hands shaking. “She says that she’s sorry she missed me at the party and that she’s available to talk the next Hogsmeade weekend. I… Tom, this is… How…?”

“I may have written to her explaining the situation.” He says, entirely casual, as though he hasn’t just made every wish you’ve ever had come true.

He really only has himself to blame when you lean over the Slytherin table, fingers wrapping around his tie and ruin a lot of people’s breakfasts by dragging him into a kiss.

(part 1)

[cinnamonest]

I’m pushing out another one of my long-since-drafted things to the queue bc I’m trying to start keeping the queue active 24/7 and fill more asks but have this in the meantime

//dark shit, like the blood gore violence kind of yandere not the hot kind, brief animal death, gruesome slow npc death, gore, violence, blood, decaying/putrefaction mention

I'm really bad at judging what's mild versus severe when it comes to gore/blood bc I tend to underestimate, I think this is kinda severe? Let me know which it is actually pls so I have a better idea for the future ---------------------------------------- I mentioned a while back in the corpse disposal post and murder methods post that Razor can be... Brutal to say the least, but to expand more on the concept I feel like there's a big potential for a sort of gap moe with him, a duality that seems to contradict itself. Because in many ways he's a sweetheart, always trying to find things to make you happy, often smiling with those wide, excited eyes, physically affectionate with nuzzles and the like. But the other side of that, he's not actually aware of how... desensitized he is. You notice it early on and it catches you off guard a bit the first time it happens. Some poor little animal you two see struggling, like a bird stuck in a tree, and you urge him to go get it and he nods and says ok. Grabs it, and just as you're about to thank him and let it go you hear its little bones snap under the crush of his grip with a final pained chirp. There, he got it, see? Now you two can eat it together. That was why you wanted him to grab it right? To kill it? Why else? He looks down and realizes oh, it's still twitching, so he reached a hand up and twists its neck. There, now it's dead, he says with a beaming smile. But it falls and he tilts his head when he sees the shocked look on your face. What's wrong? Why are you so upset? You soon learn a lot of the animals don't... die immediately. The little things the wolves drag back are still kicking and struggling, still making noises as they tear into them to devour. It makes you sick to your stomach when you witness it, tears come to your eyes. He knows you don't like it and warns you, but... he doesn't understand why? Why does it upset you like that? He doesn't get it. It's a gnawing awareness in the back of your mind. You start to pick up on his... lack of reactions to certain things. You were once in the church getting healing for a minor wound of his when another group of adventurers came rushing through the doors, desperately begging for help for their friend they were carrying... some guy seriously injured, gored by a boar. The sight is burned in your mind forever, the organs spilling out of his split gut, the shivering and wide, bloodshot eyes, the blood bubbling out of his mouth with choked horrific groans and the way his body convulsed involuntarily. The most horrid thing you'd ever seen. And you were pretty certain it was that way for everyone. Everyone in the church was gasping, some people were retching and trying to hold back sickness, people ran out of the room as they were unable to handle the scene, tears were in everyone's eyes, and as the man wailed in agony from them setting his dislocated bones, you watched the bystanders cringe and wince. Every person in the vicinity was visibly horrified.... except for one. Razor's face was neutral. Curious. He leaned in closer to get a better look, eyebrows raised. He doesn't flinch at the sight of organs spilling onto the ground and the man starting to convulse and foam at the mouth as his eyes roll back into his head. And then, after a moment, he asks if you're ready to leave, says he feels better now and that man is really loud, he doesn't like it. His voice doesn't even have the slightest hint of a wavering or discomfort. When you come across a man in the woods caught in a bear trap, you can barely stand to look at it. Just hearing the cries for help had you shivering, and the sight of the pooling blood and utter agony on the man's face had you gasping, hand over your mouth as you tried to look away. ...Razor didn't seem to mind, though. He just undoes the trap and, without giving the man any warning, yanks it apart, pulling the spikes from his legs. As he does, blood shoots out and splatters on his face. He doesn't flinch, nor when the man screams. He does finally seem to react to the pained groans the man makes. But... It's not like your reactions. He's not flinching and grimacing, drawing in sharp breaths and tensing up, eyes watering in pity and shock like you. Instead, his eyes narrow and he puts his hands over his ears as you stoop down to help the poor man. His eyebrows furrow. He almost looks... Annoyed. He draws his foot back as if he's about to kick him, but freezes with realization when he looks at you, as if he forgot you were standing there, and puts his foot back down. You're certain he wasn't actually going to do that, of course. You're not sure why he did that, but... He wouldn't do something like that, even in a moment of dissociation from his human awareness. He does volunteer to be the one to go get help, though, getting away fast, but for some reason you sense it was more out of irritation at the noise rather than horror at the whole thing. Perhaps the worst was the decomposing body, that day you took a walk in the woods together. He smelled it first, nose wrinkling up in disgust at the putrid smell. But it was strong enough that you smelled it soon after. He says having dead animals this close to the residence of the pack is not good, they all hate the smell, so he can try to move the carcass of whatever animal it is... but it's not an animal, it turns out, once you finally find the source, collapsed at the bottom of a cliff from where they most likely fell to their death. Well, it's kind of a stretch to say it still resembles a human either, but you can tell from the general shape. It's more just like a glob, putrefied and rotting flesh falling off the bones. It shocks you so much you fall backwards, but he just moves closer. Ugh, too far rotted to move, he can't do anything about it, he realizes as he gives the decaying mass a kick and watches the blackened flesh slide off the bones. Oh well. ...In your shock, it takes you a moment to realize how... unbothered he seems. Mildly annoyed by the smell, but his expression is neutral as he looks at one of the most horrifying sights you've ever seen, he just yawns as he walks away from it and says you two should get away from the smell, it makes his head hurt.

The events all linger in the back of your head. A growing sense of wrongness, a dark, cold dread that settles in your stomach as the occurrences slowly grow in number, one after the other, each time you notice the complete lack of any sign of disturbance on his face, in his voice or body language. You ask him once, one time when you get the courage to ask such a... potentially offensive question. Don't you... feel anything when you see things dying? When they're in pain? He nods. He gets what you mean. The feeling when you watch something die. Hungry, right? Oh, no? Maybe you mean the irritation, a kind of angry feeling, what's the word... impatient...? Because the thing is taking too long to die and he wants it to go ahead and die already. Or maybe you mean like when that man was injured? When something is dying but it's not something you wanna eat? Yeah, he has a feeling then too. Um... kind of like anger... you taught him the word once... annoyed? They make so much noise, and he doesn't like loud things. When that man came into the church... he didn't like how loud it was. Why didn't they just kill him, since he was making so much noise...? He doesn't get it. When things annoy him, he kills them, like loud birds and biting bugs. He kinda had an urge to just... reach out and make the man stop screaming, just twist his neck like he does small animals when they make too much noise. But he's smart, he says, he knows the other people might get mad. Yes, he uses the word "might," not "would," as if it was a mere possibility. So it doesn't really come as a surprise when the same attitude applies to the people at his own mercy, the people that get too close to you and end up dragged out to the woods. It's that same knowing dread in your gut, and while it horrifies you as much as it always has, you wouldn't have expected anything else. Maybe some people would feel bad about what they're doing, they would want to go ahead and get it over with, they couldn't take the begging and agony the other party is in... but not only is he totally unbothered, but if he kills him now, he says, the blood will go all over the ground, and that's bad, his lupical like eating the blood in things. So he just snaps the man's bones, that way he won't run away. It's hard to describe the excruciated noises that come out of the other's throat when he does. It's unlike any noise you've ever heard a human make, that kind of pain. The sweat that pours from the other's skin from the agony, the way his mouth hangs open even when he can't scream anymore, the trembling and muffled begging as he moves to the next limb. You tremble and cry. You shiver uncontrollably, you whimper for him to stop. Your eyes widen when he grabs each limb and you close your eyes and sob and grimace and cringe with the snapping sound. Razor, on the other hand, stays just as neutral as before. Face blank and empty, as if performing any other mundane task. He doesn't flinch at the snapping. His expression is unchanging at the sound of screams and the groans as he drags the still-living figure behind him by his shattered ankle all the way back home. When he finally goes to look back at you, he tilts his head at the look on your face. Why do you still look upset? There's no blood yet... isn't it blood that makes you upset? Maybe not? Maybe it's the sound that bothers you? Yeah, you flinch whenever the man groans in pain, so it must be the sounds of the dying things that you don't like, it annoys him too really. Ok, that can be fixed... sound comes from the throat right? Well, he left his claymore a ways away so, it'll just take a second, the guy is thrashing a bit but eventually he holds him still enough to get his teeth latched around his throat and just... bites down. The sound is a squelching, crunching sound, one that you'll never forget, it makes every hair on your body stand on end and your skin crawl. He pulls back with the mass of bleeding flesh and tracheal tissue in his jaws and spits it out on the ground. There, see...? You can see the blood on his teeth reflecting the light as he smiles. He's not making noises anymore, so... why do you still have that look on your face? Is it because the body on the ground is all... spasming and convulsing like that? Well, uh... that'll stop soon, probably. At least it's nice and quiet now. He gets it, really, he doesn't like loud noises either.

[forthehpfanboys]

Dance With Me

Pair: Draco Malfoy x Reader; he/him.

Summary: Draco really wishes he asked you to the Yule Ball. He wishes his father wasn't such a prude. He wishes you were on his arm, not Potters.

Warnings: Swears, like usual, small homophobia??

Notes: Requested! Bisexual! Harry is the only Harry in this blog. Also, Harry is supportive and I shamelessly put some Blaise/Ron in this but it’s like the smallest mention possible. Anyway, enjoy!

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

-

Draco watched on with a glum expression and prayed to whatever wizard gods are up there that it wasn’t noticeable. He glanced down at his polished shoes before shifting weight across between his feet. He cleared his throat, and rolled his shoulders back, trying to shake off the jealousy he felt deep down. This was the very last place on the entire planet he wanted to be standing in. He did not want to have to stand here next to Pansy Parkinson, listening to her go on and on while his rival danced and laughed with his long term secret crush.

He really should’ve asked you. The thought kept spiraling in his head, causing him to white knuckle the glass in his hand. He really should’ve ignored his father and just asked you. His icy eyes watched Potter dunk you playfully- since when did that git learn to actually fucking dance? His eyebrows furrowed when he saw your laughing expression and Harry’s sly smirk into a similar grin. The blonde really wanted to gag at the sight.

“So then (L/n) tried to do this stupid spell and it only blew up in his face, literally. Stupid mudblood really shouldn’t have been excepted into this school.” Pansy went on, giggling at the story. “He really is pathetic, isn’t he, Draco?.. Draco?”

“Don’t call him that.” Draco grumbled. He wasn’t fond of his ‘date’ talking smack about the male he’d rather be spending time with. 

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you actually think he’s got talent or like.. Potential.” She was giggling again and the sound was almost more annoying than watching the pair dance and laugh.

“I don’t- Just- Oh for fucks sake, go get a drink or something.” Draco rolled his eyes, fixing his suit collar. He didn’t even watch his date strut away in her dark green cocktail dress. Instead, he turned from the sight and slammed his glass down on the table behind him. He resisted his urge to run his fingers through his perfectly combed hair.

“It isn’t too late, ya know.”

Draco didn’t have to look to know it was Zabini. The blonde sat down in his chair before grumbling back a response.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draco really just didn’t want to be here. Every time he closed his eyes he saw you, clad in a suit that he desperately wanted to tear off you, dancing with The-Chosen-One. Merlin, he felt his heart ache.

“Draco.” A hand came to rest against his shoulder. “We know you took Parkinson just because your dad is a little traditional.” 

“A little?” Draco couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “My father is far from only a little traditional, Zabini, we both know this.”

“While it’s true, I think you should talk to him. The dance doesn’t end for a good few hours, mate. I’m sure he’d be down for at least one dance with you.” A silence fell over the friends for a few seconds before the blonde spoke up again.

“You don’t hate me? For liking a muggle born?” Draco clarified with clearing his throat.

“Draco.. For a Slytherin who gets O’s on almost all his exams, you sure can be dull sometimes. I’m your friend, like I have room to judge you.” 

“Oh, right, Weasley-”

“Anyway, have fun whooing him. Invite me to the wedding.” 

Draco watched his friend retreat into the crowd, choosing to ignore the blush burning into his cheeks before turning his attention back to the pair dancing. He watched you shed the top coat of your suit, sliding it onto a chair and rolling up your sleeves. The heat must be getting to you.

Draco knocked back the rest of his drink. Merlin, it was hot in here, or maybe it was just you. The blonde subconsciously licked his lips as he watched you go back to the dance floor. He just when a drink slid across the table and Pansy sat down next to him, effectively blocking his view of you.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, sipping her own drink.

“Nothing.”

“Do you wanna dance, then?”

“Not particularly.” Draco didn’t bother hiding the venom from his words. He wanted you on his arm, you asking him to dance, not her. It was always you. You should be tired with how often you run through his head.

“Fine, I’m going to find Blaise.” the Slytherin female stood up, watching Draco’s face for hints of any emotion.

“He went off with his date, good luck.” He shrugged, simply turning back to his drink. With a groan, Pansy left once again, taking her drink with him. His blue eyes went back to you for the umpteenth time that night, desperation hidden behind the irises. 

The blonde could imagine the look on his father's face if he ever brought you around. He could practically hear the disapproval and the pure disgust in his voice, stating he no longer had a son when it shouldn’t matter.

His happiness should be what matters the most. He wasn’t happy with Pansy, he was happy with you. He didn’t want a pureblood witch ready to follow him like a lost puppy. He wanted the muggle-born wizard who was now slow dancing with Potter. His eyes followed Potter’s hands that seemed to be heading south far faster than they should be for a slow dance. That was what snapped the final straw. 

He set his glass down, adjusting his suit once more before making long strides over to you. Harry noticed him first, his face scrunching up in confusion, causing you to turn around and look at the blonde. The way you innocently titled your head should be considered a criminal offense.

“Malfoy.” Harry spoke up.

“Potter.” Draco spat out as his icy eyes trailed up and down his rival.

“(L/n)!” You shouted, throwing your hands in the air, trying to disperse the awkward tension. You knew Harry was holding back a giggle. “Are we good? Did I defuse the tension good enough?”

“Like a professional defusing a bomb!” Harry chuckled out, his hand going around your waist.

“Say, Potter.” Draco spoke up quickly, his eyes glued to the hand on your hip before moving swiftly to meet your eyes. “May I steal your dance partner?” Draco held his hand out to you, his other going behind his back as he bowed, like the gentlemen he was.

“If that’s what he wants.” Harry tried to hide his grin. He’d known how you felt about the blonde for a while so he was so down for this interaction to take place. After all, he only danced with you to get Draco’s attention. Once Zambini became a low key friend, he’s gotten to know the Silver Trio a lot better from a distance and about Draco’s little crush on you. The whole plan was just made Draco jealous; fair and simple.

“Hmm, I’m not sure.” You teased, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed along his monochromatic suit. He looked good. In fact, he looked down right sexy- Holy shit- He should wear white more often. 

“Dance with me, (Y/n). Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation would you?” Draco smirked, clearly joking as he pushed his hand closer to you.

“Oh, so polite and totally not self centered!” You placed your hand in his, doing a pathetic curtsy in your dress pants. You tried to ignore the primal urge to just hold the man's hand, maybe gaze under some stars with him. “Mom always did say it would be rude to say no to anyone who wishes to dance.”

Draco smiled and whisked you away. He led you into a spin before pulling you back into his chest, quickly taking the lead like his mother taught him too. One hand was resting gently against your waist while the other gripped your hand. 

“So.. Um.. What’s up?” You asked as the two of you began to sway to the music. Your cheeks were starting to hurt from the grin.

“Not very good with small talk are you?” Draco snickered out. He hated to admit it, but he really should’ve fucking asked you to dance sooner. Your body fit perfectly against his and he couldn't stop staring at your sparkling eyes.

“Well, you are quite intimidating.” You giggled out when he spun you around again. You couldn’t stop the blush from spreading across your face when he pulled you against him, but his chest was pressed against your back.

“You don’t have to be scared of me, love. I don’t bite.” His sultry voice whispered right by your ear, causing you to shiver.

“I never said I was scared of you, Draco.” You craned your head to glance at him over your shoulder. I actually like to think you're not as tough or bad as you play out to be.” 

“Wha-” Draco blinked a few times before spinning you back around and tugging you roughly against him. “What do you know about me?” He couldn’t help how his grin morphed into a sneer or how his hands tightened their grip on your waist.

“Draco, come on. Everyone knows you got shit going on at home.” Your hands were running through his hair, ruining Pansy’s hard work, not that he cared. He loved feeling your hands run through his hair so much he didn’t notice himself sighing. “See? You’re just a misunderstood softy stuck between a rock and a hard place.” You giggled out. It was cut short when Draco was suddenly pushing you back, forcing you to walk backwards by the grip on your waist. He didn’t stop maneuvering you backwards until your back bumped into a wall, leaving you stuck between the male and a hard place. You stared into his icy eyes, your hands pressed against the wall to steady yourself.

“I’m not a softie. I’m not a teddy bear! I’m a bloody Malfoy! I make my own bloody choices and I do what I want!” Draco pressed his chest against yours as he spoke. It was clear he was trying to intimidate you. His mood shifted a bit when your arms moved to wrap themselves around his neck.

“So kiss me.”

“What?!” His eyes got wide, his pale cheeks tinted a soft pink. He opened his mouth to speak again, but you were already going.

“It isn’t exactly a secret you fancy me, Draco. You’ve been staring at me since the dance began.” You smiled at his shocked expression. “That and Blaise told me. So, if you truly do what you want, you’d kiss me and maybe take me back to your dorm room.”

Draco stood shocked, his inner battle event on his face. Go against his father, his own bloodline and everything he’s been taught just over some feelings? You were a mudblo- muggle born wizard for fucks sake. His parents, his father, would disown him for the wizard bit alone! 

But did his dad have to determine everything he did? Did he really have to follow this bullshit code that should’ve died ages ago? Did he really have to be a pawn in his father's stupidity? 

His eyes watched your tongue trail across your lips and he made his decision. Draco’s hands tightened their grip once again on your waist before he quite literally slammed his lips against yours. He pressed his body harder against yours, if it was possible when you kissed back and shuddered when your fingers threaded through his ruined hair.

You truly didn’t know how badly he wanted you. You didn’t know the inner turmoil the poor male had been fighting since the stupid ball was announced, but the kiss. The kiss helped Draco express his passion for you, his love. He would charge into battle for you, put up with Potter for you, hell, fight his father for you. He’d ignore the stares of shock from the crowd and the unamused expression of his forgotten date.

You got under his skin and stole his heart. You were worth more than the stars in the sky and he wouldn’t let anyone separate the two of you. That night, he made sure you knew how much you meant to him.

[m-y-fandoms]

COMMISSION: Joker/Akira/Ren x Reader Part 2

Part 1

This is gonna be many more parts... I can already tell 

Word Count: 2.2k

SFW, SLOW BURN romance friends to lovers, gender neutral reader, anyone can enjoy it and place themselves as the reader!

- Admin Myah

You spent your entire free period up on that roof, hoping by some miracle that you weren’t crazy, that the group of second-year students that had seemingly vanished before your eyes were in fact pranking you, and upon seeing that you weren’t amused, would get tired of hiding and pop out, finishing the surprise. No such luck, however, and so you left, the second-period bell forcing your hand. Spending the first period of your day - a bit of free time meant for studying, finishing homework, or otherwise enriching yourself educationally - up on the roof and unaccounted for by any teachers was a bit risky already, and you were a decent enough student. There was no way you could just sit there all day, skipping the rest of your classes. Sighing, you resolved to just give up the hunt for your destined main character and by extension the group of potential new friends.

＊

Often after school, you headed to the library, which stayed open along with a select few other areas of Shujin for student use after the last bell rang. Today, however, you felt drawn back to that place, back to that rooftop where you’d seen Akira, Ryuji, and Ann disappear hours earlier. It just wasn’t sitting right with you; you felt a stirring in your soul, like a tiny voice in your head, a shimmering blue butterfly in your stomach. Lucky for you, the rooftop was also open, though you’d never really spent time there. Certain students, including another third-year you admired raised plants up there where the sun could reach them, while others simply came up there for the view or the breeze, some private space to study.

Today, the breeze was indeed blowing, and you sat there writing as it whistled past your ears, polishing up some plot points, scrawling down ideas for your protagonist straight from the imagination, since it seemed you wouldn’t be finding any real-life inspiration anytime soon. It was frustrating, writer’s block, and for the past month or so, it’s all you could do to write a single paragraph. You always found yourself lost in the pages of the novels you loved, and you could identify great writing, appreciate the artistry of another writer, but it was sometimes so hard to put your own thoughts down on the pages of your journal. Why was it so hard? You knew what real romance was. You knew which themes and cliches were overdone and unrealistic. You had a mature and healthy outlook on real relationships and could pick apart the stereotypical female protagonist who was strong and independent until she met the man who would break down her walls or the toxic bad boy who women loved on paper but would cry their eyes out over in real life. You’d read thousands of books and fan-fiction, listened to hundreds of audiobooks, watched tons of romance movies, so why, lately, was it not clicking?! Where was the disconnect between having thoughts and transcribing said thoughts down into your very own masterpiece? Fantasy came so easily to you, sci-fi, non-fiction essays for class, mysteries, research papers, but romance, the genre you loved the most, seemed to purposely elude you.

You were shaken out of your frazzled state when something caught your attention out of the corner of your eye. Shaking your head a bit to try and focus your vision, you looked over your shoulder to see that the black spot on the fringe of your blind spot was in fact actually there. You rubbed your eyes just to be sure, but there it was, a wavering black inky spot hovering in the air. Another appeared, then another, now red in color. You were beginning to feel insane for the second time that day, but rather safe than sorry, you quickly stood, shoving your work and pencils into your bag and shuffling away from the blobs, which were now oscillating and dancing around each other, phasing in and out of existence like a fisheye lens. This was a bit too freaky for your liking, and you were beginning to feel a frightening chill up your spine. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and you elected to put some kind of barrier of safety between yourself and the floating bubbles. Like any rational person, your mind was screaming “unknown situation: possible threat: run!” but again, that little butterfly in the pit of your guts was saying there was something worth staying for. So, running to the door to the roof, you swung it open, a ringing in your ear starting to buzz and chime. You closed it frantically, pressing your nose up against the small glass windows that allowed a limited view of the roof. A small gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively grabbed onto your bag a bit tighter.

The red and black splotches began to dissipate and fade like some kind of glitch in reality, and three figures appeared like mist, like ghosts before beginning to solidify and slowly become tangible silhouettes. Then, as if some kind of magic ritual was coming to a close, the figures poofed into existence, and your brain processed the scene before you.

“Holy shit…” you whispered. There, clear as day were Sakamoto, Takamaki, and the new kid. They were just standing adjusting their clothes, stretching their arms and legs, situating their personal items. It was just then that you saw a little furry head poke up out of Akira’s school bag. Your harsh, analytical gaze softened a bit upon seeing the small black cat that appeared. Had he been carrying that cat around all day? Surely not, right? How would he keep it quiet and still? “What the…?” The inquisitive glare returned to your features when they began… speaking to the cat. It wasn’t the cute baby talk people often use with their pets, either. It was a full-on, serious conversation, and the cat was meowing back, clearly, in response to their statements.

It was a bit muffled by the thick door, but you could make out bits and pieces.

 Metaverse? Palace. Shadows... treasure? Kamoshida? Great, that asshole, but what could he have to do with this? What even was this? 

You were questioning everything you knew. You were wondering if the juice you had this morning at breakfast was spiked. There was no winning in this scenario, either you were crazy, or these kids were. You looked downward, contemplating your navel as your mind tried to make sense of the events of today. You glanced up again, trying to eavesdrop a little better, get some more detail. You took a step closer, trying to will the sound of their voices through the door to be just a little louder, just a little clearer, when Sakamoto suddenly pivoted, stretching and cracking his spine with a sigh.

“Gah!”  You shouted out. His eyes met yours through the window and widened like a kid caught in the cookie jar. You jumped with a start, taking a cautionary step back and nearly tumbling down the stairs. It was a miracle you caught yourself in time, but your little outburst had definitely caught the attention of the group. Your cover was thoroughly blown. “Oh, no…” You cursed under your breath, spotting both Ann and Akira’s eyes on you now as well.

“Shit! Do you think they saw?” Ryuji’s hands flew to his hair, mussing and working out his frustrations on the dyed strands while simultaneously, Akira was already in motion, rushing toward the door to apprehend the unwelcome listener.

Your heartbeat sped up, and like a gazelle spotted by a lion, a fire was lit under you and you began to sprint, clumsily fumbling down the stairwell and onto the flat platform where the stairs rotated 90 degrees and continued downward. Inhaling sharply, your foot, nervous and supporting jelly-like legs, missed the final step. Your belongings, along with your body, spilled across the square, flat platform, and the door behind you slammed open.

“Hey!” Akira’s yell echoed through the stairwell, and your thoughts bounced off the walls just like his voice. Scrambling, you scooped only the essentials into your hands: your journal, the phone of course, a few homework binders, ditching the easily replaceable items like chewing gum and pencils. Taking to one scraped-up knee and ready to bolt, you felt a hand close upon your bicep and clamp down firmly. “Hey, hey… slow down.” Akira again, now gentler with his tone, spun you around to face him. You stood clutching your things to your chest like a life preserver. “I’m not gonna like… kill you or anything.” A breathy chuckle, and now he was on the platform next to you, scanning you up and down for injuries with his hands in his pockets. “So, uh… so don’t kill yourself by fallin’ down these stairs, huh?” He played off the tense feeling in the air with humor, but the sheer proximity of him, standing there in front of you mere inches away in the cramped space, it was like you could hear your blood pounding in your ears.

What was he thinking right now? Did he think you were some weirdo stalker? I mean, you’d just met him this morning and now you were watching him through a small window like a creep after school… after following him there. Wait, that wasn’t important right now! Was he going to kill you? He didn’t seem like the type of guy to do that, but then again, he didn’t seem like the type to phase in and out of existence either… neither did Ryuji and Ann… what were people with powers like that capable of?

Right now, you were just going to mind your business, and play it safe. It wasn’t worth getting mixed up with people who warp through a “metaverse” and talk to animals just for some good writing material, not if it turned out to be dangerous.

“Well…” you hesitated, “it’s none of my business, what I just saw, and I won’t tell anyone.” You breathed a little easier, tried to regain your composure, to not look too weak.

“So they did see! Awww, shit!” Ryuji’s head popped through the door, interrupting the uncomfortable conversation, and the hot air of the enclosed space was cut through by a gust of wind from the now open rooftop door.

“Now, just hold on, Ryuji,” Akira held out one hand to placate his rather temperamental friend.

“No, no really it’s fine that you talk to your… cat and just… vanish... and I’m sure it’s all fine and multiverse-y and…”

“Metaverse.” Akira corrected you with a small smile, bending down to pick up the rest of your scattered objects.

“Dude!” Ryuji ran a hand down his face in defeat.

“They saw us, no point in being tight-lipped,” he stood, handing them to you.

“Metaverse… right,” you took them, watching every move he made carefully. “Sorry, I’m… a bit more... eloquent in my writing,” you moved to the side, ready to sneak past and descend the rest of the stairs. Anything to get on with your day and escape this unbelievable situation. Akira shuffled, mirroring you and completely blocking the stairwell. There was something clever about him, something sharp and charismatic. He knew exactly what he was doing, what he wanted to achieve, and he knew how to calmly and smoothly execute his plans, unlike Sakamoto, who was far less… organized.

“Writing…?” He was keeping you locked into this conversation, as gently and amiably as he could, and you were not leaving until he was sure he could trust your word.

“Uh… yeah, that’s why I was up…” your eyes met his, quickly recoiling and looking toward the floor again, “...up on the roof. I was just looking for a quiet place to write.”

“What, uh, what kind of stuff do you write?” Ann had now joined Ryuji at the top of the stairs, leaving you feeling completely caged in. Ann threw Akira - who seemed like the leader of the small band of misfits - a desperate glance, a sort of look that seemed to ask: “Where are you going with this? Are we screwed?”

“It’s… it’s kind of private. It’s just… romance stuff. I don’t know, I do all kinds of different stuff, whatever I’m in the mood for.” Akira nodded, more to his friends than you, something you had a feeling you weren’t supposed to pick up on. He stuck his hand out flat, gesturing toward the rooftop behind you. You took the hint, heading a bit anxiously back up the stairs, Ryuji and Ann making way for you.

“You any good?” Akira followed behind you, and now on the rooftop once again, the cool air felt freeing, less constricting, though his question felt a bit insulting, a bit nosey.

“I don’t know… I’ve been told I am…” The three friends took a seat in areas that seemed very familiar to them, like they’d been up here warping in and out of this realm many times before. Now settled into place, Ann spoke up, obviously as apprehensive as you were:

“Well do you… do you think…?” Her high-pitched voice seemed to be hesitant, not yet confident in her next words, not sure if they were all on the same page.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly,” Akira smirked as if the three had one mind. He turned to you, trying to make eye contact that you vehemently avoided. “How would you feel about helping us out?”

[bondsmagii]

Miceál, my brother has become an incel... He used to be such a smart and, deep down, sweet boy, but now all he does is play lol. He almost never leaves is room, he doesn't shower, doesn't wash his clothes, doesn't ventilate his room, all of that makes him smell like a death animal. He survives off coca cola, fries and burgers and vent his anger by harassing women and minorities. I suspect the reason he is the way he is now is because of some traumatizing events during our childhood, I guess the way he coped was playing online game to forget about everything. My parents no longer give a crap about what is he gonna do once he becomes a legal adult, but I'm personally deeply worried about him. After all, I kind of understand that after all, he's just a 16 year old who didn't get the emotional support he needed. Do you have any advice on how can I help him realize that his lifestyle is not healthy at all? He won't listen to me (nor anyone else, really), whenever I try talking to him he just tells me to fuck off and leave him the fuck alone. Sorry for bothering with such things, but when it comes to this type of stuff you seem to give good advice.

honestly, this is the worst situation I can imagine when it comes to ideology and people you care about. unfortunately the only tips I have are time consuming and often unsuccessful -- with this kind of thing, the person has to consent to helping themselves, too. if they refuse, there's not really anything that can be done.

unfortunately I'm speaking from experience. a short while ago I had a friend I was close to and who I'd known for two years. one day, totally out of the blue, she told me she felt we were close enough that I would "understand", and that she didn't think I would judge her because I was so "open-minded", and a bunch of other compliments that she laid on thick before telling me she was a TERF. her own words. she was a straight-up TERF, ran a discourse blog full of TERF shit, had an entire group of friends who were TERFs... it was a mess. at first I talked to her about it, and similarly to your brother she had been through a lot of trauma when she was younger, relating to her sexuality and gender presentation. it had forced her into making changes to her body that she regretted and was in the process of reversing. she was angry and bitter, and rightly so, but again like your brother she was misdirecting her anger towards those who didn't deserve it rather than the system that allowed it all to happen in the first place. at first it was promising, and she really did seem to realise what she was doing wasn't the right way to go and made some real progress in moving away from the circles... but then a few months later she was back into it again, sending me link upon link to "proof" and trying to persuade me that she was right. at that point I broke off the friendship and stopped contact with her.

I'm sorry this doesn't have a happy ending, but unfortunately these groups -- TERFS, incels, Nazis, etc -- are very good at targeting the vulnerable and telling them exactly what they want to hear: it's not their fault, all the shit that's happened to them and the pain and resentment they feel. it's the fault of whatever minority or group they want to target, be it women, trans people, immigrants, Jewish people, whatever. it's an attractive concept for these people because it means it's not their fault and there's a cause they can rally behind to make things Right. these groups are also very good at indoctrination, building up slowly and exposing people to the really nasty stuff when they're ready to accept it. it is a form of grooming, and it's so slow-burning and insidious that we often don't notice until it's too late. the left is also catastrophically bad at recruiting and maintaining activism because of the purity culture and the constant infighting; a lot of the jokes the alt-right make about the left are completely true. to somebody like your brother, the incel community is organised, saying what he wants to hear, and the political altnerative is a bunch of weirdos shouting at one another about children's cartoons. it's a no-brainer. he feels powerful and enlightened, which is a very attractive thing for someone who is, at root, a traumatised child.

the best thing you can do at this point, I think, is try to separate him from as much of this input as possible. you'll have to work slow, and subtle, but the more time he's away from this indoctrinating information the more likely it'll be that phase two is successful: beginning to essentially reeducate him. to do this, you need to find common ground and validate it, and then slowly turn his annoyance and opinions around to the real cause of it. it takes time and has little chance of succeeding, but unless he decides to throw it in on his own, it's his only chance.

he's still young, and while he's living at home his potential to cause harm is thankfully at least somewhat contained. be patient, work subtly, give him other options. try to keep him away from his incel friends, distract him with things that keep him busy and give him a sense of real accomplishment and satisfaction. build up his confidence, compliment him when he does something worth admiring, and try to avoid outright conflict. remember: common ground, and then gradual education. at the end of the day only he can make the final call, but these communities rely on total isolation so that even if somebody wants to get out, they've burned all their bridges and realise they can't -- they'll have nobody left. for as long as you're able, emotionally and morally, keep that bridge open for him. even having just one person to fall back on might be enough for somebody to find the courage to leave one of these cults.

[milfnearyou]

                 𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞.

      “𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.”

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟑.𝟐𝐊 | 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 (𝐗-𝐄𝐗𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐈)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: KIDNAPPING. TORTURE. PTSD. TRAUMA. WHIPPING. HARASSMENT. NO SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER. MENTIONS OF PSYCHOLOGICAL ELEMENTS. LIGHT TALK OF PERSONALITY DISORDERS AND SCHIZOPHRENIA WILL BE DELVING INTO MORE DETAILS ON THE NEXT CHAPTER.

I ALSO DECIDED TO MAKE THIS A SERIES TO PREVENT MAKING THE WHOLE THING REALLY LONG ON ONE POST SINCE TUMBLR GLITCHES A LOT BUT ALSO FOR PEOPLE WHO CAN’T FOCUS ON VERY LONG FICS :)

VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

To say that you were hurting would be an understatement.

Everything and anything served as an infernal memory. Whether it be an object or something as simple as the weather, the effect it had could potentially be triggering for you. This new way of life felt more like a slow, painful process in which you were dying.

Overwhelming, things were now always overwhelming. Your anxiety shooting through the roof, the small person inside of you crumbling away into nothing as you screamed at the top of your lungs only to never be heard.

Your life felt orchestrated, the strings and rhythms conducted by no one else but Lucifer himself. With your pain, he created a symphony for a play, one that was to be forever engrained within your mind, body and soul.

It felt surreal, a simulation with you as its subject and yet, it was in every way authentic. None of it was a figment of your imagination, it wasn't just a bad dream but it was your reality. The scars that littered your body like a tormented and abused piece of canvas served as proof that it had all happened.

Your body ached, countless spikes of excruciating pains rushing through your many vessels and arteries, the nerves on your body were almost always on edge. It was difficult to hold onto reality, the point of returning being so far away that the thought of just letting go, would be a much quicker and simple solution. After all, you were halfway to insanity and the thought of being sane no longer remained a possibility.

It didn’t stop there. Your biggest enemy was your mind. The cursed piece of soft tissue that sat right in the middle of your enclosed skull was the one thing quickest to abandon you, betraying you within a blink of an eye and letting your body act on its own. It was impossible to control your thoughts when you almost always gravitating towards self-destruction.

Day and night, your mind screamed at you, unleashing a cacophony of howling, piercing screams that made your head ring. Blaring on and on, it had no limit. Going as far as venturing into your dreams late at night, filling your only moment of peace with countless nightmares. It was driving you mad. Always pushing you to constantly fight with yourself. You tried your best to ignore the urges but it seemed impossible.

Loudly, you'd scream into the emptiness of your surroundings telling yourself to shut up, to make it stop. Occasionally going as far as becoming physical, slapping the palms of your hands against your temple in attempts to strike yourself awake or hitting your head against a flat surface in attempts to knock the thoughts out. 

But there was no chance to wake up. You were long gone. Stuck in a deep slumber that caused your physical state to act like a zombie. Almost as if your frontal lobe had shut down. Everything occurring in a rather monotone way. Laced with a sudden breakdown that hit you every other day, exploding with fear and anger. The effects of your past trauma reminding you that you still had feelings within, that you had emotions but that they were no longer positive. The negativity overflowed within you and was always ready to burst.

You saw people, individuals who claimed they could help. Medically known as psychiatrists but in your opinion, middle-aged women who seemed lonelier than you were. Portraits of Persian cats hung all over their workrooms, the scowls plastered on the faces of the felines were ones also visible on the psychiatrists themselves.

They always said it was the voices, emerging from your previously traumatic experience. Well no shit, of course, you knew that. It was a no brainer that there were voices in your head, you had diagnosed yourself of having un-welcomed people inside your mind a long time ago. 

However, unbeknownst to the therapists themselves you also knew that they'd been planted into your mind from god knows how long ago. They simply waited for something to set them free, triggering the alarm and giving them proper cause to make you lose your mind.

All they needed was freedom and they were granted access to that with the help of a certain someone. A man who shared the same looks, name and identity as someone you grew close with, someone you developed feelings for. A man you fell in love with that had a terrible secret. It was hard to determine what exactly his secret was until you came face to face with it yourself. And when you did, you wanted out. Pandora's box had been opened and yet, it wasn't even your fault that it had.

You simply had to face the consequences of falling in love with someone who had a duplicate. Was it a clone? Or was it a twin? It was hard to say because he seemed to be from another world, a different planet even but in reality, he was conceived by the hands of a twisted mind. Fabricated inside a laboratory, only to be sent out many years later to wreak havoc upon your life.

And one dreaded night, he arrived. Snatching you away and hiding you for what added up to be weeks of torture. A show in which you were the leading role, the subject to many horrendous acts that one could never imagine. Acts that he always said were done because he “loved” you.

“You know I love you?” He’d say, all while his nimble fingers danced along the grains of your skin. Brushing up and down your arm as the fear raced through your veins. Your blood running cold, the hairs on your neck standing upwards. Your body was all too familiar with reacting with terror.

A few painfully quiet moments would pass, the sound of water dripping from the faucet, filtering into your conversation until he’d clear his throat. Leaning in forwards and resting his lips just above your left ear, his hot breath burning against your skin as you feel yourself holding in your breath.

“Silence isn’t an option, you either speak or be spoken for,” He warns and you nod rapidly in response. You knew the protocol and you knew exactly what it meant when he said that.

“Do you love me like I love you?” He asks. Circling from your back as he stands in front of you, using his calloused hand to hold your face upwards. Cupping your chin, his touch is moderately tender but you know that with one wrong move, everything could change.

“Define love,” You respond, not wanting to give him the direct answer he wanted. It would feed his ego all too much if you were to be so direct and yet, secretly he enjoyed you defying him. He loved how you didn't give in so quickly, it allowed him the chance to get physical and boy, did he love to get physical.

“Define love? I— obviously, don’t understand the concept of love as much as I'd like to admit. But when I look at you, the sickening feeling that emerges within me makes me think that yes, this is love. It’s everything that suppresses inside my chest, threatening to explode at any given moment. The oxygen that carries through my blood, that fuels the life inside me is filled with the thought of you. Love is, being alive and there’s nothing else except for you that makes me feel more alive.”

You fall silent at his response. Simply because none of it made sense, a cluster of babbled words falling out of his mouth as you stare at him watching as his expression slowly falls apart. The look of love is no longer there, replaced with infatuation, obsession and anger. He acted as if he’d known you for an eternity, professing his delusional love as if it mattered. As if you’d have a change of heart and drop everything within a blink of an eye just for him.

“...You must also understand that I love you because I can’t let him be the only person who loves you too,” He adds, “So do you love me like I love you? It’s only fair you do.”

“Love is a blessing in life. Something that isn’t forced upon, a concept in which— it may hold the key to your life in its hands but cannot be obtained without the honest feelings of another. It takes two to tango, not one, but two." 

Momentarily pausing, you swallow the lump inside your throat, pushing it downwards. Allowing the newly found courage inside your body to come forward, "...And I'm afraid I can’t dance with you.” 

Your rejection is something that hits him hard. Time seems to stop as the fleshy look on his face drops, the expression in his eyes have been replaced with a newfound fury. But it quickly wipes away as you watch him throw his head back letting out a cackle, his voice echoing inside the dingy, dark basement. 

Like a slideshow, his emotions were quick to change moving from pure anger to joy as he laughs at your response. You can't help but sit there and think that he's absolutely mad. A man who shares the same body, face and voice as your lover but seems to be much more cunning and sinister. He's evil and he proves himself to be just that with his following actions and honestly, you aren't even surprised at this point. 

His large hand that once caressed your face had now found its way to the knotted locks of hair, gripping it tightly as he shoves you to the ground. Pushing you down from the chair you once sat on and glueing you to the floor. The coldness of the surface is somewhat, soothing against your painfully hot skin as he presses your face against the ground. The weight of his body adding more pressure as he straddles you from behind, moving strings of your hair aside just so he can see your face. Amused, he smirks to himself when he sees you withering in pain, strings of saliva dripping past your chapped lips and leaking onto the floor.

"Oh dear, what a waste," He pouts, bringing forward a free hand to wipe your drool away. The tip of his finger now covered in your bodily fluids as he brings it to his lips, licking his finger in excitement. His eyes practically rolling to the back of his head as he moans in delight, "Deliciously, sweet." 

Disgusted by his actions you can't help but shut your eyes. Shielding yourself one way or another from looking at his grotesquely beautiful visage. Naturally, the tears also begin to seep past your eyes, drifting down your cheeks. You can feel him lean in, hovering over you. A whimper squeaks past your lips when you feel his tongue dragging itself across your cheek, it feels like he's about to eat you alive. Like a lion licking its prey.  

Removing his tongue from your cheek, he brings it towards your ear. Licking your helix before sucking gently on your earlobe, “I hope, you consider this next special thing. Perhaps, as a warning of some sort?” 

Pushing himself off of you, you can hear him rummage around in the drawer he’s got next to the chair you once sat on. The sound of metallic objects rattling around and clinking against each other until it comes to a halt. The silence isn't soothing, it's terrifying. 

Your heart begins to thump profusely, rapidly beating. You find it hard to breathe, to possibly calm down as your mind races with all the possible objects he could’ve chosen to use on you. A knife? Perhaps a nail gun.

The possibilities were essentially endless due to his massive collection of murderous weapons. But you receive your answer when you feel the long, multiple strips of leather entwined in cotton and tiny pieces of cattle bone brushing against your skin.

“Cat o’ nine tails,” He answers, introducing the weapon to you. Teasingly he brings the weapon up and down your bareback. Shuddering in fear as you feel the item grind against your back, the softness you feel now will be nothing in comparison to what you'll actually feel. 

"Baby, remember that I have to do this because I love you."

Thwack!

The first blow that hits you makes your ears ring. The sensation feels hot, tingling at your skin. It's a mixture of pain along with pins and needles, only getting worse with each blow that he gives you. The stinging had a pain so strong and immense that it was hard for you to even lay there still, writhing around on the ground like a worm on hot pavement. You began to feel overwhelmed with pain, your nerves essentially on fire as you struggled to keep yourself awake. 

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

You could feel the skin on your back begin to rip open, the crimson blood seeping from your wounds as he kept going. There was no mercy as you screamed, your vocal cords straining so hard your voice went hoarse. Slowly, you began to shut down. First, your hands falling limp at your sides, your body cased in sweat as you felt drained to a pulp. Then your screams came to a halt, the breathing in your voice drastically slowing down. Finally, your eyes began to droop, fluttering shut as you saw nothing but black. 

Was this the end for you? 

Jolting upwards, you topple off your bed and collide with the ground. Gritting your teeth in pain when you feel your back begin to burn, your semi-healed scars becoming agitated from the impact. Slowly rising upwards you panic at your dark surroundings but calm down once you realize that you're at home. Your sweet Maison, inside your calming bedroom with your lover sound asleep on his half of the mattress.

He's at peace with his soft and supple cheek squished against the fluffy pillow. Strands of his brown hair sticking about, his eyes shut tightly. You can't help but mumble to yourself about how adorable he is before leaving your room. Quietly heading towards the kitchen and flickering on the lights, flinching when everything seemed to be much too bright.

Your eyes gravitate towards the clock on the wall, it was four in the morning. You decided that there was no way you were going back to sleep at this hour. Shuffling towards your coffee machine, you brew yourself an iced coffee mixing in a shot of almond milk with your drink. Adding in a few ice cubes, you stir your drink slowly trying your best to ignore the pain in your back.

"You alright?"

Turning around you see Jongin, standing there shirtless in his teddy bear PJ pants. He rubs his eyes a few times before putting on his circular framed glasses, giving you a sleepy smile when he finally sees you properly through the lens. He looked beautiful in his groggy state and so did you to him with your hair flowing freely. Dressed cosily in his white tee with your supreme briefs underneath it.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Did I wake you up?" You ask, taking a sip from your drink.

"No, you're good. Can you make me one too baby?"

Nodding in response you turn towards your coffee machine, your back facing towards him to brew him a drink. "Latte?" You ask.

"Mhm, you know me so well," Slowly he wraps his arms around you, failing to notice how you slightly flinch at his touch. His hands travel towards your stomach as he hugs you tightly, placing his nose in the crook of your neck as he inhales your scent, "I love you so much."

The scene feels all too familiar and it makes you nervous. Gently you push him off of you, unaware that your gesture has hurt his feelings. Departing from your back he comes to your side, leaning against the marble counter.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He questions.

"I'm fine, just...don't, do that," You reply, the tone of your voice is soft, almost delicate as if you spoke any louder something would break.

"Do what?" He asks while bringing his hand towards your shoulder, frowning when he sees you dip your shoulder away from his touch, "You don't want me to touch you?"

Sighing you turn to face him, observing his hurt expression. His eyes are slightly glassy as he looks at you for an answer.

"Nini, it's not that I don't want you to touch me. It's because I'm still injured from the incident, so everything's just a bit fragile," You explain, partially lying through your teeth. It was true you were very hurt but you also didn't want him touching you because everything he did reminded you of the other him.

He nods quietly, smiling softly at you as he slowly gestures you to have a seat at the coffee table, "I'll cover the drink, you go rest."

Sitting down at the coffee table you quietly enjoy your beverage. Jongin soon joining you, seated at the front. The kitchen is quiet, dimly lit by the singular overhanging light you've got on. Jongin's caramel complexion shining underneath the lightbulbs rays. His eyes are affectionate, his gaze never leaving you as he chews on his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry," He starts, "I know it's been hard and I'm really sorry that you have to be hurting. I just wish that the incident could've brought us closer somehow but it's just, pushing us apart."

Drumming your fingers against the table you avoid his gaze. You don't know what to say, you can't blame him for what happened. But you also can't help but think that had you not known Jongin then you would've never met the other him. His twin or, whatever he was.

"I should've told you about him. Then maybe I could've prevented this somehow," His voice falters as you look up to see him. He's wiping his tears away, the whites of his eyes are slightly red.

"Jongin—”

"Tell me," He interrupts, "Do you see him when you look at me?"

Looking at Jongin, you can definitely see the other him. Except for the fact that the other him or Kai as he liked to call himself had dark green hair. Besides the difference in hair colours, they were pretty much identical. Opting to remain silent, he receives his answer.

"I wish it had never happened but, now that everything's passed I want to be by your side to help you heal. I want to help you through this," He explains. Nonchalantly sliding his hand forwards, he offers you to take his hand and you do, though not right away. Intertwining your fingers with his, you feel his thumb rub the skin of your palm gently.

"You know I love you?" He says and you can't help but shudder when those words come fluttering out of his mouth. Looking up at him you momentarily see Kai rather than Jongin and your heart stops. Afraid that you'll be punished for not speaking back. You say it back, in an almost trained responsive way. Even if the man that's in front of you isn't Kai but Jongin. You say it back because you're still afraid, you're still scared and those affectionate words do nothing but terrify you.

"I love you too."

   𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃: 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐅𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔©︎

[cinnamonspice99]

Hey guys, so I got this ⬆ card on that 50 pull event, and this particular part of the history gave me ideas! I don't write that much (this is actually my second fic here on Tumblr)  because honestly I’m lazy and I don’t think I’m really good at it, but well I needed to write my thoughts on potential things for that “spa day” with Diadaddy. I won’t give much context not to spoil the history of the card for you guys, so sorry about that. Please keep in mind that I’m NOT a writer and english is NOT my first language so forgive me for grammar/time/words mistakes, also feel free to comment if you liked it or if it is a constructive criticism. To anyone who reads it I hope you enjoy it and thank you for your time!  😊 (Also if you haven’t read my other/first fic pairing Lucifer and want to feel free to check it out too but I warn you I’m a horny b*tch so it’s also a NSFW hehe  😈 🤣).

DISCLAIMERS: 18+ NSFW; SEXUAL SCENARIO; MASTURBATION; FINGER PLAY; EXPLICIT LANGUAGE; A FEW CURSING; PENETRATION; MORE VANILLA THEN KINKY I GUESS.

Fandom: Obey Me!

Main characters: Diavolo and F!Reader. 

Word count: 2,868K

      Royal Treatment Spa Day

You were asking yourself how you ended up in this situation to begin with, in the moment you were sitting naked in a huge bathtub with roses petals, lavender and some other devildom flowers that you didn't know of floating in the milky waters at the big luxurious private bathroom of a famous Spa in Devildom, scented candles, incense burning and the distant sound of the decorative fountain adding to the relaxing environment . Except that you weren’t entirely alone, you were alone with the Royal Prince of Hell himself (who was also butt naked in said tub). You cursed Asmo for being the horny bastard that he was and Diavolo for asking you to go with him instead, but above all you cursed yourself for not knowing better what “a relaxing spa day for two” meant for the avatar of lust. (You also knew that Diavolo wasn't naive, taking advantage of the situation when it appeared before him smiling with “the purest intentions” at your oblivion).

“Ughh demons…” you thought to yourself.

But there was nothing to be done about it anymore and here you were completely nude  with Diavolo right across you, in a place where you’re supposed to relax but being very NOT relaxed at all. You were trying to keep yourself not to look at him, focusing your attention on the fancy chandelier, the fire dancing in the candles or anything but those muscular tanned pectorals just above the water or the cocky side smirk together with an intense amber gaze the prince was giving you. You fidget a little and he chucke.

“What is it? Are you not feeling relaxed? Do you want me to get you something?” he asks seemingly worried.

“NO!” you scream and then immediately cover your mouth with a hand, he looks at you with amusement.

It was already hard enough not to look at him undressing to join you in the tub, and you were very thankful that the milky water covered things beneath it.

“I mean... no, thank you my lord… I’m… I’m good” you swallow, trying to look at his eyes without blushing and failing miserably at it.

“Are you certain my dear? For someone in a spa you look rather tense, does my company make you unconfortable by any way? I can leave if you…”

“Oh no my lord! This whole thing was planned to help you relax, and you don’t make me uncomfortable at all, so don’t worry. Is just that… well you see…” you trale off biting your lips.

“Yes? Carry on dear it’s okay.” he gives you a reassuring smile.

“Is just that, frankly, being naked with your highness… with you… makes me a little nervous that’s all.” you finally say it with a sigh.

Diavolo just looks at you for a moment and then he begins to laugh, his characteristic enthusiastic laughter, while you on the other hand stare right back at him with an incredulous look.

“Hey! Stop! Are you laughing at me?” you say pouting and splash a bit of the water at him.

“Of course not my dear I just think it’s cute, but don’t worry I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable on purpose or touch you without you wanting it” he says still laughing a little and with a surprisingly caring look that you didn’t remember ever seeing in his eyes.

“Even you being the most beautiful sight I had the pleasure to behold in ages ” he adds with a sincere yet intense look.

Immediately your face goes red and a fire starts at the lower of your stomach, you stay there looking at him without knowing what to say in return as he keeps his gaze at you,  his smile fading from his handsome face, only his eyes now adding more and more to the burning inside you. 

“I…what? I thought we had agreed not to look at the other as we undressed” you say in a moment of clarity.

“Yes we did. But can you blame a demon for giving in into temptation?” He answered with a deep voice, his tone serious for a moment.

“But don’t worry I just took a quick peak” his smile back again and you just reply sarcastically.

“A quick peak hun? Yeah right”

You both smile at each other for a moment and he says:

“See there’s nothing to be nervous about, it's just me. I’m glad you are more relaxed now but I do own you for breaking our promise, tell me how can I compensate you?” he asks.

For a moment several devilish possibilities cross your mind, pranks and challenges, but then you remember that he is the prince (and not one of the brothers, minus Lucifer clearly) also the sensation in your belly is still there and you look at him thinking about sliding your hands on those big arms or the muscles of his torso and back and… “wait wait wait WAIT” you think stopping before things get out of track.

“Well?” he asks, still waiting.

“A massage” you ended up saying.

He smiles. 

“That’s hardly a punishment dear, but if it’s what you want me to do then come.”

“Wait right now?” you ask, surprised.

“Yes?” he gives you a funny look while you curse yourself yet again.

“shit I didn’t think that through” you think and hesitantly sits next to him with. 

“Excuse me darling” he says before putting his hands on your shoulders.

You tense again for a moment and he leans in your ear and says in a smooth voice.

“Relax, you’re in good hands.”

A shiver runs through your body and you tighten the hold of your enlaced hands at your lap. He presses against the muscles of your shoulders for a while and his hands goes to your scapulas, drawing circles in there with his thumbs, until they found their way to the top of your spine where he slides then down pressing all it’s way and you close your eyes and squeeze your legs together letting a small breath out.

“Is that good?” He asks seeing your reaction, his deep voice oh so close to your ears.

His hands again drawing circles but this time at the base of back, you don’t reply afraid to open your mouth at all and letting any embarrassing sound out, instead you just shake your head in a “yes” as his hands slide to your waist and you let a tiny little moan out unconsciously.

“Oh. I guess it is” He says teasing and you are mortified.

“I’m so so sorry my lord, it’s okay you don’t have to continue it was a stupid idea I will…” you say as you start to move to get back at your side of the tub but he holds you firmly by the waist, right where you are.

“Why do you say that? I think it was a marvelous idea! I’m having a very pleasurable time, and clearly so are you…” he says from the crook of your neck, holding your back pressed firmly against his chest. You shake feeling his strong hold and his warm breath at your sensitive skin, the fire in your stomach now impossible to ignore, your pussy getting wetter with every second.

“My lord, I don't think we should…” you start.

“Diavolo.” he interromps  “There’s no need to be so formal it’s only us in here” One hand goes to the back of your neck massaging there, as the other still holds you in place and starts slow movements at the base of your back  . 

“Hunm… Diavolo… I don’t think we should continue, we might do something we’ll regret later” you say a little breathless, unable to stop the clench between your thighs.

“Dear I’m positive I won’t regret anything with you, and I can assure you neither will you” he says in a sexy way giving a small kiss at your shoulder, stopping his hands and letting them rest at your waist again. You turn your head and look at him. That your core wants him is no secret for you, and you look at his eyes overflowing with confidence and lust, and at your own desire mixed with uncertainty. 

“I’ve said before I won’t touch you without you wanting it as much as I do, if a massage is all you want then is all that you’ll receive. But... if you’re feeling like something more, then I’ll be honored and very happy to indulge you” he says in a strong voice.

For a moment you just keep looking at him, the two of you trapped in each other's gaze, and you think to yourself “Fuck it! We only live once.” and kiss him a little hesitant at the beginning, and when he presses you harder against him you can feel his dick twitch at you ass as he kisses you back with a ferocious need, devouring your mouth, you reach one arm to his head lacing you fingers in his red hair as his tongue invades you, conquering every spot, dueling, dancing with you own until you are gasping for air as he slides his hands down on your thighs, kissing and sucking at you neck, he squeeze your left thigh and bites you and you moan.

“Hunm, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to hear this” he kisses your earlobe, sucking at it as his hands go up your stomach.

“Diavolo” you call his name drunkenly, your core moist and throbbing for him.

“Yes darling?” he says lavishing your neck and running his hands around your breasts not really touching it.

“Stop teasing, please” you whine.

“If you want me to touch you more intimately you’ll have to ask dear. Give me your permission and I’ll kiss, and lick, and caress, and fuck you all over. You’ll be glowing and it won’t be because of the spa treatment sweetheart.” He chuckle.

You start grinding your ass against his bulge eliciting a grow from him “please touch me.” He smiles holding your jaw and turning your head to kiss you hard on the lips, the hand there going to your throat as the other slides it’s way down your body to your clenching pussy. He kisses you as he slides the tip of his fingers up and down your vulva, spreading your legs a bit more he circles and presses against your clit, getting you moaning between his lips, humming in return, until he enter you with three fingers at once and you scream, your head going back resting at his shoulders as he fingers fuck you. 

“Hunm you like it when I touch you here dear? You’re such a little slut for me are you not?” he kisses your cheek but you don’t reply, just looking at him, his hand around your neck as his fingers curl and reach your g-spot, and you give a little cry closing your eyes at the sensation.

“It looks like I found you weak spot” chuckles “Lets see how long it takes to get you there darling” he speeds his ministrations adding a fourth finger as his thumb stimulates your clitoris. The hand on your throat goes down to your breasts playing with your nipples, pinching at it as he kisses and bites at your neck and shoulder, the constant thrusts of his firgers at your spot with the stimulation of your clit and nipples being too much.

“Dia… I… Ahh hun… I’m going to...” you try to warn him.

“Cum for me.” he demands.

And as if obeying a direct order you came with a loud moan as your body shakes and your back arch.

“Hunm that must be one of the sweetest sounds of all three realms” he says removing his fingers from you, your cunt immediately clenching again at nothing. “Here, taste yourself” he says bringing his fingers to your mouth and you suck at then cleaning your juices from it, you can feel his dick pulsating at your back and he kisses you again tasting your flavor on your own mouth. He then turn you around and gets up, you now  can see him in all his mighty naked glory, and all you can do is look astonished at his thick girth, to say he’s big would be a euphemism “He’s huge” you think, and for a second and  you worry he might just rip you open. You bring your gaze back at his face,  passing it through his toned abs and chest right back at his eyes, and he looks down at you with a knowing smile. He offers a hand and helps you to stand taking a languid look at your bare body himself and you  can’t control another clench, your pussy needy to be railed. He sits on the marble edge of the luxurious bathtub and taps at his lap with one hand the other holding his hard member.

“Look what you did to me dear” he says starting to stroke himself  “Won’t you be a good girl and help? ”.

Smiling, you walk to him, your pussy as wet as it can be dying to be buried and stretched till the limits by his fat cock. You straddle him getting his member in your hand, he holds you and closes his eyes with a satisfied exhale as you sink at him, slowly, adjusting to his enormous size, biting your lips when finally he enters you completely. You never felt so full in your life, his dick reaching till your cervix just right. 

“Shit you’re so tight.” he exclaims, his browns pressed together and he kisses you in a sensual and adoring way.

You start to move as he holds you tight, his kisses now making their way down passing your throat until his lips, teeths and tongue are at your nipples, sucking and licking as you bounce up and down at his girt, riding him, and he thrust at you, you both meeting halfway. He hits just the right spots while you on the other hand clench at him oh so deliciously with every movement. You are moaning and gasping and so is he.

“Fuck… hahh… yes baby don’t stop, just like that.. yes...” he praises you.

“Dia I’m getting close.” you say as the movements get harder and faster, both your climaxes fast approaching.

“Don’t hold back, scream for me” he says.

You meet him harder and harder and in no time you reach your limit point screaming his name in a high pitched voice, and with your walls clutching at him from your orgasm he soon follows reaching his own with a deep grunt, spaying his royal seed in your warm womb. With ragged breaths you collapse at his chest and he hugs you laying on the marble with you above him, still connected.

“Are you alright my dear?” he asks, caressing your back with one hand.

“Yes” you answer still in daze.

“Hahah now that’s what I call relaxing” he says in good spirits and you look at him. “Follow me to the palace later, Barbatos will give you a potion to avoid a possible pregnancy, and we can also have some tea” he says kissing your forehead and smiling content.

“What? You don’t want a little mixed heir my lord? You joke.

“Oh no darling, I would love to father your children, but I must make you my queen first don’t you think? He says, exiting you as he moves you both back to the warm waters of the bath.

“You’re joking right?” you say incertain.

He laughs again and replies in a conspiratorial tone. 

“Yes… but you never know the future...” 

“Barbatos does though” you say as he starts to wash your skin and press against your sore muscles. 

“Indeed he does”  

And that’s all he says, you decide to just let it go as you lean on him relaxing and  enjoying his pampering. But you could never imagine that he wasn't really joking and where that afternoon would lead you in the not so far future.

[thedumpsterqueen]

Standards of Performance

Here it is!!!!! First chapter of my first fic on my new AO3! This is a multi-chapter, slow burn work. Please let me know what you think, I welcome screaming and incoherent asks about our fave special agent in my inbox. Full text under the cut, or you can find it through the AO3 link below.

AO3 link

Summary:  You're the BAU's newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?

Chapter: 1, Coffee Stains and Neckties

Words: 2388

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairings: Hotch x Reader, Hotch x You

Warnings: Not much for this chapter specifically, but let’s just assume general gore and murder stuff, explicit language, and sexual content are fair game form here on out.

Enjoy! I’ll try to update weekly, if not more often. I’ll let you know when I have a more defined schedule!

“Fucking SHIT!”

You cursed as you felt the (very, very) hot coffee soak your new skirt. Grabbing as many paper towels as you could with one hand, you tried to sop up the mess on the floor. The stain on your outfit? A shame, but nothing compared to marring the assuredly expensive cream color of the BAU’s breakroom carpet.

A low chuckle sounded off behind you, and you froze.

For the love of god, please don’t be…

“Morgan! Please tell me you have carpet cleaner, oh my god. I don’t even know how that happened.”

Morgan grinned, as he typically did, sauntering into the breakroom with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, the janitor's got it later. I was looking for you, team meeting in five. You all good? You look a little - ” he paused, probably searching for a descriptor that wouldn’t sting too bad, “ - rushed.”

You stood up, sighing. He was right, after all. You had stayed up late last night poring over psychology textbooks and only just woken up in time to leave your apartment. As the BAU’s newest profiling intern - whatever the hell that actually meant - the pressure of performing to seasoned profilers’ standards manifested in spending practically all your free time buried in research. Hence why your hair was coated in unbelievable amounts of dry shampoo, you were wearing your unflatteringly oversized glasses instead of your usual contacts, and why your frantic attempt at pouring yourself a cup of coffee when you got into work had resulted in the giant wet spot currently soaking your skirt.

At least the skirt was black.

“You’re right. Late night,” you said, rolling your eyes at Morgan’s suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Not like that, I wish. Just trying to catch up. Don’t really want to repeat last week’s disaster,” you mumbled, referring to the first time you actually got to question a suspect, which had ended up with a wad of saliva hawked in your face. It was only your third week in the position, but damn, if that hadn’t let the wind out of your sails a bit.

“Hey, what did I tell you then?” Morgan asked, as you walked out of the breakroom together. “You’re not a true profiler until you get assaulted by a serial killer!”

“I’m not a true profiler until I finish the year long training program,” you pointed out, “so I think I could do without the spit in the meantime.”

Morgan laughed, opening the door of the team’s briefing room for you. “Well if we’d known you were gonna be so picky, we might have gone with someone else.”

“Who’s picky?” asked Emily, looking up from her seat.

While Morgan laughed and launched into a dramatic retelling of the event as if the entire team hadn’t already fucking seen it in real time, you took your seat at the table. Reid nodded in acknowledgment, and you returned it with a small smile. Damn if he wasn’t handsome, and ridiculously smart to boot, but you were pretty sure your chances with him withered and died when you asked him what he was doing after work last Friday and he answered with, “Reading.” Point taken.

Hotch swiveled in his chair to face the table and you suddenly became acutely aware of how much of a mess you probably looked. It’s not that you cared about his opinion regarding your general appearance beyond the basic standard of professional attire, but his always-intense gaze and stony expression had a way of making you second guess even your most confidently held opinions.

“Sit,” he said, his voice cutting through the rest of the team’s animated chatter.

It would have been hard not to notice how quickly they obliged, not out of fear, but rather a respect and deference so deeply ingrained that it almost gave you goosebumps. You’d never thought of yourself as a follower, per say, but if Hotch was what a leader looked like, you certainly didn’t fit into that category either.

He scanned the table, stopping on you. “New glasses?” he asked, with a single, slightly raised eyebrow.

“I, um, not really, just didn’t have time to put my contacts in,” you stammered.

“Hm,” Hotch said, “They look nice.”

Your cheeks suddenly felt hot, and you thanked him quickly, looking down at your shoes to conceal the pink that was probably spreading across your face. Hotch had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound like the absolute truth, which was probably why such an innocuous little compliment had disarmed you so much.

Still though, jesus christ. Get it the fuck together. You’re not Reid; you’re not smart enough to be this awkward.

Hotch, blessedly ignoring how painful you just made that interaction, addressed the team while JJ passed out files. “We have a new case. Three bodies, all found completely drained of blood in various woods, off hiking trails. Cause of death appears to be blood loss from severed carotid arteries, meaning they were likely strung up and drained before being moved to where they were discovered.”

Reid spoke up first. “Erm, what exactly do you mean by various woods?”

“That’s the unusual thing,” Hotch said, pulling up a map of the southwestern United States on the screen behind him. "Each body was found in a different state, one here, one here, and one here,” pointing to spots in California, Arizona, and Nevada. “However, local police discovered the bodies within hours of each other due to anonymous tip offs, and medical examiners estimate approximately the same time of death for all three.”

Morgan whistled lowly. “So what you’re saying is, this guy kills three victims around the same time and takes a road trip to hide their bodies in places he knows won't be discovered until he calls in.”

“That’s how it appears, yes,” Hotch confirmed.

Rossi shook his head, twirling a pen that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. “So, how are we splitting this up?”

You whipped your head in his direction. Splitting up? Of course, you should have known it’d only make sense considering the ground to be covered, but your quick mental calculations told you that there were six of them, evenly split into three groups of two, and one odd man out, both in skill and number - you.

“So, who’s getting stuck with me?” you asked, trying to beat everyone to the punch. Not that any of them would voice it, but if you couldn’t project confidence, you figured self-awareness would do.

When you entered the internship as a recent college grad around a month ago, you knew you’d be in way over your head. Everyone else on the team was a seasoned expert, and you were a 20-something with a degree in psychology who somehow managed to charm her way through the interviews of the BAU’s flagship internship program. It’s not that you weren’t smart, you were, of course, but comparatively? You were pretty sure this was shaping up to be a glorified babysitting program, and you were the baby.

“Oh, hush,” JJ said, smiling and shaking her head. You smiled back. JJ had gone out of her way to make you feel welcome, which you were unspeakably grateful for. Between her and Morgan, you sometimes felt like maybe when this year was done, you could actually belong on this team.

Hotch interrupted your pity party. “Rossi, you’re with Reid in Phoenix. JJ and Emily, you’re going to Vegas. Morgan, you and I are going to San Diego.”

He turned to you. “You’re coming with me.”

Your stomach flipped at his words. You knew he had the most to teach you, and you could observe him coordinating the entire investigation from San Diego, but the idea of your performance being directly scrutinized by your boss in such a small group made you more nauseous than excited.

“Please be aware,” he continued, “Garcia is going to have to deal with three times the inquiries as normal. I recommend you only contact her if the information you’re searching for is genuinely too difficult to find yourself.” He gave Morgan a pointed look, to which Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“We’ll drop teams off as we go,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in thirty.”

____________

As you settled into your seat on the plane, your mind spun, trying to review every piece of psychology knowledge you’d ever encountered. This wasn’t your first case, but it was the first one you got to travel for, which made it feel much more real.

The hours ticked by as the team reviewed the case. You contributed - not much, and nothing they wouldn’t have thought of without you - but it was something. Narcissist, craves attention and spotlight, physically confident enough to detain and murder three women at the same time. The method was throwing the team for a loop, however. Bleeding the victims out was clinical, relatively painless - uncharacteristic of the sexual injuries found on the corpses and the bravado with which the killer executed the rest of the crime.

When you, Hotch, and Morgan trudged off the plane in San Diego, you had been going at the potential profile for hours and even Morgan’s patience was wearing thin.

“Look, Hotch, let’s hold off on speculation until we see the crime scene in person, alright?”

Hotch nodded, and took that as a cue to head straight to the crime scene. You groaned internally - having barely showered this morning and spent half the day on a plane, your greasy hair and coffee-stained skirt would have greatly benefited from a stop at the hotel to freshen up.

It’s not like you have to look good to go stare at a patch of dirt where a dead body used to to be though, right?

____________

Turns out the aforementioned patch of dirt was actually a wooded grove off a hiking trail leading to a nude beach, much to Morgan’s delight. The site itself was uninteresting except for the way the body had been buried - covered up very securely, implying remorse, another characteristic that didn’t make sense with the initial profile.

This commonality between all three crime scenes was hotly debated on the video conference between the entire team when you got back to the hotel. Cross legged on the bed in Hotch’s hotel room, you listened to Reid and Rossi snipe back and forth on the laptop about what the burial method could mean for ten-plus minutes (“It’s clearly just a functional tool to properly hide the body, Reid.” “But you don’t know that, the significance of burial practices can tell us so much more beyond function, it can even tell us about his religious upbringing…”) before Hotch put a stop to it.

“What do you think?” Hotch asked you, turning and looking directly into your gaze. You were suddenly hyperware of the proximity between you two - sitting close enough on the edge of the bed that your thighs were almost touching. Morgan had abandoned his position on the other side of you to stretch out in the armchair by the window halfway through Rossi and Reid’s debate. Hotch’s eyes boring into yours from only a few feet away and the expectant silence of the other team members on the video call spiked your heart rate, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“I… agree with Dr. Reid. I think it means something. The position of the hands, they were crossed across the chest, right? He didn’t need to do that. I don’t know if it means he was remorseful, but it was on purpose. I think.”

Hotch nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Let's move forward with that theory.” He turned back to the laptop. “Let me know how interviews with the loved ones go tomorrow. Let’s find the connection between the victims. Call me if you need anything.” After shutting the laptop, he turned to you and Morgan. “Let’s call it for tonight. Meet me in the lobby at 7 tomorrow.”

Having been excused, you and Morgan made your way to your hotel rooms next to Hotch’s. Morgan wished you goodnight, and you unlocked your door and practically sprinted into your shower.

After you got out, you looked around the room, towel drying your hair. It was nice, much nicer than anywhere you’d ever stayed. The abstract art on the walls and the modern, clean white lines of the furniture were lit by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony overlooking the ocean. You poured yourself a glass of wine from the minibar (a reimbursable travel expense, right?) and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the ocean air.

“Nice night, hm?”

You jumped, nearly spilling your drink down your front for the second time in less than 24 hours. Hotch was sitting in a chair on his balcony to the left of yours, reclining with his hands behind his head. Despite wearing nothing but your thin hotel robe, you felt the urge to avert your eyes from him. His suit jacket was shucked, tie undone and hanging around his neck, and the top two buttons of his white, collared shirt were unbuttoned. You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t have, like the cold stoniness of his exterior had shifted just slightly and allowed you a glimpse underneath.

It’s just a couple buttons, calm down. You’re the one who’s barely clothed in front of your fucking boss.

“It is. Shame we can’t go to the beach,” you replied, keeping your eyes forward.

Oh my god, three women were murdered and I just complained to my boss about not being able to go to the beach.

“You’re welcome to get up early and go tomorrow; might be a bit cold,” Hotch replied. You could tell from his voice he was smiling.

You mumbled in affirmation, continuing to avoid glancing in his direction. “Well, I just wanted to see the view, um, I’m gonna get to bed. Goodnight, Agent Hotchner!” You ducked back into your room, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle before you slid the door shut.

After getting ready, beating yourself up mentally for your complete social incompetence, and tucking in under the plush, white duvet, you drifted off to sleep.

[majoris]

Hi! How do you think Agnes and Cris will interact with each other in season 2?

Hi there Anony :) That's a good question, food for thought for sure, thank you for asking that and making me think about something else than work!

So the thing is, I kinda don't want to be that bitch™ again (don't I thought?) BUT I gotta bring the ending of the series one with that "let's swoop through the ship and see what's up" sequence highlighting Rios/Agnes part specifically (since that's the topic here) because I am still not over that particular choice especially when the creators knew they were gonna be renewed for the second season way before all the post was done. Because what kind of choice was this with that kinda view on the future? I know I am hanging onto a very small moment suspended in a time frame that is unspecified but it was just so... weird ? For a lack of a better word. I mean, look, what we got from season one was two lonely nerds with a lot of issues (and that's A LOT of issues on both sides) basically finding comfort in each other for a short while. We all know what it was, we saw it, there's no denying it. There's also no denying their mutual attraction/curiosity that goes beyond that "you're conveniently in the right place at the right time" thing and what happened afterward (yes to the tender moments!) BUT it was still hard for me to believe that scene because it didn't feel earned, you know?

Throughout the season both Agnes and Rios felt to me like people with trust issues/’people problems’ and walls sky-high (especially Rios) and those few moments they've had - in what was like what, two days? A week maybe?? - just aren't enough to breach that sorta thing and make them act so casual with their affection all of a sudden. And yes, I am aware that they might have had some moments together that we haven't seen but, man, you just gotta show the important stuff on the screen right? Or is it just me?

The reason I'm bringing this up here now is: if not for that one scene, I'd tell you that they're gonna be careful with each other but they're gonna move forward together. That they'd help each other heal, that they'd be the other's support in the hard times and that they'd slowly push on the boundaries of the intimacy of their relationship (we're talking beyond recreational sex here). I’d think that we’d get to see two people trying to work their stuff together, that we’d get to see how they try to navigate their way to the romantic relationship through all their combined issues.

It seems to me uncharacteristic of both of them to display such affection - in public no less - so quickly after what has transpired (and not only between them but with the whole situation around them in general). Agnes is definitely more forward than Rios (and yes, I have read the book lol) and they are both rather direct but that does not always translate when it comes to that type of intimacy between people and I feel like it would have taken them much more time than it somehow did to get to that point? But I am a slow burn supporter, so maybe it's just my tendencies not letting me see something that the writers clearly saw there? Or maybe that whole bonding and character development to get them to that point happened behind the scenes and I'm just disappointed cause I wanted to see it and we do not get to see it?

In any case, I think we are gonna get some bigger softness/tender moments and healing together because that is definitely what they both need and what I think they could provide for each other plus the scene potential here is pretty nice so if the writers/creators have any brains they should definitely sprinkle some of that shit into the story. I do hope they get some serious talk as well (at least one pls). They definitely care for each other so I hope we’re gotta see background moments supporting that; looking out for each other in little things, you know. Rios' protective streak when it comes to Agnes (and all his crew, let’s be honest here) might come out again but I also really like that it's not invasive and I hope it stays that way. I'm hoping for more banter and lightness too, maybe nerding out together? Talking about the academy that sorta thing? I think it all depends on what the writers/showrunners decide the 'starting point' that we see at the start of the season two's gonna be. Do we see them developing? Or more established? What I hope beyond everything is that they won't steer this into the melodrama territory because I'm exhausted with that treatment for the relationships at this point. Star Trek usually carries out their relationships in a bit different way to other shows but Picard was also supposed to be another sort of animal from those we know, so I guess we will see.

What are your thoughts? How do you think they're gonna interact in season two? Hopes for any specific moments/scenes?

[pascal-istheway]

Kinktober Day 2

Kink: Sex work [18+]

Warning: NSFW

Pairing: Javier Pena X Fem!Reader

Zoe’s notes: n/a

Word count: 1.9k

KINKTOBER 2021 MASTERLIST

He was a regular, would call twice a week on a slow week, sometimes even more if it had been a bad week. The hunt for Escobar was ruthless and tiring, and what better way for him to get a little steam out by some good old-fashioned cardio. 

There was something about today though, something in his voice that seemed off. When you’d answered the phone, it was immediately noticeable. There was a grit to his words, an underlying hurt and anger. Not that was much different than some of the times he called you, but today it was just - different.

He called you late that night, saying he needed to see you and to come to his apartment. Your job often required you to go to the client, and where Javi was one of your favorites, you felt the need to get a little extra dressed up for him, opting for a short black dress that cut off mid-thigh and showed plenty of skin. 

The beauty of your job in sex work was that you got to dress up and feel absolutely beautiful every night, you got to bring every man’s fantasy to life and make their dreams come true, even if it was just for a night. The freedom to pleasure clients like Javi, to give them a night of unimaginable pleasure. 

When you arrived at his door, he stood there in the doorway disheveled, hair a mess and shirtless with a drink in his hand. He barely made time for introductions, opening the door wide and allowing you to make your way into his small government issued apartment. It looked the same as usual, maybe slightly messier but so was his state so could you really blame him. 

You’d heard about Carrillo through some of your coworkers. Maria and Vanessa heard it from some of their regulars, who had heard it from an officer that worked closely with him, and so on and so forth. When you’d heard about it, of course, your first thoughts were of your weekly regular and how he would be handling the news. Javier was close enough with Carrillo, at least as close as he could potentially get to someone without actually using the words”friends”.

The drink emptied as he tipped his head back to down the rest of the glass and placing the now empty glass on the table. He didn’t waste any time letting you get settled before he grabbed your arm and led you over to the couch, stripping you out of the dress you’d selected especially for him. You stood there, completely nude as his eyes rake over your skin, the drunken glare stumbling over your features.

“Javi what ar-” 

“Shh… just let me - just let me look at you,” his words are slightly slurred. 

You nod, letting him work through whatever he had to in that moment. His hand reached out and slowly touched your skin, drawing circles over your flesh under the pad of his fingertips, his thumb pressing slightly over your bare nipple making you shiver. Your lips parted at the warmth radiating from him as he leaned in and pressed his lips against yours.

The kiss was hungry and eager, desperation pulsing from Javi through to you. You open your lips, letting his tongue dive in to explore your mouth as his hands roamed over your breasts, pushing and grabbing at your softness. Your hands start to wander, the feeling of his bare skin beneath yours intoxicating you. 

He moans on his breath, pulling you in tighter to him as he snakes a trail of kisses down your neck, teeth biting and lips sucking as he goes. You moan loudly, running your fingers through his hair and down his chest as you head towards the edge of his jeans and slip one hand inside to palm him, eliciting a moan from deep in his chest. 

His anger and determination came through in each kiss as they turned rougher - more aggressive. Your fingers glide over the buttons on his jeans, unclasping them before sliding them down and letting his cock spring free from the fabric. You were always impressed with the sheer size of the man, knowing he would fill and stretch you better than any of your other clients. You looked forward to these meetings, desperately wanting to feel him inside you. 

You drop to your knees, hands grabbing around his thick cock and stroking him slowly, eyes looking up into his as the drunk glare looks down at you, hand reaching out to stroke your hair. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips before you take him in your mouth. And you’re not shy about it, knowing Javi needs this roughness today. 

You can feel him pulsating in your mouth as you push him deep into your throat, taking him as far as you possibly can. When your nose is being tickled by the small hairs, you let out a deep moan from your throat, pleasuring him as your tongue moves over the underside of him. His hands are deep in your hair, wrapped around your tendrils as he pulls your head back, your tongue lapping along the underside of his cock in one long stroke as he pulls out. 

His thighs stiffen under your palms as he pushes into you again, the feeling of the soft tip hitting the back of your throat. 

“Fu-fuck… yes, just like that,” Javi grunts out as he pulls out again and looks down at you. 

“Yeah, baby? You like it when I do that?” a smile breaks over your face, knowing you’re giving him pleasure. 

“Fuck, just a little deeper baby,” he whispers as he sticks himself into your mouth again, hips moving to push himself deeper into your throat. You gag slightly, but you know he loves it dirty like that. 

Eventually, he lifts you from under the arms, pulling you up into him and he kisses you, hard. Your mouth feeling swollen from the kiss already. He lifts you up off the floor, your legs instantly wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the couch. 

You flop down when he tosses you, flipping you over and yanking your legs so you’re hanging over the side of the couch arm. He roughly grabs your waist with one hand, his other sliding between your thighs into your core. His fingers play between your slick folds, a moan escaping as they brush over your sensitive nub. He takes the head of his throbbing cock and wipes it between your legs, smearing the evidence of your arousal all over him before pushing himself into your center. 

The burn that came from him filling you to the brim was familiar and fucking incredible. There was nothing else like it in the world, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped your lips as he completely fills you to the brim. It stretches you in ways no one else can, his hips plunging hard as he sets off with a rapid pace.

Your entire body is jerking forward at his assault, his cock is doing not so much fucking but rather, destroying, as he takes complete control of your senses. A cry escapes you as you reach back to touch him, only to have Javi grab your arms and pin them behind you, his body holding you in place as he smashes into you. 

Skin on skin, your cunt is gushing, a suction sound forming as his assault continues. You can feel the orgasm building deep in your stomach. Your thighs begin to shake as you cry Javi’s name out. 

“Don’t talk, do-don’t fuck… god damn it,” Javi lifts your chest up grabbing your breasts from behind, and growls in your ear sending you over the edge. 

“Javi!! Fuck… fucking christ!” you scream as your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing the shit out of Javi’s cock. 

“That’s right baby, just like that,” his sips slowed, letting you ride out the orgasm. He releases your hands and snakes his hand up around your neck, the feeling absolutely killing you. 

Your cunt pulsates again around him as he slips in and out, watching himself slide through your juices. The speed picks up and having hardly recovered from your earth-shattering orgasm, you feel yourself start to vibrate below. 

“Ja-Javi… wait, baby,” you beg, knowing he wasn’t one to overuse you in that way. But tonight, you could tell he needs it, he needs to just use you. To get out his frustrations, the disappointment, the anger, the sadness, everything… he needed this. 

He pulls out and spins you around, slamming himself back into you while reclaiming your mouth again. The groans pick up, Javi starting to grunt like an animal into the crook of your neck as his teeth sink down into that band between your neck and shoulder. His hand wraps around your back and the other into your hair as your legs wrap around him, balancing on the arm of the couch. 

You scrape your nails down his back, causing him to hiss and pull back, eyes bearing into yours. His hand around your back pulls back as he lets out a swat to your ass, making you moan his name even louder. The sounds between you are like music to your ears, a symphony of flesh and sweat between you. The moaning is the choir, your skin together is the orchestra, and the world around you is the audience. 

You can feel him stretch you, massaging your walls from within as he pounds away, a breathy fuckfuckfuckfuck coming with each stroke. He’s getting closer and closer, you can feel it in his breath as he takes your mouth again. 

“Cum for me baby,” you coax in his ear, whispering how much you love the way he fucks you and how perfect he is for you. 

“Fuck, yes, take it,” he groans, his orgasm filling you to perfection. You let out a moan as his hand takes your breast, filling his palm perfectly. 

“God, Javi, your cock is perfect,” you moan, taking his ear between your teeth. 

He moves, standing to put his clothes back on and motions to you to put your own back on as well. As he lights a cigarette between his lips, tossing the lighter on the table next to him, he lets out a large sigh, the weight and tiredness from the day washing over him. 

“There’s money on the table… for you I mean,” he whispers. 

“Not today, Javi… today was,” you pause, unsure how to finish the sentence, “I’ll catch you next time,” you sigh.

“Just take it,” Javi picked up the folded bills and handed them to you, “you’re a… this is your job.”

He needed this, you knew that. And you weren’t going to charge a man in need like that. Any other day, sure you might have taken the money, but today wasn’t one of those days. 

“Today, we can just be two people in need of a little pleasure, can’t we?” you smile, running your hand over his naked shoulder before taking his cigarette from his lips and taking a puff of it. 

He sigs, flopping down on the couch and you press a kiss to his lips before turning for the door, calling over your shoulder, “until next week, mi amor.”