#it feels weird not having the undo button

[nemisisnemi]

messing around with Leona nui

get dangled idiot <3

[cobra-wives]

some barretts and nicks ✨

[h16h-v0l7463]

In the interest of ignoring our problems, what's been your favorite thing about the time loop?

honestly? it’s gotta be the fact that mistakes don’t stick.

i tend to learn thru trial and error LOL the fact that most of the time my screwups aren’t permanent makes it easier to make decisions!

really sucks when something awesome happens by sheer chance and we know we’ve only got until the end of the year to make the most of it though….

[lxnarphase]

𓇼 FUCK HER, FLIP HER, BEND HER BACKWARDS !

❤︎₊‧⁺...synopsis : the church always says sex for pleasure is a sin, and nanami kento is a man of the lord. but fuck, if his wife isn't worth sinning for. wc: 4.3k

❤₊‧⁺...cw : n. kento x fem!reader, religious themes, traditionalist views on sex and marriage, loss of virginity, missionary to mating press, breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, nanami loses himself in your pussy, slight cum play, dirty talk

❤₊‧⁺...lunar's note : am i unintentionally coping with religious trauma? possibly but it is fun :33 anyways based of this! forgive me if my writing is a bit rusty, it's been a while but enjoy !!

the two of you have spoken about eventually having children many times, but knowing the steps it took...it kept you both pushing it back, knowing eventually you'd both be ready.

after speaking with doctors, asking for advice from the church, and having you grumble about the neighbors who welcomed a cute baby girl, the two of you figured it was time.

you did your best to act normal all dayl, trying not to seem to nervous or too excited as you went about your chores for the day.

it may just be an act to procreate, but...it's still your first time with nanami. you want it to at least feel special.

there was nothing in the bible that went against that, right?

well, you have plenty of time to overthink since it seems that your dear husband will be at work late. to pass the time, you wait upstairs in your shared bedroom, the TV on as a distraction.

you're so stuck in your own world that you don't even notice him in the doorway before he clears his throat, leaning in the doorway. "oh! hi, honey, welcome home!" you go to stand up, but he holds up a hand, making you stop before you can get up from the bed.

it's silent, aside from the noise from the TV, and you can feel your stomach flip in anticipation.

has...has he always looked that handsome?

he continues to stand by the door, still not making eye contact. "you said it...starts today, correct," nanami questions, focused on undoing the straps of his watch. it shouldn't be attractive, it's such a simple task...yet it has your stomach doing flips as you nod.

"mhm, my, uh...ovulation starts today." it's such a weird thing to say, it just makes everything feel so...clinical. but that's how it's supposed to be, right? those who use sex for pleasure instead of procreation are sinners, or whatever the reverend at the church says.

"mm."

slowly pulling it off, he sets the watch on the dresser before shutting the bedroom door

"good."

dear god in heaven, you think to yourself, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling inside your mouth as he starts to undress. please forgive me for such inappropriate thoughts about my husband.

he removes his suit jacket—black today, it seems—placing it carefully on his desk chair, followed by his cufflinks and tie. his shirt is next, each button popping to reveal his strong, well-maintained physique.

you have to stop yourself from pumping your fist in the air for getting so lucky with such an attractive man as your husband. too busy ogling him like a horny teenager, you miss him undoing his belt before tugging them down and stepping out of his boxers.

once you do realize he's fully undress, you blush hard once he approaches the end of the bed—it took everything out of you not to stare at that...monster hanging between his legs, dear lord—and climbs onto it, making his way to hover over you.

his eyes roam up and down your body, taking in the pretty silky night dress you had on. It’s a soft blue with lacy white trim with little intricate flower designs.

modest, yet sensual.

"this is new," he comments, voice low and sultry. you can't help but wonder if he meant to sound so...so...

you don't find the correct word for it, but this new tone lights a fire in your stomach that has your r thighs squeezing together just a little bit.

"well, i figured it was an important night...you know, finally popping our cherries a-and starting a family?"

it's a weak attempt at humor, your voice clearly giving away your nervousness. you just pray that he ignores it.

a soft hum leaves him, his fingers playing with the intricately designed lace trim. the idea that you want to make this whole ordeal special, that you want to give yourself to him wholly, and that you want to swell with his child...

it pleases him greatly, a small smile touching his lips.

"well, aren't you sweet, my dearest?"

such simple words, yet they relieve so much tension from your shoulders. you can't help but smile back before a little gasp falls from your lips when his hands start to lift the dress up. his hands, they're so big, so hot on your skin.

It's a struggle to remember that this is for the purpose of producing offspring and nothing else, but you try, you try so hard.

but when you hear the hitch in his breath at the realization you didn't have anything else underneath the dress after he pulls it over your head, it's hard to remember.

the thought just about completely leaves your mind at the way nanami, your usually put-together husband, looks so hungrily down at you, a look you've never seen before in those pretty hazel eyes.

his gaze lingers on your body for a moment, mouth opening before shutting instantly, preventing himself from saying something he'd likely regret.

calm down, kento, he reminds himself, taking a second to clear his mind. this is for the purpose of family, not sinful and carnal desires.

even so, he's drinking in the sight of you, unable to stop his hands from rubbing up and down your sides, the soft skin of you, his wife, warming his palms. all his.

"gorgeous," he mumbles, unaware he even said it.

the moment you feel his leaking cock brush against your leg, a thought occurs to you.

neither one of you has a single idea of how to do this.

sure, you both know enough about putting it inside and moving, but that was about it. is there something else you should do? things you should say, places you should touch to aid in the process?

they never explained the actual process of sex in church, and lord knows your mother and father would've keeled over and died instantly if you were to ask them.

'it comes naturally when god deems it your time' the reverend stated once during a sermon. you fight back a frown, realizing that man probably had even less of an idea of how to do it.

however, the feeling of his tip nudging against your slit rips a gasp out of you, bringing you back into the present.

"are you alright? you left me for a bit there," nanami asks, his brow furrowed in worry. if you weren't ready, he was willing to back off. he may want to fulfill this important aspect of marriage, but...not if you don't want it.

"n-no, i'm okay! just...wondering how all of this is going to work out," you softly reassure, giving a weak giggle.

he can't blame you, he isn't very sure either. but as the man of the house and as your husband, he didn't plan on letting you worry. he would do all the work, you just needed to lay there looking so pretty, so soft, so...he realizes he's doing it again, letting his mind wander to places it shouldn't.

"just...j-just relax, we will figure it out as we go along."

with your silent nod, nanami starts to push his hips forward, hissing silently when he realizes the wetness that greets him.

you were this aroused just from...talking?

the thought of scolding you for letting your mind wander crossed his own, but...it would be hypocritical when his cockhead is dribbling precum all over your soft mound.

you choke out a noise of pain when his cock finally notches onto you and starts to push inside. sure, your wetness helped get the tip and the few inches after it inside, but just that is already too much for you, and you're expected to take all of it?!

you do your best not to move, not really sure what you should be doing. you'd be a good wife and bear with the pain if you had to, your nails digging into the pillow under your head as you braced yourself for the rest of his cock.

but this is absolutely unbearable, how do other women bear with this and have 6 or more children?!

a flicker of concern flashes through nanami's eyes at the sound you made, and he stops moving forward. he may be a bit mean sometimes, but he wasn't cruel.

if you both are going to go through with this, he is not going to make you suffer and nor is he going to force you to endure a painful experience.

no true man of god would do such a thing.

"breathe, don't hold it in," he instructs, his voice somehow calm and collected. one of his hands laces with yours, hoping to provide some sort of comfort as his lips brush against your forehead. "i've got you, darling, the pain will pass, just...tell me to stop if it gets too bad. don't hold it in."

giving a soft nod, you try to match his breathing, your body relaxing and making it easier for nanami to slip the rest of himself inside, a near silent sigh escaping him. the tightness and initial resistance that greeted him nearly made him moan, his cock twitching violently inside of you.

something about the physical feeling and knowledge that you saved yourself for him like you promised years before you both got married sent a surge of possession and pride, knowing he has such a loving and faithful wife who is so willing to give herself up to him like this...he can only hope you feel the same knowing he saved himself for you and only you.

so, as a 'reward'—and totally not because he fears you'll strangle his cock off with how tight you are—he's so gracious to you, not moving to let you get used to the stretch and feel of him inside, the room silent except for your matching breathing.

a few moments go by, and you should feel embarrassed when you feel slick drip out of you and down your ass. the realization that your dearest husband, one of the most faithful men of the church, is letting his cock soak inside of your hot cunt makes you whine a little, slick walls fluttering around him.

he's so fucked.

"a-ah...i'm going to move now," he warns, taking your sudden noise as a good sign. nanami shifts his legs just a bit before giving an experimental thrust, his brow furrowing as he slowly finds a rhythm.

the feeling of your hot and gummy walls is absolutely intoxicating, divine, nothing he's ever felt before.

this is what it felt like?

this is what he waited for?

fuck, it felt...it felt so good.

too good.

for you, the pain completely melts away, and you silently thank god and the angels above for giving you a merciful husband who is so kind as to wait for you to loosen up around him.

little do you know, he would rather kill himself than start moving when you're still adjusting to the pain and stretch.

his gentle movements make you all but melt under him, your eyes fluttering at the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

no wonder your parents preached about saving yourself until marriage, and thank the heavens you listened.

the very thought of feeling this way with anyone but your kento puts a bad taste in your mouth.

meanwhile, nanami chants prayers in his head over and over again as he tries his best to focus on the 'true' purpose for this.

the sticky, wet, and gooey sensation of your plump cunt sucking him, practically weeping each time he pulls out is just unfair.

the poor man, he's fighting so hard to maintain his composure, to not succumb to the base instincts that those soft moans of yours are beginning to stir within him.

"s-shush, darling," he grits out, hips still following his slow, deep pace. "don't...don't make such noises," he all but pleads, voice tinged with a huskiness that betrayed his growing need for you.

“i-i’m sorry! just, it...feels good, y-you feel good, feels s-so good,” you whisper, hands coming up to cover your mouth and stifle those sickeningly sweet noises.

but of course, that isn’t enough because each push and pull of his cock stirs your drooling cunt, filling the room with wet, filthy squelching sounds.

nothing about this is holy, nanami thinks as he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets next to your head.

look at her.

those soft, muffled noises are truly music to his ears, his pace morphing from the slow, deep grind into a faster pace as your soft body gives into the pleasure.

so wet, so damn tight around my cock., like she never wants to let me pull out.

"k-kento, y-you're goin' too deep, i-i can't be quiet, s'too much!"

messy little pussy, 's beggin' for cum, needs it, needs to feel my tip kissin' her cervix as i pump load after load into her womb.

he knows what that little voice is, and no matter how much he wants to claim that it’s the sound of demons pouring their sinful words into his mind, he knows that it's his thoughts, fueled by those dirty little noises that she can't hold back.

how pitiful, how sinful, doesn't she know she's going against all the teachings they've heard preached every weekend in their church?

doesn't she know she's giving into lust?

doesn't she know her pretty sounds are making his dick throb, painting her insides with his hot, gooey precum?

"hush, 'm not going to t-tell you again, you...you need to be quiet," he growls, the command lacking its earlier authority.

nanami also knows lying is a sin, and he's doing a damned lot of it right now as he tries to convince himself that you need to stay silent. after all, this—this is just a process of giving you both a child, just like you wanted, and nothing else.

but he's lying to himself.

he needs you to be quiet or else he'll lose it.

the poor man is barely holding onto his restraint, and these sweet noises pouring from your mouth aren't helping at all.

"y-you make this so difficult sometimes, my dear..." his voice is rough with need and desire, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. "but, by god, you're...you're. absolutely. exquisite."

he punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his hips into you in a way that has the coarse hair on his crotch to rub against your clit. the pleasure it gives you is electric, your legs coming up to squeeze his hips as you try to grind with him.

his words, his simple praise only makes you hiccup his name, crying out louder as your watery eyes roll back as your needy cunt squeezed down on his fat cock.

you're such a sweet thing, trying oh-so hard to mute your sounds. each snap of his hips is all but driving you insane.

“i-i can’t, ken, y-you don’t understand, i-it feels so good, i-i’m so full! you’re pressing against all the good spots, kentoo, i-i love you s' much, b-but i can't!”

be a good fucking husband and do what you were made to, nanami kento.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying to hard to ignore that temptation purring in the back of his mind.

the voice is so much louder now, echoing throughout his mind and muting any prayers or pleads to be mindful of the sanctity of this whole process.

fuck her. give her what she needs, what she deserves.

but it's too fucking hard, he can't his hips are speeding up, his strong hands moving to grip your thighs, unaware of how they start to anchor behind your knees.

breed your pretty little wife and give her a baby like she deserves.

with a deep groan, nanami finally loses all control, fingers digging into your supple thighs to push them to your chest and practically folding you in half.

this new angle has him openly moaning like a dirty whore, allowing him to plunge even deeper into your tight, gummy walls, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each and every deep thrust.

"k-ken, kenny, k-ken," you sob, tears catching onto your lashes as your entire being is assaulted by the endless pleasure your husband is giving you. he doesn't even look like your kento anymore, his pupils blown so wide that you can barely see the ring of greens and brown of his iris.

"f-fuck. 's all your fault, you know that," he hisses, eyes narrowing as he weakly glares down at you. but you can see the hearts in his eyes as he gives in to the pleasure.

his dark eyes bore down into yours, the wet plap plap plap plap of his hips slamming into yours almost overpowering his voice. "if y-you just stayed quiet like i asked, w-we wouldn't be here."

a little spurt of wet gushes out of you, making his fall forward into the juncture of your neck with a groan at the dirty noise it makes,

"god, i-i can feel it, y'know? can feel this sticky pussy—such a dirty little pussy—makin' such a mess. saved it jus' for me, didn't you, baby? mmhm—fuckin' hell, 's tight—thank you god f' giving me such an angel of a wife." nanami is huffing nonsense against your neck, pounding into you with a force that has the bed creaking loudly.

if you weren't being fucked stupid, you would be worried he was about to break the bed.

"you can keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, b-but you jus' had to have the noisiest little cunt."

he's so mean, but it only serves to make you gush even more, the way juices pour out of you and only make the already filthy noises even nastier.

"she's talkin' to me, baby, y'hear it? i'm...i-i'm gonna breed you," he manages to whine into your ear, pulling away to press his sweaty forehead against yours.

his tongue, so pink and pretty—you want it in your mouth, want to taste it want to feel it against yours—runs over his top lip as he watches drool drip down the corner of your mouth while you nod brainlessly.

nanami's never felt so dirty, so unhinged, but it feels so right, feels so fucking good. he never wants to leave your pussy, never wants to pull out, this is where he belongs, buried deep inside you as his cock pumps load after load right into your tummy, giving you what you need, what you deserve.

"yeah? you want that? i'll give it to you, baby, promise, 'm gonna be a good husband a-and knock you up, gonna make you a mommy."

that has you keening, tears pouring down your cheeks at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. you know you're close, but it's different.

it feels different, feels too much, there's pressure you've never felt before from the few times you'd cave in and play with your puffy, swollen clit in the shower when you waited for nanami to get home from work to kiss you to sleep.

no, you feel like you are about to fucking explode. "ken, i-i can't, 'm gonna—s-something's coming," you try to warn, your hands fisting in his hair as you tug and tug and tug.

the pull of his hair makes him moan like a slut, it sounds so fucking good. his eyes are rolling back before he rushes to comfort you, pressing soft little open-mouthed kisses against your lips.

you don't need to fight it, you just need to give it to him, give him what he needs.

"shh, shh, don' cry, y' look t'pretty, honey. l-let it happen, cum for me, i've got you, angel, cum for me s-so i can fill you up," he coos, his hips growing erratic as he feels your silky walls starting to fluttering around him, feeling you teeter on the edge of release.

he shifts, just barely, just enough to better position himself to fuck deeper into you. but that slight movement has his cock smushing against something soft and spongy that makes you sob, growing softer and more pliant under him, and you know you are done for as all you can do is wail his name.

"please, pretty girl, cum for me, show me how good 'm making you feel, soak my cock, c'mon, you can do it."

with a loud mewl that nearly has nanami soaking your walls in cum, you dig your nails into his biceps as you finally, finally cum. and you're right, it is different, your cute pussy squirting and creaming all over his dick.

the poor man is choking back a whine, eyes wide in shock as your cunt just gushes slick everywhere, clenching around him like a vice as you cum.

your juices are soaking his cock and balls, splattering against his lower abdomen obscenely. the thought of making you do that again crosses his mind for a split moment before the need to fill you up for being so good overpowers any other thought.

not giving you a break, he continues his unforgiving fucking, ignoring your cries and pleads for him to slow down.

"nonono, shh, shh, shush, you can take it," he coos against your lips, no longer caring if this was sinning or not. all he could think about was the constant squeezing and spasming of your poor overstimulated slit that was milking him toward his orgasm.

you try to squirm away, but the way he has you folded in half has you unable to do anything but accept his stupidly deep thrusts that make you swear you can taste his cock in the back of your throat.

"t-tha's it." he's panting, slurring his words, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. it’s so wet, so messy now, but he can't find it in himself to care.

no, all he can think about as he looks down at you is how you'll have that angelic glow as you grow round with his baby, and everyone will know you're his, that he knocked you up, he pumped you full of his cum, that you're his you're his you're all fucking his—

"f-fuck, honey, i-i can't..." his hips stutter as he does his best to maintain his rhythm, but his own release is barreling down on him. his heavy balls are drawing up tight as they slap against your ass, your juices still pouring out and soaking all of him.

"'m gonna fill you up, 'm gonna pump this—this sinful little cunt f-full of m'cum, angel, gonna knock you up, gonna have you drippin' with me, g-gonna give you a fuckin' baby, shit—"

with a deep, guttural groan, nanami hisses your name as he buries himself as deep as possible, his hot tip kissing your cervix as thick, hot ropes of his potent cum pour right into your womb, hips grinding into you and giving little thrusts as you milk his cock weakly despite your overstimulation.

it's—it's so much, he's still cumming, how was all of this inside of him? you can practically feel it sloshing around inside of you, and you whimper when you feel it gush out around his now softening cock, dripping down your ass onto the bed.

a moment or two passes, and he sits up, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face and looking down at you.

oh.

you sweet thing, you're an absolute mess. you have tear streaks down your cheeks, your lips swollen from him unknowingly biting them between the little kisses he was giving you, a pretty sheen of sweat on you, and...

his eyes trail lower to where his dick is still nestled inside of you, and it takes everything in him to not accidentally thrust his hips a little bit.

it's a creamy, sticky mess, a mixture of his and your cum seeping out your poor, abused pussy.

"o-oh. sorry, my love. i'm...not quiet sure what happened there. i apologize for such...foul language," he mumurs, his hand stroking your hip. "'s okay," you softly coo back to him, your eyes fluttering shut as you try to catch your breath. "i-i liked it..."

but you quickly learn you've married both a man of god and a curious, insatiable bastard who can't help but drag his cum all over your pussy, quickly finding your clit. and the reaction you give him is one he decides he likes, your hips canting up as your soft, oversensitive walls squeeze around his cock again.

"k-kento, that's nasty!"

all you get in response is a grumbling noise in his chest as it takes you weakly slapping your hands against his chest to get his eyes to snap away from your gooey, creamy pussy.

clearing his throat, he looks down at you, that heated look slowly creeping back onto his face. "perhaps we...we should try once more. just to ensure it takes," he states, doing his best to show some semblance of dominance.

but it's impossible when his hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, his pupils blown as he gazes down at your panting form like he's about to devour you whole.

"after all, a...a big family is what god wants from man and woman, right? so we...shouldn't delay and keep trying." his hand trails up your side before finding its way to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh.

his thumb experimentally rolled your nipple, and the way your body reacted, a soft gasp of his name...how is he supposed to explain the feeling he's getting in the confessional booth?

"y-yeah," he gulps, leaning his head down. you can feel his hot breath against your tit, and you swear you feel drool drip onto your breast. "w-we'll keep trying. jus' to make sure w-we do what the scripture asks."

may god forgive him for being such a fucking liar and a damned bad one at that.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[yuutryingtowrite]

Yandere!Maid x Vampire!Reader

A/N: If you wanna know more about the levels, check this post :)

Warning: Not nsfw, but suggestive. MDNI. Butler (side character) calls reader “Mistress”

Danger level: ★ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Submissive level: ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡ ♡

Yandere!Maid who looks at the castle in front of him, then the flier in his hands, then the castle again. Unless there was a typo in the address, the job interview should be here. He hesitantly uses the bat shaped door knocker and waits...This place looks so creepy and ominous, was this a prank ? Was it to scare him? Seriously? Sigh…He has had enough of being treated like a fool. As he continues his descent into frustration, bitterness and self-pity, he doesn’t hear the door opening. Nor does he see the butler standing at the entrance until he hears a: “Sorry for the wait, my kind sir. Are you here for the housekeeper position?”.

Yandere!Maid who thinks the butler is telling him a load of bullshit. According to him, the owner of this place is a vampire in search of additional staff members. He resists the urge to scoff. Whatever, if the “mistress” wants to take part in some weird role-play, then so be it as long as he would get paid. The same guy tells him to “please take a seat” in the living room and that “mistress will come and attend to you in a moment”. Soon after his departure, the air shifts. Black particles float around until it materializes something, or rather someone. The poor boy's shock and confusion quickly turn into enchantment. Fuck, you are totally his type. This is bad, he can feel his face burning. “Shall we go to my office?”, you ask with a smile.

Yandere!Maid who hates you. Who hates the fact that your personality matches your looks. Who hates how much control you have over him. The other day, your...pet sneezed on him, so he needed another uniform. “It seems that I only have a female one left ”, you told him. “There is no way in hell I am wearing that”, he sneered. “But wouldn’t you look cute in it? Besides, it is either that or cleaning with your normal clothes on until your new uniform arrives here-” “Alright, shut up, just give me that”, he abruptly took the offending dress from your hands and went to change. Since that conversation, his work attire has fully transitioned to said maid outfit. Maybe he becomes a bit too proud of himself whenever he catches you staring at him. And maybe, just maybe he wants to give you a nice view by bending down and taking his time “to clean the table” whenever he knows you are behind him. He will never admit that though.

Yandere!Maid who, one day, demands asks you about your eating habits. As soon as you answer, something regarding animal blood, he turns oddly quiet. You are about to ask what is wrong, but then he surprises you by climbing into your lap. You watch him get comfortable and, with trembling hands, undo the first buttons of his dress. The cherry on top is him pulling on its collar a bit to show a silver of his chest. He now avoids eye contact as he waits for you to take the lead…You are still just looking at him, so, with a blush becoming darker, he snaps at you: “A-are you stupid or something ? Do you want me to spell it out-” “I am just enjoying the view”, you respond with a teasing smile. Before he can sputter more insults, you grip his chin and tilt his head to the side, exposing his neck to your hungry gaze. “But if you insist…Thank you for the meal <3”

Yandere!Maid who has his face buried deep in his pillow while he tries to calm his flustered self down. After you finished drinking from him, he hurriedly got up and scurried to his room without so much as a word. The more he recalls the embarrassing noises he made in front of you, the more mortified he becomes. It was not his fault, it just felt really good and you even pulled him closer and tugged on his hair and-He whines and squirms in his bed as he feels his body turning hot again like that time. The action causes him to feel a sharp sting on his neck. He freezes. That is right. You marked him. You marked him. You marked him.

...

Don't drink from anyone else, ok?

[rememberwren]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy breezy beautiful premature ejaculation. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader. Discussion of edging. Cumming untouched.

-

“If we do this,” he says around his cigarette, “then we do it my way.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit cautiously, turning your hands palm up as if to show you have no weapons, no tricks up your sleeve. I’m innocuous, your posture says. His own says: I’m still deciding, with his tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. “This weird, femdom thing. So I appreciate your guidance. Because I know fuck all—“

“You’re no femdom—Jesus, fuck, I can’t talk about it anymore,” he grits out. He takes a step back and away, creating distance, exhaling a plume of smoke that makes him look strangely ethereal in the evening light. Against your will, your eyes flicker down to just below his belt buckle and oh god. He’s hard. 

“Just from talking about it?”

The look he gives you could melt ice. It could sublimate it. You cringe, knowing you were in the wrong, wishing you could reach out and snatch the words right out of the air. He’s trusting you with this. The last thing he needs is to feel like a joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have—you’re not a, a science experiment or something—“

“Wouldn’t mind that so much. Might figure out what the fuck’s wrong with me. Less interested in being treated like I’m part of a circus troupe,” he grumbles. He drops the cigarette and grinds it to ash beneath his boot. He asks: “Inside?” 

-

Gingerly, so gingerly, he undoes the button of his jeans and unzips them. He holds his breath as he works the denim down his thick thighs. God, is he built: muscles made for more than just show. His history is inscribed on his body in its strength and in its scars, scars of white and pale pinks that darken to purple in the lamplight. He’s wearing boxer briefs, straining at the front from his erection, and they are soaked. You’re surprised that he hasn’t soaked straight through to his jeans. 

“Don’t look,” he grits out through his teeth. You look away, unsure where to cast your eyes to, and settle for shutting them. He explains: “Can’t take the way you’re looking at me.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling your face flush hot. 

“Just—let me—” you hear the sound of fabric rustling. He kicks off his jeans—you can tell by the soft sound of them landing against the floor off the side of the bed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenching in your lap. 

“Nothing just—fuck. No way I’m going to last.” He sounds bitterly disappointed. 

“That’s the point of this, right? To get better at lasting?” 

He sighs, a long-suffering sound, like this discussion is well worn and frustrating to him. Something in you shrivels, and it takes your body with it as best as it can, sending your shoulders hunching inwards, your head ducking down. You pick at one of your nails by feel alone, eyes still closed, and nearly jump when his fingers brush your knee. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s what this is for. Might as well get used to embarrassing myself.” 

“That’s the spirit." 

He snorts. More fabric rustles, and at length he says: “Alright. You can look. Just…you can look.” 

You open your eyes hesitantly. His cock is right there—and Jesus. It makes sense, proportionally, but it is frightening in a very real sense. You’re already doing the math, measuring in your head and comparing to your past precedents. Ghost would have them all beat, quite comfortably, in length and girth. He’s cut, which surprises you, but isn’t a turnoff. He keeps himself landscaped nicely, which you appreciate, even if it isn’t necessary. 

He is flushed a ruddy pink, the head darker than the rest. As you stare, it jerks, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Suddenly one of his large, scarred hands reaches down and grips the base of his cock in a painful hold, hissing in a breath through his teeth. 

“Can’t look at me like that,” he admonishes again. 

“Like what?” you ask, a little defensive. You’re just looking! You have to look, right? 

“Like you want it,” he mutters. 

God, does he really have no idea? No inkling of how badly you want to sit on that monster in his hands? No notion of how wet you’ve been since your conversation in the parking lot? Sure you aren't like him, not about to spring off if the breeze was just right, but you are anything but unaffected. Still, it seems like the wrong moment to educate him on your attraction to him and his cock, so you do your best to morph your expression into one of unimpressed ambivalence and hoped it helps. 

“I’m ready when you are,” you say, interrupting his deep breathing exercises. He nods but doesn’t give you the go-ahead, not for another minute or two, until his chest stops heaving and he can remove his hand from the vice grip he has around his balls. His cock has a near purple tinge, and you wonder if maybe he should have rubbed one out in the bathroom beforehand just to take the edge off. Oh well, it’s a thought for next time. 

“Go ahead,” he says, like he’s giving you permission to pull the trigger on him during a game of Russian Roulette. 

You reach out—his cock twitches, a nice warm welcome if you’ve ever seen one, but you hesitate. Your hand is dry. Should you ask for lube? How does he usually jerk off? Dry? You have a feeling he doesn’t mind the discomfort; he seems like he has a self-destructive streak a mile wide. His eyes are fixed at a point on the ceiling, his chest unmoving as he holds his breath. You decide that some sort of lubrication is better than none—so you lick a broad stripe up your palm. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, a little punched-out sound. Sometime between opening your mouth and licking your palm, his eyes had transferred from the ceiling to your face, to the flash of your tongue and your wet palm. His eyes widen, irises swallowed up by the pupils, and he says again, more urgently: “Oh fuck.” 

He reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, but it is too late: he cums. His abs are thrown into sharp relief as he tenses with each pulse, cock jerking against his brutal grip. He doesn’t even jerk himself off—just ruins it as you stare with your mouth open and your hand wet, watching him splatter seed against the coarse line of hair that runs from his belly button to his cock all because he watched you lick your hand. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing one arm across his eyes, breathing heavily. His mouth is flushed a pretty red, like he has been kissing. His hand clenches into a fist as he says: “I’m sorry. I tried not to.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, your nearly brain blue-screening from how turned on you are. You lower your hand and wipe it dry on your leggings. “That’s what this practice is for—so you don’t do it when it really counts. We can try again tomorrow or something.” 

He snorts. “Tomorrow? Give me five fucking minutes.” 

[right4you]

Only one

Summary: you meet Joel every Friday night. Same room, same routine, same agreement. Date no one else.

Word count 5k. Warnings: smut.

Friday night, your favorite day of the week.

A wide grin is splayed across your face as you rush home from work. Parking however when you make it. Wasting no time when you step inside heading straight to the shower to get ready. Luckily you’re home alone and can pamper yourself without your parents asking where you’re going. Excitement bubbles in your lower belly picking out the sluttiest lingerie for Joel Miller.

When ready you head to the hotel going over the speed limit rushing to arrive earlier than what the map calculated. The valet boys notice your car and rush over to attend. You slip out of the vehicle tugging on your coat belt keeping it secured. “Good evening” they greet taking your keys and ushering you inside.

The staff inside wish you a good night welcoming you for your once-a-week stay. You only smile at them, speed walking to the elevator.

They never give you any weird looks as to why you meet an older man every Friday night. Joel Miller curated a story that you two are a couple who meet at this place when your work schedules overlap. They also know not to question a man with money.

A man who owns his own construction company. Also, he is your dad’s boss.

The throb between your legs only intensifies when you press the 13th button. Now only a minute away from seeing him. A fit of giggles slips out from excitement looking at the numbers increase.

A tiny ding indicates you have reached your level. You slip out once the doors separate. Anticipation runs through your veins as you stride down the hall never dropping your smile. His cologne lingers in the air and you inhale deeply savoring his scent. You take out the key card as you reach the door.

It’s always the same room #1111.

He waits by the entrance waiting for the sound of the door to unlock. Not a second later his hands are on your body as you enter. “Hi” he smiles leaning in for a kiss.

“Hi” you reply sweetly wrapping your arms behind his head, giving him a light squeeze.

“I missed you”

“Same” you giggle as he presses you into the wall undoing the tight belt of your coat.

“Cold outside huh” he says as his hands unbutton the brown plastic buttons of the khaki coat folding the slides away from your body. He pulls away giving you a long look. His dark brown eyes travel from head to toe. A low whistle blows through his lips hands coming up to touch the white lace lingerie set. “You always wear the cutest sets baby” he whispered leaning in to capture your lips pulling the coat off your body falling at your feet.

“Take me to bed cowboy” You hike your right leg over his hip and he responds by picking up both legs and wrapping them around his torso. Your heels clack from behind him as they meet at the ankle, one over the other.

“Yes ma’am” he obeys walking you over to the huge California king bed that had rose petals thrown over it like confetti, celebrating your affair.

You giggle as he throws you down gently. You land flat on your back palming the sheets and tugging at it slightly. You rise your knees separating them ever so slightly. “Come here” you seductively whisper. He quickly crawls over taking a moment to admire you. He slots between your thighs. You watch him with hooded eyes studying the way his eyes appear full of lust and a shade darker than usual.

“You like?” Whispering swaying your body underneath him as he scans the lace perfectly fitting your body.

“Y’know, I don’t care what you wear. I want what’s underneath this delicate lace” he said in a low tone tearing the thin fabric over your cunt. A sharp exhale releases from your lips as his fingers meet your folds gliding a finger up and down, feeling your wetness. “Always so wet for me, so perfect” he murmurs capturing your lips, muffling your whiny moans.

Your hands come up from your sides cupping his jaw, pulling him closer to you. Parting your lips allowing him more access as his tongue invades your mouth tasting you. You meet his tongue with yours pushing back into each other mouths.

He briefly pulled back “You’re my only one. You know that right,” he said lowly kissing down your jaw. His tongue licks your sensitive skin just behind your ear. You squirm planting your hands on his back feeling his back muscles ripple against his shirt.

Fuck why didn’t he take it off?

“Yes,” you respond leaning your head back towards the cushions allowing him more access to your neck. The feeling of his lips disappears suddenly. You lick your lips confused as to why he stopped.

“Repeat it” his tone is stern. Thick-calloused hand comes up to the back of your head lightly tugging your hair at the base of your scalp. “Look at me when you say it” he demands.

Meeting dark brown irises, eyelashes fluttering, and with a devious smile you repeat “I’m yours, the only one.”

“That’s right” he leans back down to kiss your swollen lips. His left hand trails down your skin awaking goosebumps in its way. He starts at your shoulder, down your chest, stomach, and hips. He stops at your clit rubbing small circles. He elicits more moans pressing harder building up the pleasurable tension.

“Mmm,” you groan, gripping onto his forearm feeling the bicep muscle flex as he continues to touch you. “Oh Joel” you moan into his mouth.

“Keep making those sweet sounds baby” he encourages you. His fingers continue to make smooth tight circles on your clit. Your body twitches each time he hits the right spot and you coo when he finds a steady rhythm. Your body reacts arching your back into him and moving your hips rutting against his palm.

“Fuck” you gasp feeling yourself close. “Fuck” he swirls harder. His lips connect with yours kissing you passionately, only making it better. “I need you, please” you beg to him in a rasp.

“Wait baby” he drags his finger up and down your cunt and you gasp. Your body withers when he plunges two thick fingers into your cunt.

“Mm,” you desperately whine pouting your lower lip. Raising your hips to meet his thrusts chasing the friction of Joel’s digits pumping hard in and out of you.

“I need you to come first, can you do that for me” he whispers not stopping.

You nod eagerly already feeling the first wave of please overcome you. Your brows knit together as you focus chasing the high. A loud moan slips past your lips not caring who can hear you. “Don’t stop” you yelp wrapping your left hand around his wrist that still held your hair.

Your right-hand rubs up and down his left arm. He flexes combining his thrusts with the tapping of his thumb on your clit. You finally feel your orgasm approach. An intense wave of pleasure hits you “‘m so close!” Then another, then another and finally you come the feeling of hot intense pleasure explodes from within leaking out of you into his hand.

“Yes just like that” he breathes watching you undo yourself. “Did so good” he praised gliding his right hand out of your cunt. Down the skin of your thigh. Then landing flat against the bed, beside your head. His other hand lets go of the base of your head and gently cups your cheek for a tender kiss on the lips.

He lays down beside you pulling your body close to his. “How was your day?” He whispers into your hair inhaling the sweet smell of your shampoo.

“Good, busy but good” you respond breathlessly.

“Yours?” You ask laying completely still but he continues to lightly touch your skin with his pointer finger tracing small circles on your stomach.

“Alright, better now” he chuckles lowly and you respond with a smile closing your eyes.

After a few minutes, your breathing finally regulates into a normal rhythm not feeling fucked out anymore. The throb pulses back, heating your lower abdomen with desire. You want more, you need more and he reads it in your face. He bites his lower lip already undoing his belt. “I still need you” you whine helping him out of his shirt. Leaning onto your side you prompt yourself up by your elbow. Undoing the white button up exposing his smooth tan skin.

“Take 'em off” he breathes leaning himself completely down on his back allowing you to undress him. You rise to sit on your knees tugging the belt out of its loops and dropping it on the floor. A smack is heard as it lands and you both chuckle. He lazily lifts his hands to undo the button and you tug at the legs slipping him out of his trousers.

The sight of his thick hairy lips causes you to salivate, craving him in your mouth. “Another time, need to be in you” he responds reading your thoughts. You pull him out of his boxers and you quickly move yourself over his body. Positioning yourself. His hand reaches down his body to widen the rip of your lace over your cunt. He holds the base of his cock as he swipes the tip over your folds a few times.

You both groan at the feeling of him pushing himself in. You hold onto his shoulders bracing yourself. He sighs feeling you stretch around his girth. “You good baby?” He rasps and all you can do is nod biting your lower lip.

After a few seconds, you begin to rise then sink back down his length. “Fuck” you both groan doing it again and again. He grins watching you move slowly on him. His hands hold onto your hips tightly already feeling bruises form as he helps you move up and down his cock. It’s soft and slow at first just savoring the feeling.

A breathy moan escapes you feeling his tip hit your g-spot. Your movements pick up a pace squeezing around his length earning deep moans from him. You smile arching your back head tossed back. “You look so good baby, riding my cock”

You look down at him finding him staring wickedly up at you with an intense look in his eyes. “Fuck” you whisper closing your eyes sinking down his length tugging his soft curls. Your chest is right over his mouth and he takes the opportunity to nip at your skin catching your sensitive bud in his mouth and lightly sucking on your nipple. His hands are everywhere touching and teasing you.

You keep grinding on him not stopping even if his licking and touching you becomes too much. Your breathing becomes heavy and sweat beads on your skin. Hair sticking to your forehead and shoulders. “You always take me so well baby, the only one who knows how to ride me. Fuck. Don’t stop” he groans deeply within his chest feeling the vibration on your body.

“Mmm, Only one” you slur.

Your eyebrows swaddle feeling your peak approach and the twitching of his cock in you tells you he’s close too. With this, you rise back up holding onto his chest and balancing yourself as you ride him to the end. “You’re close baby?” He asks and you quickly nod whining when he fucks into you harder. Your bodies slap against each other and you cry holding onto him.

“Fuck right there” he feels your walls clamp around him digging into his flesh as your orgasm begins washing over your body and he is close. His hips falter losing control as his orgasm overcomes him. You both undo at the same time lazily riding out each other's high before stopping. Bodies still then you collapse next to him exhaling a deep breath.

“That was…” he starts breathlessly.

“…so good” you finish his sentence laying completely still.

♡

Wednesday evening, you sat at the dining table as your mother served dinner going over weekend plans with your dad. Friday is only two days away and you can’t wait for it to come. You press your thighs together at the thought with a small smile on your face as you bring the pasta to your mouth.

Ears perk up at the sound of Joel’s name from your father's lips “he invited us to dinner this Saturday” he motions to your mom and himself and you look away uninterested. “We completed that huge order I was fussing about. Said I really showed my recruitment skills. I hired 5 guys, they seem promising” he smiles to himself proudly.

“That’s good! Are we still going out of town next month?” She asks him and he shakes his head no. A smile of relief comes to her face but you mentally frown not having one week to yourself.

Once a month they leave to check in on one of Dad’s work sites. He’s a lead manager in Joel’s company so he gets his own site up in Dallas. They just got back from their trip last night. “Finished some accounting for this month’s payroll and Gustavo assured me he has it covered so I don’t see why I should go up there.”

Your mom takes a seat next to you patting your shoulder with a warm smile. You look over at her nodding and smiling back. “Did you have a good weekend?” She asks you.

“Yeah stayed in Friday” you lied looking down at the plate of food “but I went out on Saturday with Kels. Spent the night and then did some errands Sunday. Her mom says hi by the way.” Informing your parents of your ‘weekend’. Kelsey is your best friend who always covers you on Friday nights. When they’re here you use her as if y’all are going out and spending the night but when they’re gone you ‘stay in’ enjoying some quiet time.

Luckily they believe you, they know better not to question their sweet daughter. You grew up an only child and never misbehaved. Had a bit of a phase in middle school but grew out of it in high school. Because your dad threatened to pull you out and work full-time at the construction company.

Fuck that, Joel rarely shows up doing most of his work from home. He only goes if it’s a huge paying project, has a meeting or something gets messed up. Which is rare with his team. Your dad talks highly of him. He’s an exceptional businessman having the best staff to keep his business stable.

“Do you think he’s going to invite that, man what’s her name” your mom speaks up. Immediately you look up from your food creasing your brows together as she tries to remember her name. She presses a fist to her mouth closing her eyes to help her remember.

Who the fuck is she talking about?

After a few long seconds, you desperately wait for her to remember. “oh Claudia!” She snaps her fingers. “The women he’s been seeing?”

Claudia? The woman he’s been seeing! You internally yell. Irritation builds within your chest, eyes slightly twitching. How could he lie to you? You feel a scowl express on your face and you clear your throat forcing yourself to act normal.

“He didn’t say he is” your dad replies and they both nod enjoying their dinner, oblivious to your trembling anger.

We agreed not to date. Who the fuck does he think is breaking our number one rule. I should have known. A man like him isn’t only keeping one girl.

He’s probably actually taking her seriously. You in-vision her. A pretty woman, likely close to his age, takes her out on dates, buys her nice things, fucking her every day but not Friday. He’s probably promised her a future together and god you wish you were her.

How long has he been seeing her?

Fuck, has she been there all this time?

“I’m full” You abruptly get up ignoring the confused glances from your parents.

Heading back to your room locking the door behind you. Picking up your phone from the desk, looking down at his notifications. With a roll of your eyes, you walk into the closet shutting the door.

You sit on the carpeted floor legs crisscrossed under you. Biting down on your lip contemplating if you actually want to pick a fight on a Wednesday night.

Screw it.

Curiosity burns all over you. You have to find out who is Claudia and if it’s serious. You have the right to know. What a fool you would look if he strung you along. Believing all of his empty promises. One being; the two of ending up together, no longer hiding y’all’s affair. With a sigh, you press on the contact bringing it up to your ear. The coldness of your phone sends a chill down your hot body. You impatiently listen to the dialing tone as it cuts off “Hey” he chirps.

“Who the fuck is Claudia.” you seethe immediately diving into it.

“What?”

“You fucking heard me, who is she?” You spat.

“No one, what are you talking about?”

“Joel, I know you’re seeing someone. Don’t lie to me”

“I’m not lying to you.” His voice doesn’t falter, he’s good at keeping his cool.

“Yes, you are!” You argue.

“I’m not, can we not do this over the phone? I’m trying to finish some work” You can hear the exhaustion in his voice but you don’t care.

“Work” you laugh even though nothing is funny. “Are you with her right now?”

“I’m with no one.”

“Joel. I’m coming over”

“No, you’re not. Listen, baby, I have a lot of work to do and I have to finish today. Can this wait till Friday?” He’s stern but you don’t care.

“No” you end the call. Rising off the floor flicking on the light looking for your shoes. You slip on some Birkenstocks and a light sweater. Texting Kels to cover for you. She hearts your message confirming.

As you walk past your parents you exclaim “Girlfriend emergency! I’m going to kels love you!” You storm out of the house and you hear them reply back with an okay before slamming the door shut.

♡

You shortly arrive at his place slotting in the key he gave you a few months ago. You can’t help but wonder if she has a key. God, what will do if she is here? Wondering around his house busying herself while he works away in his office. Not caring enough. You burst into a quiet dark home.

His truck is out front so he’s obviously here.

The large living room is shut off no sign of anyone lounging around. You step in further passing the kitchen expecting him to be waiting for you near the entrance but it’s dead silent.

You continue down the vast hallway leading to his office. You pass his room the doors open but the lights are out. There’s a yellow glowing strip underneath the office door and you twist it open. His head peaks above the monitors slipping his glasses off his face.

He is here.

A breath of relief blows past your lips.

“Jesus Christ” he mutters standing up from his chair with hands at his hips “I told you to wait till Friday”

“And I told you no. Who is Claudia?” Your arms cross over your chest arching a brow at him. “Are you seeing someone else, Joel?” You question.

“No, who told you I was?” His brows crease together walking away from his desk standing in front of it.

“It was brought up at dinner. You’re going out with my parents on Saturday and my mom asked my dad if you’re bringing a date.”

He scoffs shaking his head “I’m not bringing anyone.”

“Then why did my mom say her name!”

“Claudia” you cringe at the sound of her name coming from his lips “She is just a friend,” he said calmly only making you angrier.

“Bullshit” you seethe through your teeth “You’re lying to me!”

“Baby I’m not lying to you.” He shook his head walking towards you but you step back. “You can’t seriously believe I’m dating other women. I know the rules I wouldn’t break em” his head leans towards his shoulder pressing his lips together watching you pace.

“Then why did my mom bring her up? She isn’t the type to make up things” you remark.

“I’m not calling your parents liars by any means. I can explain. Quit pacing.” You halt. Arms crossing over your chest. “Claudia was introduced to us on a work trip. She’s a partner for a business, they have this big project coming up and we’re trying to seal a deal. She and I are in communication. Since we’re always talking to each other. I may have mentioned that we’re growing close. In no way am I dating her” he explains. “They probably just got the wrong idea” he suggests.

“Please, I know how men like you are.” You roll your eyes at his lame excuse turning away from him and walking over to the large window.

He scoffed “Men like me?” He spat causing you to turn back and look at him.

“Yes! You’re all similar. I’ve heard this shit before.”

“Meaning?” His eyes slightly squint, shoulders squaring appearing larger.

“I’m not new to this Joel.” You completely turn your body his way fixing your posture mirroring his. “Why are you even creating a personal relationship with her? Shouldn’t it be professional?”

“It is!”

“You literally just said you are growing close.” You state “I don’t create close bonds with any of my potential clients so why should you? Gosh you said you were different” You turn away from him again facing the window again. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes feeling overwhelmed with anger.

“Baby please get that; I would never do that to you” his voice is soft and he sounds closer. Your head slightly turns to the side confirming he’s is only a step away from you.

“you told me I was the only one! That you’d never let me go.” You twist to face him again. His eyebrows raise with concern seeing your glossy eyes “You said you would wait for me! How could you turn your back on me? Obviously, it’s more if my parents think you’re dating her!” You push on his chest but he barely moves.

“But it’s not. I still stand on waiting for you” he replies. “It’s only you, nobody else. Please understand that” he keeps his tone calm stepping forward into your space his hands coming up to hold you. “If I could bring you as my date I would.”

Your eyes meet his. His gaze softens slightly nodding his head mentally repeating ‘you’re okay. Believe me, hoping you get the message. Eyes dart between his, the sadden expression on yours melts away. He tugs on you meeting his hard chest. Feeling a bit defeated, you melt into him. His warmth soothes you. One of his hands rubs small circles on your back helping you relax. You think about his calm demeanor. Not once did he raise his voice, lose his temper, or make you feel crazy. But he must think that you are. I mean can you blame him? Storming into his house swearing up and down he’s seeing another woman behind your back. Acting like you lost your head.

“Do you understand that?” He asks again.

You lazily nod your head with a sigh. Hugging him back resting your head on his chest.

The two stood together for a moment in silence. Kiss him, you think. Chewing the inside of your cheek, contemplating the idea, or just stay in his arms for a while.

His phone goes off and you both look over at his desk. Her name pops up on the screen almost like it is taunting you. You scoff pushing him off walking out of the office stomping towards the front door. He’s hot on your heels trying to grab you but you’re quick to dodge him.

“Don’t go” he pleads from behind you trying to grasp your elbow but you yank it away.

“No, fuck this I’m done. Why is she even calling you at this hour?” You exclaim picking up a pace.

“I was waiting on a response” he comments not helping the situation.

“And she can’t email you.” You scorn over your shoulder. You look ahead of you his door just an inch away. Pulling it open but before you can step out onto the porch, his arm wraps around your middle carrying you back inside and slamming it shut.

“Joel!” You yelp fiercely trying to wiggle out of his gasp but he doesn’t loosen his grip not even when you scratch his skin. “Let me go!”

“You are not leaving. Not when I taught you things that your momma will never know” he carries you down the hall, pressing his cheek to your head lips close to your ear and you shudder. He notices “Who will make you cum the way I do?” He tries to husk his voice trying to divert your attention but it makes you realize something.

“I should have known better. I was just some young thing for you to fuck. You used me. Please just let me go” you desperately cry wanting to be anywhere but here.

“No, no that’s not true” he brings you back into his office kicking the door to close behind him “Are you going to stop acting like a brat and listen to me?” His voice booms from behind you feeling the vibration from his chest onto your back. He sets you down on the black leather couch in his office. “Look at me” he demands and you peel your eyes away from the floor looking up at him. “This isn’t about your age. I am not going behind your back seeing other women. This is strictly work-related. I understand why it may bother you but I would never do that to you. You’re my everything and I can’t wait for the day we can be together not just on Fridays. Just for your benefit, I will have Tommy handle it. Deal?” He declares in one single breath looking hotter than ever.

Good to know his promise still stands.

But you still roll your eyes. Just to annoy him a little bit.

“None of that. Words” he demands.

“Sure whatever,” you say looking away again hiding your face with your hair as a smile forms on your lips you look back at the floor. Feeling better knowing he will cut communication with her and make Tommy, his brother, also co-owner of the company, handle it.

His phone buzzes again and you groan something within you knows it’s her. “she’s just a friend?” you look back up at him and he tiredly nods his head yes closing his eyes. Silently praying you don’t cause another fight.

And you’re not.

The idea rolls around in your head. Quickly deciding to go for it. You flip your hair back leaning into the cushions smirking up at him. He quirks a brow intrigued by what you’re going to do next. “Answer it while you fuck me” You couldn’t deny it anymore all this fighting turned you on.

His face switches from annoyed to desire “Naughty girl” he said lowly smiling down at you happy with your response. Not a second later you both fumble out of your clothes. You lay on the couch and you giggle together as his bare body slides in between your bare legs.

“Don’t forget your phone!” You squeal pointing back at his desk. He smacks his lips together getting up to grab it. It’s not ringing anymore but she sure does call again.

You lick your lips watching him position himself “Was your dick hard this whole time?” You ask breathlessly looking down at his hard leaking member. He nods his head slipping inside you quickly pumping in and out not giving you time to adjust. “Christ you’re wet” he mumbles bringing his phone to you. “You answer it,” he says handing you the phone.

“Ah!” You inhale when he hits the soft spongy spot in your cunt. Back arching off the couch as he continues to hit the sweet spot. “Fuck right there” you exhale. Trying to focus on answering the call. Your finger glides across the bottom of the screen placing it at the edge of the couch.

“Joel” you moan his name thrusting your hips trying to match his fast pace. The sounds of y’alls skin slapping against one another mixing with the loud moans, fucking each other rough and fast. You hum with approval, music to your ears. This sex feels angry and frustrating but oh so good. You lift the top half of your body from the couch, propping the back of your elbows on the cushions and balancing your weight on them.

She’s still on the phone.

You smile proudly closing your eyes when his thumb comes in contact with your clit rubbing fast messy circles “fuck” you moan feeling the coil in your lower belly twist tighter wanting to break free. “Just like that, faster” you cry body twitching under him.

He groans biting his lower lip and pumping in you faster and harder. “‘m so fucking close” he rasps picking up your thigh, resting it higher against his side.

Your head tosses back onto the couch “Me too” you slur licking your lips. Your hands grasp the couch's edges for leverage as his thrusts become messy and you can feel his dick twitch inside you. Your walls tighten around him signaling that you’re close. Hot flashes of pleasure snap all over your lower body collapsing on your back. “Oh my god!” You gasp feeling your orgasm wash over you and you moan cumming all over his cock. He pumps your juices back into your cunt still pulsing around him.

“Keep doing that” he whispers. The walls of your pussy continue to contract around his thick cock “Oh!” he yells “I can’t-“ he quickly pulls out his hot cum spilling all over your lower belly and you watch in awe as it paints your sweaty skin mixing together.

He’s breathing hard hand coming up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Joel leans back on the opposite of the couch trying to catch his breath “She hung up” he murmurs in between breaths followed by a small chuckle.

“I hope she got the clue.” You respond tiredly with a smirk.

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ best friend's brother²,

summary. sam's crushing hard on dean's best friend aka you

pairing. sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester

wordcount. 688

notes. easily one of my favorite drabble series of all time! to my girlies that asked for a part 2 on this: i love you 🩷 and a big ass ps. i think I'm writing 2 more parts lmao

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1

Sam Winchester has a bigger problem.

Because now, you know.

And instead of laughing it off and letting it go, instead of making this easier for him to shove down and ignore, you’re playing with it. Testing the waters, pushing his buttons, tilting your head in that way that makes his brain short-circuit.

Dean, of course, is not amused.

“Oh, come on,” you say, leaning against the library table like you have all the time in the world. “It’s just a little crush. No big deal.”

Dean scoffs. “No big deal? No big deal?” He points at Sam like he’s caught him committing some kind of crime. “It’s a huge deal.”

Sam exhales sharply. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, as evenly as possible. “We work together. We hunt together. We don’t need to—”

You arch a brow. “Explore it?”

Sam groans. You’re doing this on purpose.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Oh my God, I hate this.”

You just grin. “I don’t see the problem here.”

Dean gapes at you. “The problem? The problem? You, sweetheart, are my best friend. You know, the one who moves into my motel room every time we’re in the same town? The one who borrowed my flannel and never gave it back?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “That flannel looks better on me.”

“That’s not the point!” Dean groans, looking heavenward like he’s asking for patience. “You’re my best friend, and Sam’s my brother. Do you know how messy that is?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I mean… maybe. But not necessarily.”

Dean lets out a strangled sound. “Not necessarily?”

Sam sighs. “Dean—”

“No. No, no, no. You do not get to stand there and look all tall and broody like some damn romance novel hero.” He points a finger at you next. “And you do not get to encourage it.”

You smile sweetly. “Encourage what?”

Dean stares at you, incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you’re looking at him?”

Sam stiffens. Because, yeah. You are looking at him. Differently. Curiously. Like you’re actually considering this now.

And that? That is dangerous.

Dean sighs dramatically. “Look, I just—I know you. Both of you. You’ll think this is cute for two seconds, and then you’ll remember you’re both emotionally constipated and don’t do feelings well. And then it’ll be weird. And guess who gets stuck in the middle when it all falls apart?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. You are so dramatic.”

Dean glares. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You open your mouth, then hesitate.

And Sam? He tries really, really hard not to be offended by that.

You turn to him instead, a slow smirk creeping across your lips. “You know… I never really thought about it before.”

Oh, no.

Sam already knows this is going somewhere dangerous.

But he can’t look away, can’t move, can’t breathe as you lean just a little closer, tapping a manicured nail against your lower lip.

“Sammy is kinda cute,” you muse, tilting your head like you’re examining a puzzle. “Tall. Built. He’s got that whole soft-but-secretly-deadly thing going for him. It’s kinda hot.”

Dean makes a gagging noise. “Nope. Nope, I am shutting this down right now.”

Sam swallows hard. He should say something. Stop this. Keep it from spiraling.

But then you grin, all mischief and slow-burning heat, and it’s like every reasonable thought he’s ever had just evaporates.

“What do you think, Winchester?” you murmur, voice softer now, like it’s just the two of you in the room.

Sam’s pulse jumps. His mouth is dry. This is not what was supposed to happen.

But the way you’re looking at him? Like you want him to take the bait, like you’re waiting for him to cross that line?

It’s undoing him, piece by piece.

And suddenly, for the first time, he’s wondering what would happen if he just… let himself have this.

His voice comes out rough, unsteady. “Think I might be in trouble.”

Your smirk deepens, a little victorious.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes flicking down to his lips before meeting his gaze again. “I think you are.”

⋆.˚ ★— read part 3

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[reidsmanuscript]

Heartbeat.

Summary: Spencer Reid shows love in all the ways he knows how—whether it's making sure his gf eats well or eating her out like it's the most natural way to worship her. Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (not necessarily lawyer!reader but yeah it's her) Genre: smut/NSFW (i know. me? so weird) WC: 2.1k! TW: fingering, oral (f receiving), AFTERCARE!! A/N: im alive :p and this is what happens when me and my gf dont have sex in 2 weeks lol. minors do not interact! Masterlist (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

You let out a frustrated huff, glaring at the endless stack of case files, briefs, and annotated court decisions scattered across your desk. Legal jargon, precedent, motions—you’d spent the whole afternoon parsing through it all, mentally preparing for the courtroom battles ahead.

It was only Wednesday, and the week already felt endless.

With a sigh, you dropped your head to the desk, forehead meeting wood with a soft thud in your shared apartment’s quiet study. You didn’t even flinch when you heard Spencer’s footsteps behind you.

His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders. “Come on,” he said softly, thumbs beginning to knead the tension in your muscles. “You should take a break… or call it for the day and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You didn’t lift your head, but you leaned back into his touch with a quiet groan, letting him work the stress from your neck and shoulders.

“I can’t,” you mumbled into the desk. “I have three pre-trial motions, one defense strategy to dismantle, and a prosecutor who thinks citing Latin makes him clever.”

Spencer huffed a small laugh, his fingers expertly working over the tight muscles in your shoulders. “Fiat voluntas tua—let it be your will,” he murmured near your ear, the Latin smooth and affectionate on his tongue.

You barely registered the kiss he pressed to the side of your neck, but you did feel the warmth of his hands as they slipped lower, gently untucking your shirt from the waistband of your slacks with quiet precision. The kind of slow, deliberate movement that said he wasn’t rushing—he was inviting.

“Come on,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “let me help you relax.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment you hesitated. The weight of the day still lingered in your mind—but his voice, his hands, the warmth of his body close behind yours… it was so easy to melt into it.

He felt your body begin to soften beneath his touch, the tension bleeding away as your shoulders lowered, your breath deepened. He knew he’d convinced you—not with pressure, but with patience.

Spencer gently helped you rise from the chair, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as his hands found the first button of your blouse. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you let him walk you slowly back toward the bedroom, one step at a time, his fingers working open the buttons with a kind of reverence. He took his time, eyes flicking up to yours between each one.

Your legs bumped the edge of the bed and you sat with a quiet exhale, letting yourself surrender to the moment. He knelt in front of you without a word, a quiet offering of himself, and leaned in to kiss along your stomach as he helped slide the shirt from your shoulders. You moved in tandem, undoing your pants, lifting your hips to slide them off with his help.

He was still in his slacks and dress shirt—no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows—but he hadn’t made a move to undress. This wasn’t about him. This was about giving you space to breathe. To let go. To be taken care of.

Spencer pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his hands steady on your hips. “Lie back,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft. “Let me take it from here.”

Spencer reached for a pillow, his touch gentle as he slipped it beneath your hips, easing the familiar ache that often settled in your lower back after long hours at your desk. His fingers hooking into your panties and sliding them down with care, kissing a slow, reverent path along your thighs as he did. Each kiss was soft, warm, almost worshipful—like he was reminding you how deeply he adored every inch of you.

Once you were bare, he moved back up, the heat of his body hovering over yours as he kissed you fully, deeply. His mouth moved with purpose, tongue slipping past your lips to meet yours. There was no rush—just the steady, grounding rhythm of him.

As his mouth explored yours, his fingers found the last item still clinging to your skin—your bra—and he unhooked it with ease, sliding the straps down your arms with a touch so careful it felt like a promise.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but burning with focus, with care, with want. His fingertips brushed down your side “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky but patient.

You nodded. “Yeah,” you said softly, knowing he liked hearing the words. Spencer gave you a small smile before dipping his head, returning to the trail of kisses he’d started earlier. His mouth found the curve of your neck, warm and deliberate, moving slowly down to your chest.

He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking gently over it before sucking, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. His free hand cupped your other breast, thumb and forefinger teasing the nipple with practiced, tender precision. You hummed in response, pleasure curling in your stomach as the steady rhythm of his mouth and hands grounded you.

He gave both of your breasts equal attention, switching between them until they were perfectly perked, glistening faintly in the soft light of the bedroom from his mouth. The sight made something flutter deep inside you—how focused he was, how thoroughly he worshipped every inch of you.

Once satisfied, he kissed his way down your body, slow and deliberate—along your sternum, across your stomach, pausing just above your navel to savor the way your skin trembled under his lips.

He adjusted his position, settling in deeper between your thighs, looping them over his shoulders like it was second nature. His hands gripped your hips just enough to anchor you.

Then he leaned in—his tongue pressing flat against your pussy, collecting the slickness there and spreading it with slow, purposeful strokes. The warmth of him sent a pulse through your core, each pass of his tongue both soothing and electric.

He liked taking his time with you — licking and sucking slowly at your clit, his tongue teasing between your folds with deliberate care. The way your thighs gradually relaxed, your fingers threading softly through his hair, told him everything he needed to know. He felt the weight of your legs draped over his shoulders, the warmth of your skin against his cheeks as he moved with purpose, circling his tongue with gentle precision.

You weren’t the type to moan — not loudly, not for show. Instead, you gasped, breath hitching in your throat, soft huffs slipping out as your fingers combed slowly through his hair. There was something grounding about the way he ate you out — like he wasn’t just chasing your pleasure, but studying it, learning you.

Maybe it was the warmth of his tongue, the way it moved with purpose. Or the wet, open-mouthed kisses he left on the insides of your thighs, patient and steady. Whatever it was, it made your body soften beneath him, made the tight coil of tension you always carried begin to unravel. With him between your legs, everything else quieted.

His mouth closed over your clit, kissing and sucking with slow precision as one hand slid back upward, finding your breast. He cupped it gently, his fingers teasing the hardened nipple beneath his touch, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

There was something deeply satisfying about going down on you — not just for the physical reaction, but for what it meant. It wasn’t instinct or biology driving him. There was nothing reproductive about it. Having his mouth buried in your wetness felt intimate, intentional — almost sacred. A quiet act of trust that he didn’t take for granted, not for a second.

He loved sucking on your clit until it was puffy and swollen, flushed red from the attention. Every nerve ending — all 8,000 of them — was his to activate, to light up one by one until pleasure rippled through you like a current he was controlling with care.

“Spence,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut, voice barely more than breath.

He answered by squeezing your thigh, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you. His tongue circled your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes, and the bridge of his nose brushed your clit with every movement. 

Your hands tangled deliciously in his hair, pulling gently as the pleasure built inside you. His hand remained on your breast, teasing your nipple with slow, deliberate strokes that added to the growing heat. The pillow beneath your hips eased the tension in your back, giving him perfect access as he flicked his tongue over and over.

His rhythm was steady and unrelenting, driving your thighs to press instinctively against his head. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowning out your breathy moans, was pure heaven for Spencer. His free hand spread your folds wide, fingers exploring your entrance with tender insistence.

Wet noises and soft, ragged moans filled the bedroom, wrapping around you like a warm, intoxicating cocoon.

“Don’t sto—p,” you moaned, your voice trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened. One of his fingers slid inside you slowly, curling upward toward that spongy spot Spencer knew so well.

He felt your body tense, your legs trembling slightly as he added another finger, moving with steady precision. His tongue flicked pointedly over your clit, circling with deliberate intent.

As you neared the peak of your pleasure, waves crashing through you one after another, both your hands gripped Spencer firmly against your core. His tongue never faltered, keeping its steady rhythm as you rode out your release.

Maybe you started grinding against his face at some point, riding the waves of pleasure washing through your body — that delicious, liberating tension gathered in your stomach and spilling over.

His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh as his tongue continued to taste you softly, flattening against you with tender persistence. His fingers pumped slowly, caressing the sides of your body, steadying you as you rode out your orgasm.

When the waves began to subside, he eased back gently, planting soft kisses along your thighs—slowly moving down, almost reaching your knees as he settled back onto his m, eyes searching your face for the quiet relief and love he saw reflected there.

“Better?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that lingered in the room.

You hummed in response, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. Your hand reached for his cheek, brushing it gently. He leaned into the touch, kissing the inside of your palm before slowly rising from the bed.

You reached for his pillow, nuzzling your face into it. His scent—warm, familiar, his shampoo and something uniquely him—wrapped around you like a blanket.

In the distance, you heard the faucet running as he rinsed his hands and mouth, then wet a towel with warm water. A few moments later, his quiet footsteps returned, and you felt the gentle touch of his fingertips on your arm as he opened your hand—the one you’d used to hold him—and wiped it clean with care.

“Can I?” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded without opening your eyes.

His hand moved slowly between your legs, gentle and respectful. He liked taking care of you—not just before or during, but after. Especially after. He knew how much you hated the feeling of being sticky, and this small gesture was one of many ways he showed you he was paying attention.

When he was done, he folded the towel neatly and set it on the nightstand, the silence between you both tender, as you abandoned the pillow to hug him, laying over his chest. 

His hand drifted slowly down your spine, fingers tracing each vertebra with quiet intent—S1, L5, L4—counting them silently like a litany. A methodical ritual, grounding him. He continued upward, naming each one in his mind until he reached the delicate curve at the base of your neck—C1.

He paused there, fingertips resting against your pulse point. Your heartbeat thudded gently beneath his touch, still slowing from the high. He counted the beats, calculating your heart rate—just a little elevated, but still within normal post-orgasmic range. Around 92 bpm, he estimated.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the nape of your neck, where skin met spine. He wasn’t sure if he was studying you or holding on to you—but maybe they were the same thing.

His mind recorded everything—the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your skin, the subtle shift of your shoulder blade beneath his palm. At the end of the day, every sound, every word, every scientific detail got etched into his memory like ink on paper. But his skin would always crave yours.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

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[bigskyandthecoldgun]

based off this post i made a couple days ago lmao

words: 2.1k

Generally speaking, Steve Harrington is a pretty good boyfriend.

He takes Eddie out, never lets him pay for stuff if he can help it—hell, he’s even bought Eddie flowers before. And Eddie’s not complaining, because it’s hard enough to find another queer man in Hawkins, let alone one willing to date him. So Steve is his first boyfriend, and Eddie hasn’t had much (read: any) experience with dating.

But he’s pretty damn sure by the time they hit the three-month mark that Steve’s staunch refusal to hold his hand is unusual.

It’s not like Steve isn’t affectionate. More often than not, Steve’s arm will be around his shoulders or his waist, and there are no shortages of kisses anywhere and everywhere. But Steve won’t hold his hand. And he hasn’t let Eddie give him a handjob. Which—the latter isn’t as much of an issue, because maybe Steve’s just not a fan of handjobs, and that’s fine, Eddie’s not an asshole, Steve’s more than entitled to say no to stuff like that.

Though, Steve’s got no problem putting his hands to work, so what is it about the idea of holding hands or Eddie touching him in the same way that makes Steve so weirdly uncomfortable?

Eddie’s first thought had been that Steve might just not like holding hands. That the clamminess of another palm in his gives him the same kind of sensory ick that Eddie gets from getting adhesive residue on his hands. But Steve holds hands with Robin all the time with no problem, so it can’t be that.

His second thought is that Steve might be so used to being the ‘man in the relationship,’ so to speak, that he doesn’t think Eddie would want to be as handsy. But, again—doesn’t explain the hand holding thing. Because Steve had definitely held hands with girls he’d dated in the past, if Eddie’s high school memories aren’t failing him.

So what the hell is it?

What’s so unthinkable about being touched by Eddie?

And Eddie tries not to read too much into it, because he’s more than aware that both he and Steve have some internalized stuff about being queer, and maybe Steve’s just working through that. He tries not to read too much into it because Steve is a good boyfriend, save for this one weird thing, and maybe they’ll get to a point where Steve will tell him why he doesn’t want to hold hands or have Eddie’s hands on his bare skin for more than a minute or two.

They’re making out on Steve’s couch one night, Eddie’s hands on Steve’s waist and Steve’s hands already halfway through undoing the button on Eddie’s jeans. Eddie starts to tug at Steve’s shirt to get it untucked from his jeans. “C’mere, wait, lemme touch you,” Eddie breathes, and Steve grins against his mouth before backing away. Eddie blinks, utterly confused. “What? What is it?”

Steve just laughs, shakes his head, and dives back in for another kiss. “You’re funny,” he murmurs against Eddie’s lips, and Eddie feels a weird tug in his gut, because something’s wrong, and Steve’s acting weird again about Eddie touching him.

He thinks it’s funny.

Thinks it’s funny that Eddie wants to touch him.

Well, firstly, ouch. Secondly, that’s a real jerk move, but he’s torn between telling Steve off and getting off. He ends up going with the better option, because Steve might be acting like a jerk, but he’s a jerk that’s jerking Eddie off, so…better than nothing, Eddie supposes.

He doesn’t bring it up again for another three months, resigning himself to have his hands redirected from Steve’s bare skin and remaining steadfastly un-handheld. And, sure, y’know, he might be able to attribute it to the fact that they spend a lot of time with people who don’t know they’re together yet, but that possibility is quickly eradicated when Steve suggests that they tell the rest of the Party about them.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Eddie asks, brows raised skeptically, because for a guy who won’t hold Eddie’s hand, Steve’s pretty gung-ho about airing their business to the rest of the group.

Steve just tilts his head, a cute little look of confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like the idea of him not wanting people to know about him and Eddie is crazy. Steve blinks, the confusion turning to concern. “I mean, unless you’re not ready. I don’t want to pressure you—”

“You can tell them,” Eddie cuts in, fidgeting with his rings. “I’m—yeah. Yeah, you can tell them.”

Maybe this will finally give Steve the push he needs to get over himself and hold Eddie’s goddamn hand before Eddie goes crazy and gets shipped off to Pennhurst.

Or…maybe not.

Because Steve still won’t hold his hand. Or let Eddie touch him.

The one time Eddie had managed to get his hands on Steve’s bare skin, he’d spotted Steve itching at the spots Eddie had touched in the bathroom later that night, the door only open a crack. Which is pretty dramatic, even for Eddie’s taste. Is the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him really so awful? Christ, Eddie’s getting sick and tired of this shit.

Eventually, nine months into their relationship, Steve blatantly moves a hand away from Eddie’s during a movie night when Eddie tries to take hold of it. In front of their friends. Eddie sucks up his wounded pride and corners Nancy in the kitchen later, after the first movie is over and they’ve been sent to get snacks while Steve and Robin argue over what movie to play next, wondering if he should even be asking her.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, because he hasn’t come up with anything to start with yet, and Eddie sighs.

“Is—okay, did Steve ever—when you guys were dating, did he ever, like, not hold your hand?” he asks, and Nancy tilts her head.

“I mean, sometimes…? It was only because I was wearing rings, though,” she says, like that makes perfect sense, like Steve just has some ring-phobia or something, and Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Nancy gives him a little smile. “You wear yours all the time, so I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”

Okay, so, weird ring-phobia it is.

That’s the new working theory, and when he and Steve bunk in Steve’s room for the night, Eddie makes a show of carefully pulling his rings off and setting them on the bedside table. There’s a couple of green marks on his fingers where the clear nail polish he’d coated the interiors in has chipped away, and he rubs at his bare fingers absentmindedly as he climbs under the covers. He takes a deep breath and laces his fingers with Steve’s, ready to have Steve pull his hand away for the umpteenth time.

Instead, he’s met with a surprised, pleased little hum. “You took your rings off,” Steve notes, relief clear in his voice, and Eddie nods, trying not to let the feeling of triumph show on his face too much. Steve grins at him and presses a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “That’s a nice surprise.”

“What, you don’t like my rings?” Eddie teases, keeping the genuine curiosity in his voice to a minimum, and Steve’s brows furrow.

“What? No, no, I love your rings, Eds,” Steve tells him. He lowers his voice. “I think they’re pretty hot, actually.”

Okay. Okay, so a wrench has been thrown into the ring-phobia theory.

“What, are they too cheap for his majesty’s royal fingers?” Eddie jokes, putting on a goofy, poorly-done British accent, and Steve’s nose wrinkles slightly.

“I mean, they are costume jewelry,” Steve says. “Nickel-plated, right?”

Ah.

So…it’s that Eddie looks, or even feels, too cheap.

Jesus. He hadn’t thought Steve would be that shallow.

Eddie swallows. “Uh, yeah, they—they are. I can stop wearing them, if you…” he trails off, not really sure what to do with this new information. Cheap to the touch, apparently enough to make Steve wrinkle his nose at the thought of Eddie touching him with his rings on.

“What? No, no, you don’t have to. I’m good, I can deal with it,” Steve says, like it’s supposed to be reassuring, like it’s such a big sacrifice for him to deal with how inexpensive Eddie’s taste in jewelry is, like their relationship isn’t serious enough for Steve to get over himself.

It’s just his rich boy upbringing, Eddie reminds himself. Even Wheeler’s upper-middle-class jewelry wasn’t enough to beat that expensive taste.

Evidently, the conversation had stuck in his boyfriend’s brain, because on the morning of their first anniversary, Eddie is given a long, velvety black box with four Sterling silver rings. They’re exact replicas, design-wise, of their nickel-plated counterparts, and Steve looks so proud of himself, so pleased with his gift idea, and Eddie barely stops himself from frowning.

“Oh,” Eddie says, a little hollow, “um, thank you.”

“You like ’em?” Steve asks, and there’s such a hopeful look on his face that it just pisses Eddie off more. “I just figure—y’know, because, I mean, I can’t hold your hand if you’re wearing costume jewelry, so—”

“Yeah, no, I, uh—I got that,” Eddie says with a strained smile. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “I feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, and he says it with humor, but there’s genuine worry behind it. “Did I screw up your present that bad? Were you dropping hints and hoping for something else?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. “It’s…the present is fine, Steve,” he says.

“You don’t like them,” Steve mumbles, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I mean, it might take me a lot longer to save up, but is—would you, like, prefer titanium or steel or something? I didn’t really think you were a gold kind of guy, but it’s fine if you are, I just didn’t know—”

“Why do I have to prefer anything?” Eddie snaps. Steve blinks at him. The look of pure confusion on his face is a little infuriating, like he can’t even fathom why Eddie might be upset, and Eddie’s eye twitches. “Look, just because you’re all high and mighty about what jewelry is worthy of being seen near you—”

“Woah, woah, what are you talking about?” Steve asks, alarmed.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Eddie slams the box down on the coffee table and stands up to stomp around the living room, pacing back and forth. “You won’t let me hold your hand o-or even touch you, like you’re so above cheap shit that you can’t bear to let it touch you, and I’m so sorry that I’ve offended the sensibilities of his highness with my ‘costume jewelry,’ but Jesus, Steve, you can’t even get over yourself on our anniversary? I’ve seen you act like me touching you with my rings on gives you hives or some shit, like it’s just so terrible that it makes your skin crawl—”

“It does,” Steve says, a little subdued, eyes wide with shock, lips parted, “I’m allergic to nickel.”

Eddie pauses mid-stomp.

“You’re what?” he squeaks.

Steve blinks, and a long silence stretches between them. “I’m allergic to nickel, Eds, everybody knows I am,” he says. “I can’t hold your hand if you’re wearing nickel-plated stuff, but you really like your rings, they’re important to your look, so I wasn’t gonna be a dick and tell you to take them off just so I could.”

Recontextualizing every interaction of his year-long relationship he’d tried not to read too hard into is…a lot to experience in a little under thirty seconds.

“Oh, dear God, I’ve been an asshole,” Eddie mutters. “I thought you wouldn’t let me touch you because—but it was just—”

“Yeah, an itchy dick is not a good feeling,” Steve says, a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him. His face falls a little. “I—did you think—?”

“I’m so sorry,” Eddie blurts, horrified. “I am so sorry, Steve, oh my God—”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t—I must’ve seemed like a total jerk, Eddie, I should’ve told you outright, but I guess I figured you already knew,” Steve says, shrugging helplessly. “But, no, it’s nothing like what you said, I promise, I’m just—I’m allergic.”

Eddie immediately yanks the rings from his fingers and fumbles to get the box open, swapping them out for the silver ones, which he jams onto his fingers as fast as humanly possible. “If I got my head out of my ass sooner, I swear I would’ve found replacements the second I knew,” he says, and Steve laughs.

“I know you would’ve,” he says, all fond and soft, “you’re good like that.”

“Let me make it up to you? I can touch you all I want now,” Eddie says, waggling his silver-covered fingers in front of Steve’s face.

Steve interlocks their hands and leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet. “Looking forward to it, Eds.”

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xi)

ZERO CROSSING—The moment everything inverts, and the axis breaks.

summary: Joel is too far from home, travelling and surviving once again, for a purpose.

a/n: buckle up, this is a looooong one. I wanted to share all the journey and the loss in a single chapter, initially, I wanted to break it into two, but it only made sense here to have it done with. Please take this with a grain of salt, and understand the world of TLOU is difficult and irredeemable. bad shit happens, you can't stop it. okay, let's do this!

word count: 19,000 + [ I had an ask from a sweet anon who wanted this included. hello! I hope you can estimate your reading time now, thanks for letting me know :) ]

DAY 1: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. FOURTEEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, SOMEWHERE PAST SALT LAKE CITY.

Regrets and worries. Joel knew now—they weren’t the same. Not even close. Two different beasts, pulling in opposite directions. One stalked behind you, the other ahead. He had both nipping at his heels.

Regret caught up fast enough. It had already happened, and there was no undoing it. Hated that shit to the core. And worry? Well, he was so used to seeing its back before him now, just waiting for it fuck up. Together, they twisted in his gut. Frayed wires, snarled and buzzing, so tangled he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

Not here, not now—lying on the splintered floorboards of some half-collapsed home, walls paper-thin against the hiss of falling snow outside, air cold enough it bit the inside of his nose when he breathed too deep.

The cabin was barely standing. Roof half gone, one wall caved in, and wind came through the boards like breath through teeth. It was shelter in the loosest sense—four walls and a place to keep his back to. That’d have to be enough.

The stew sat like lead in his stomach. Came out of a battered can, label long gone. Might’ve been beef. Might’ve been dog food. Probably expired a decade ago. He didn’t care. Shoved it down like punishment. Energy was energy. Didn’t matter how it tasted going in—only that it stayed down. Now, though, his gut churned like it disagreed. Violently.

With the rifle close at hand, Joel sat with his legs stretched out, boots frozen stiff with slush, snow melting slowly off his jacket shoulders. He hadn’t bothered stripping out of his gear. No point. Cold like this, alone out here, you didn’t sleep long anyway.

He’d been riding for fourteen hours. Maybe more. He’d stopped keeping track somewhere past hour ten. Through rough terrain, past the last of the patrol lines, past roads that weren’t really roads anymore, just veins through snow-covered land that didn’t feel real. The map crumpled in his jacket wasn’t worth shit now. Just paper soaked with sweat and hope.

And fuck this snow. It wasn’t just cold—it was fucking brutal. It soaked through seams, dulled the edges of his vision, and turned the horse into a slipping mess of nerves and bone. He couldn’t wait to hit the open heat again—past Vegas, past the mountains, back where the sky turned gold and didn’t bite.

Vegas. Jesus, he’d be riding past it soon. What a weird thought. He’d never liked that place. Clinking noise and vice and strobe lights that didn’t mean anything. Still, the thought of it almost felt like an assurance now—like anything would be better than this stretch of cold emptiness.

The sun had set and risen without his permission, and the horse was starting to limp. He’d have to rest it come morning. If there was a morning. This part of the country didn’t feel like it had days anymore—just gray stretches of silence between dusk and deeper dusk.

And still, sleep wouldn’t come.

He rolled something between his fingers—small, brass, worn, warm from the heat of his palm. A button. Not from anything he’d owned. Probably from a coat someone lost before the world went to hell. Maya had picked it up off the road during the summer, on their way back home from dinner at Tommy's. He remembered her squealing when she spotted it, stubby fingers plucking it out of the dirt like gold, and handing it to him later, bestowing him a treasure, her tiny gummy smile vast as anything.

He’d kept it ever since. Didn’t matter what it came from. The button was hers, then his. It hadn’t left his pocket since.

He squeezed it between his fingers, thumb brushing the grooves, meeting his lip just once, and tucked it away again.

He hadn’t said much when he left. Tommy met him in the barn before sunrise, lit only by a lantern swinging from a nail. The horses had been restless. Cold was coming in through the slats, and Joel had cinched the saddle like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy had offered to go—thrice. Said it didn’t sit right, Joel riding out alone. But Joel had shaken his head.

“You stay here. For my girls.”

He didn’t trust anyone else to watch over them. Not the way Tommy would. “Just make sure they eat and sleep. That they know I'm doin' fine. You hear me?”

Tommy didn’t argue after that. Just handed him the reins and clapped his shoulder once. It was enough, maybe more than enough.

He’d ridden out before the light touched the mountains, the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him like a period at the end of a sentence.

Just yesterday—just yesterday—he’d been home. His home. The big white house, on the edge of Jackson with the bramble bushes out back and Leela’s cursive handwriting on the walls in pencil, tiny indelible equations scrawled between coat hooks and door frames.

Maya had held onto his finger compliantly, in her too-thick coat, dragging her plastic basket across the frost-hardened ground, and crouched beside him in the garden beds as they picked out what her mama had wanted for dinner. Carrots, lumpy and sweet. A head of cauliflower. All collected in her basket, while Joel wondered out loud to her, that maybe Leela was making that spicy stew of hers, with sumac and saffron.

And that night—he’d had Leela’s breath in his ear, her hand latched around his. They’d curled up together under that white duvet, head resting close, her thumb drawing soft, slow circles into his palm until he drifted off.

Now here he was.

Cold. Dirty. Bone-tired. Alone. Chasing ghosts toward a city he hadn’t seen in decades.

He leaned back until his head tapped the wood behind him, and let out a breath. It fogged up in front of him and vanished.

“Screw it,” he muttered.

The backpack was by his side, half-buried in snow-dust. He pulled it closer, unzipped it with numb fingers. Inside, wrapped tight in old linen, was Leela’s notebook—the one with her proofs, her ideas, the kind of math that gave him a migraine. The one he was risking everything to deliver.

Tucked beneath it were two small tape recorders. But—there were two of them, same make, scratched from use. He’d grabbed both in a rush. One of them had her logs, her working thoughts on the Riemann Hypothesis. The other… who knew.

It didn’t matter. He needed her. Her voice. Even if it was just numbers and theorems he didn’t understand. Even if it was her being brilliant in a way that left him in the dust. Something to make the world feel less far.

Joel held one to his chest a moment. Closed his eyes. Thumb hovering over the play button for a moment before he pressed it.

The machine clicked. The static cleared. A brief hiss.

And then, for a second, all Joel could hear was the wind scratching at the seams of the broken-down cabin. Then came her voice—soft, unsure.

He smiled, exhaled, and let the recorder rest on his chest. Ready for sleep.

X

L.REED MAYA INFANCY DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #9

(Click. The soft static of the recorder kicks in. There's a rustling sound, like someone adjusting a blanket or shifting in bed. Then, Leela's voice—gentle, low, a little breathless, like she’s just settled in beside someone small and wriggly. Maya.)

“You wanna say 'hi'? Hi?”

(Maya hums. Coos softly before saying—) “Hah.”

(Leela laughs.) “Close enough. Okay, so. It is August the seventeenth. Time is… very late.” (A soft snort.) “Um, two-twelve a.m. Bedroom. Maya, age eight months.”

(A soft, gurgling coo interrupts. Then a thump-thump—like a baby kicking her feet against the mattress. Leela exhales a smile into the mic.)

“Baby girl is vocalizing consistently. Her consonant-vowel chains are stronger. Lots of ‘ba-ba’, ‘ga-ga’, ‘ta-ta’, occasionally ‘da’. This morning, I caught her mimicking Joel yawning and singing. She’s watching his lips more, listening to intonation. Repeating the pitch, if not the structure.”

(More babbling now. Higher-pitched. Happier. Leela’s voice quiets slightly, as if leaning in.)

“But just now…” (a pause, soft disbelief flickering in her voice) “…she said ‘Mama.’”

(There’s a quiet moment. A little sniff from Leela, then a huff of a laugh.)

“I was holding her, rocking her. She had her hand on my lips, just as I taught her to express ‘I love you’. Looked me dead in the eye. And said it.”

(Maya giggles, wet and delighted, then says it again—muffled but distinct) “Mamamamama.”

“That. Right there. Did you hear that?” (Leela’s voice wavers, thickens with emotion she’s trying not to name.) “Omigosh, baby.”

(We can hear Maya closer now, her soft breaths, her curious coos.)

“You wanna say that for me, please? Can you say 'Mama' one more time?”

(Soft, adorable, Maya speaks.) “Mama.”

(Leela giggles.) “Yeah?”

(She's excited, seeing her mother smile.) “Maaaa!”

“Maya's first word. Not just a sound. Not just noise. She meant me.”

(Another pause, the rustling of blankets. Leela’s voice softens even more, almost like she’s speaking to herself now.)

“My baby is growing so fast, learning, laughing daily, and it's all Joel. He speaks to her so much, it's no wonder she wants to talk right back at him. But I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I’ve studied this a little from that old baby book Mom had lying around in storage. I know the milestones. The phoneme acquisition timeline. But hearing it…”

(She stops. A breath. Then, quieter—) “It made me feel real. Like I didn’t just survive her. Like maybe I was meant to be her mother after all.”

(Maya babbles in the background, then lets out a little sigh and flops back against the mattress. Leela chuckles softly, tired.)

“She does this cute thing with her hands when she’s trying to form new sounds. Presses her fingers to her mouth like she’s shaping the word. Like she’s building it.”

(A beat. Then Leela's voice dips into playfulness—dry, teasing, a rare glint of humor.)

“She’s smarter than me, I know it. It’s totally fine. I’ll just be the one who cuts up her fruit and explains Hilbert spaces until she’s old enough to tell me to stop.”

(The door creaks open. Joel’s voice enters the room, low and gravelly, but softened with affection.)

“You still up, darlin'? Jesus, go to bed already.” (His boots thud quietly against the floor as he steps in. A pause. Then the sound of a kiss—quiet, slow. A press of lips to Leela’s temple.) “Doin’ experiments with the poor kid again? Hi, baby girl.”

(Leela hums, leaning into him whilst Maya squeals in excitement at Joel's arrival.) “Infancy development log for future purposes. Joel, come sit. Listen, listen. Maya said her first word.”

(There’s a beat. Joel exhales like he’s trying to hide a smile. He shifts closer—more rustling, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he sits beside them. Maya lets out a soft coo.)

“Yeah?” (His voice is quieter now, touched with awe.) “What’d she say?”

(Leela pauses. Her voice is a little breathless when she finally answers.) “She said 'Mama.'”

(Joel is quiet. Then—he laughs under his breath, low, warm and a little stunned. A laugh that carries years in it.)

“Course she did. Trouble and a traitor.” (A kiss, this time to his baby’s head.) “Smartass, just like you.”

(Maya babbles off-screen—happy nonsense, punctuated with a triumphant little—) “Mama!”

(Leela half-laughs, disbelieving) “Hear that? Again and again. No prompting, Joel. Just—‘Mama.’ Like she knew.”

(Another tiny voice from the baby.) “Maaaaaama.”

(Joel sighs like a man personally betrayed.) “Wow. She’s on a roll.”

“You seem jealous.”

(Joel, in mock offence) “Psh. Jealous, schmealous.” (Then addresses Maya directly, lowly.) “You know how many nappies I’ve changed for you, trouble? How many times I’ve walked you around this house at two in the damn morning?”

(He leans closer, pitching his voice hopeful and coaxing.) “Say Da-da. Come on, baby girl. Just once. Da-da.”

(Maya hushes. Then lets out another cheerful—) “Mama.”

“She’s doin’ it on fuckin' purpose.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She’s my baby. Which means she’s bein’ a pain in my ass on purpose.”

(The static is filled with the sound of Joel scooping her up, lifting her overhead with ease—Maya giggles, squeals, kicks her feet.)

(Joel playfully threatens.) “That it? You say 'Mama' one more time and I swear to God, I’m throwin’ you in the trash.”

(Maya hiccups out another: “Mama!” then laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Leela bursts out laughing behind the recorder.)

“Right, you're with the raccoons now. C’mere, you lil’ menace.” (He smothers a chuckle with a deep kiss against Maya's cheek.)

(Leela's teasing does not cease.) “Go ahead. She’ll climb back out.”

“She’s got your damn mouth. And your attitude.”

(Leela’s voice, still recording, drops into a whisper—proud and fragile.) “Cannot believe she picked me.”

(Joel snickers.) “Yeah, baby. But we’re all hers now.”

(Click.)

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SIX HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON.

You know how when you're completely alone, and there’s nothing left to look at but the walls, nothing to hear but the ticking of your own breath? When there’s no noise, no job, no person, no purpose to pull you away from the one thing that's been haunting the edges of your mind?

That’s where Joel was. No goddamn purpose except forward.

The road stretched ahead like a savage scar across the earth—silent, broken, endless. The only sound was the dull rhythm of hooves on packed dirt and the occasional creak of the saddle under Joel’s weight. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

No talking. No laughter. No baby cries. Just him, the horse, and the wind. It was in that kind of silence—complete, bone-deep—that the memory found him. The quiet made space for things he didn’t want.

It wasn’t even something big. Not some major milestone, holiday, or sweet, cinematic moment he could cling to like a lifeline.

Just a soft thing. A quiet day. It had been raining since morning, their first wave of summer storms.

It was not hard, not a downpour, just that steady mountain drizzle that turned everything gray and soft, that blurred the windows and hushed the world, made the house smaller and cozier. Inside this cushy room he'd made for his little girl, the air was scented of old cotton, wood, and whatever Maya had wiped on his shirt earlier.

Joel had stood in the nursery, one arm braced on the crib’s rail, the other setting down a freshly folded onesie on a small, lopsided pile. The window had been cracked, just an inch, enough to let in petrichor and the patter of water on the roof. The rhythm of it folded itself into the room like background music—so familiar he barely noticed it anymore, like a breath or heartbeats.

The laundry was warm from the dryer, and the little pink crib had become a makeshift laundry basket—tiny socks, soft bloomers, onesies with Leela's sweet embroideries of bears, owls, stars, and moons, all heaped together like a colourful cloud.

Maya, just a hair past eight months, sat squarely in the middle of the pile, the clean laundry heaped around her like a nest. She had one sock in each hand, neither matching, and looked at them like she was weighing philosophical truths. Her dark curls were sticking up in fuzzy snares. Her legs were crossed, her posture oddly regal—like she’d appointed herself queen of the sock mountain.

Joel glanced at her, then down at the onesie in his hand. It had a bear on the front, kind of wonky, with one eye stitched lower than the other.

He let out a soft huff through his nose. “I keep meanin’ to ask your mama to patch that bear’s eye. Looks like he’s been through some shit, right?”

Maya blinked at him, then looked back at her socks, utterly unbothered.

Joel folded the onesie and stacked it. “Yeah. Damn garden’s gonna be drowned if this rain keeps up,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “See, I told Mama not to put that basil down near the low spot, but she won’t listen. You’ll see when you’re older—ain’t no one listening to the man with the shovel.”

Maya scrunched one of the socks in her hand, held it up, and gave him a look like, Is this even a sock or is it something greater?

Joel chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Socks. Don’t make no sense, huh?”

He reached over and gently tugged one of the matching pairs out of the pile. “This your big contribution?” he asked. “You fold this one? Looks like it got run over by a possum.”

Maya made a quiet noise—something between a hum and a grunt—and waved both socks in the air like streamers. Joel looked up again, and this time, he softened.

“I see you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Workin’ real hard.”

She blinked at him, pleased with herself, and stuck one sock on her foot over the other one she was already wearing.

“That’s it,” Joel hummed. “Yeah, two socks on one foot. Tyra Banks, you are. You’re gonna revolutionize the whole town.”

And suddenly she was a firecracker of excitement in her double-layered socks. She was up on her feet, squealing, “Da-da-da-da!”

Her little bare feet thudded softly on the crib mattress as she twirled, arms stretched out like wings. The flannel dress—a new one, made by her Mama, cut from one of Joel’s old shirts—fanned out around her like a pinwheel. The plaid knots at her shoulders bounced with every turn, and the fabric spun around her legs with a gentle swish, like the hush of wind through leaves.

Maya made a breathy sound with each spin—a little “hah!” like surprise was bubbling out of her chest. Her curls, puffed up from the static, lifted with each whirl, a halo of chaos above her head. She looked like joy personified: loose, unselfconscious, free.

Joel, sock still half-folded in his hands, couldn’t help but watch. Something about her face in that moment—the pure glee, the trust in the world—grew a warm ache. The kind you didn’t know how to carry, because it was too good. Too fleeting.

“Look at you,” he said, quiet. “You like that dress, huh? That’s Daddy’s old shirt, you know.”

Maya squealed but didn’t answer, too caught up in her spinning. Until her balance gave out. She toppled sideways into the cloth hill with a wild, delighted shriek, caught herself on her hands, and let out a giggle.

He opened his mouth to warn her to slow down—when the thunder cracked.

It came like the snap of a tree limb overhead—sharp, sudden, alive with force. The windows rattled in their frames.

The sound wiped the joy clean off her face. Her arms dropped. Her breath caught in her throat. She pivoted toward the window, her expression one of stunned betrayal—like the world had just raised its voice at her for the first time.

Then she moved.

Ran straight at Joel, flung herself against the crib rails, fingers latching onto his jeans like she could climb up into his skin. She didn’t cry, not yet. But her whole body was taut and trembling. Her face was still turned toward the glass, mouth parted, trying to understand the sky.

He saw the tiny tremble in her lower lip, the way two fingers picked at them nervously, the way her eyebrows drew tight, a wrinkle forming between them like a shadow.

Another thunder roll followed. This one longer, deeper. It crawled over the house like a prowling animal, ploughing into the roof.

Maya let out a whimper—not loud, but helpless. She looked up at him, big eyes wide, uneasy, and in a voice cracked with fear, she whispered, “Da-da, mhmm. Up, pease.”

Joel didn’t answer. He moved first.

In two strides, he was at the open window. He reached up and slammed it shut with the heel of his palm. The muffled silence afterward was almost a relief, just the soft percussion of rain on the roof.

“There we go. Nothin', it's gone now.”

Then he came back to her, crouched down, arms open before she even reached him. She crashed into his chest with a panicked little cry, climbing up him like he was a tree, tiny fingers clawing for purchase in his shirt, breaths shallow.

“I got you, honey,” he murmured to her as he stood, lifting her up against him. “You’re alright. I got you, baby girl.”

Another boom rolled over the mountains—long, low, rumbling—and she whimpered, her face pressed into his neck, her whole body trembling against his.

He gathered her up and lowered himself slowly to the rug. Sat cross-legged, grunting, settling herself in the crook of his chest. He curled himself around her like a shelter, drawing her in until she was tucked fully against his chest. Her bare toes nudged under his arm, one arm trapped between their chests, the other clutching his collar in a death grip.

“It’s just the sky talkin' to you,” he said, soft against the crown of her head. “Ain’t nothin’ but the sky being all big and loud for its favourite little girl.”

Another crack of thunder, and she jumped.

“Ahh, no, no, no da-da!”

“Okay, okay. Ssh.”

That’s when Joel gently brought his hands up to her ears—those big, calloused palms, rough from years of labour but soft now, careful as he cupped her tiny head. He didn’t press, didn’t smother—just curved them over her ears like a living shield. Just enough to hush the worst of the world.

“There,” he whispered, voice tucked low in his throat, like a secret just for her. “That better, baby?”

She only sagged into him, her whole weight melting down like her bones had gone soft. Her breath came fast, shallow little gasps against his neck, her cheeks hot and wet where her tears were soaking straight through his shirt.

Joel’s chest clenched.

“Shh, hey now,” he murmured, rocking her gently, like he’d done when she was still small enough to fit in one forearm. “Ain’t no storm gonna touch you. Not while you’re right here with me.”

He pushed a kiss to her temple—warm, lingering—then rested his cheek against her curls, letting himself sink into her warmth too. Her curls were soft against his stubbled jaw, but still quivering like a frightened baby bird. Every flinch of hers felt like a blow to his own ribs.

The next clap of thunder rolled in, less sharp now but still loud, echoing through the valley.

She flinched again—hard—and bowed into herself even tighter, like she was trying to disappear inside his chest. Her lip quivered, her little shoulders jumping beneath his hands.

Joel tucked her closer, wrapped himself around her, every muscle taut with the instinct to protect. To cover.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, peppering kisses wherever he could. “Almost over, sweetheart.”

His hands moved—slow, pacifying—one cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. He could feel her heart racing under his palm, tiny and frantic. Like a hummingbird. But with each pass of his hand, it began to slow, just a little.

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. Softer now. Farther away. Tired, fading.

Joel didn’t move his hands. Just kept holding her, kept being the still point in the storm, the rock she could anchor to.

“You hear that?” he said, reaching down to brush his thumb against her eyes and wipe the tears away. “Storm’s gettin’ tired. Runnin’ outta gas.”

And as the rain gentled on the roof, Maya’s breath began to slow. Her tiny fists, once knotted in his shirt, loosened, fingers going slack. Her lashes fluttered against his collarbone like moth wings. Not asleep—but safe. Settled.

After a minute, she shifted. Pulled back just enough to sit upright in his lap, still nestled between his knees. Her legs folded beneath her, toes peeking out under the hem of her dress. She didn’t say anything—just found one of the buttons on his shirt and started turning it slowly with her fingers, brow furrowed.

Then she looked up. Big, brown, still-wet eyes. A pout like a petal turned down, cheeks sticky with the last of her tears. Her curls were a damp halo, and her bottom lip wobbled, just a little.

Joel leaned in, forehead leaning gently against hers. Let their warmth meet in the middle.

“Hey. Doesn’t stand a goddamn chance against you and me, right?” he asked in a whisper.

Maya blinked up at him. Then touched her fingers to her lips—soft and sweet—and pressed them to his. That little 'I love you' trick again. She gave it off so freely sometimes, to Ellie all the time, to Maria, even Tommy, who bugged the hell out of her.

He gave a breath of a laugh, quiet and rough-edged. His eyes closed as he felt her tiny hand against his mouth.

“I love you too,” he murmured, catching her little hand between two cautious fingers, rubbing the bare lines there. His fingertips barely spanned her palm, this tiny little thing that trusted him to hold her through her first storm.

Let it thunder, he had thought then. Let it break the whole damn sky. It wouldn’t get to her. Not here. Not while he was breathing.

That memory bloomed behind Joel’s eyes like a flame in the cold.

He blinked, slow, pulled back to reality by the enduring rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Wind whipped around his straight collar. His ribs ached with every breath.

Forever was a grandiose fucking myth. That soft, rainy day might as well’ve been a dream. A world made of cotton and woodsmoke and spinning plaid dresses. Twenty hours behind him. Maybe a thousand miles. Maybe gone forever.

And if she was scared now? If the thunder came again and she reached for him, he wouldn’t be there.

All he had now was the ghost of her breath on his neck. The echo of her trust. The weight of his baby girl he could still feel in his arms, though she wasn’t there.

Joel hunched deeper into his coat, reins pulled taut, leather digging into his palm.

Because the storm hadn’t left him. It had just moved inside.

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, JUST PAST GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO

The first thing that hit him was the same goddamn cold.

Not the kind he was used to, that stung his fingers or turned his breath white—but the kind that stole. That lung-squeezing, bone-hollowing cold that came with being slammed headfirst into a river in the middle of no-fucking-where.

It engulfed him whole.

Joel’s skull cracked against stone. He barely had time to curse before the water closed over him. It was an aggressive silence, all muffled roars and bubbles, blood rushing in his ears. His body spasmed on instinct, legs booting, hands clawing for something—anything.

His face broke the surface with a sharp gasp, just before a boot came down, hard, and shoved him under again.

He went back under with a strangled snarl, teeth bared in the dark, throat filling with river. He thrashed—unseeing, feral, like a dog tangled in barbed wire, hands scraping across riverbed rock. Something thick and ugly filled his chest—not just water, but rage. Blind, instinctual, living within his very marrow.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He didn’t even know where the trap had sprung from—just that one second he was crossing that busted-out bridge, cold wind at his back, and the next he was flying sideways, skull and ribs screaming as they hit the bank. A flash of movement, then mud, then water.

Now his gear was scattered, his rifle somewhere downstream to the Gulf of California, and the weight on his back was not budging.

Had to give it to him, the guy was strong. Not smart. Sloppy, wild. But strong as fuck.

Joel twisted, spine screaming, hips torquing. A crack of pain lit up his ribs—he didn’t have time to wonder if they were broken. He got one knee up in the current and drove it backwards—boot connected with something soft. The man grunted. Joel surged, body arching, hands fumbling. His fingers closed around something slick. A stone, maybe. Maybe a piece of his own gear. He didn’t look. Just swung it upward.

There was a crack of bone. The weight lifted.

Joel broke the surface like a corpse pulled from the deep. He choked, spat, and coughed, the sound raw and ragged. His whole body was trembling, muscles stuttering from the cold.

He had half a breath in him before the guy was on him again.

“Sonuva—” he bit out through chattering teeth.

Big, ugly, one of those loner types. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Beard crusted with something black. Stinking of rot, blood, sweat and boots that’d walked through worse places than this.

Joel didn’t waste time—got a hand on the man’s face, fingers clawing for the eyes, gouging. The other hand dropped to his belt—the knife was still there. Thank God. He drew it, fast, but his wrist was shaking and his grip was off.

He wasn’t thinking. He was moving. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill him. And it wouldn’t be the last.

The blade found flesh—but not where it needed to. It glanced off the bastard’s side, shallow, not enough. The guy roared and drove a fist into Joel’s temple. Stars burst behind his eyes.

His boots skidded on slick river stones. He went down hard.

The weight came again. Pinning him. Crushing.

The man’s knee jammed into Joel’s chest, ribs shrieking under the press, full body leaning in. Joel felt something crack. Pain ripped through him like lightning. The knife slipped from his hand.

Shit—

“You're fuckin' dead, asshole.”

Alright. Bring it the fuck on.

The guy was growling in his ear, teeth gnashing, breath hot and putrid. Hands clawing at his throat. Joel struggled, arms scrabbling. His body was giving out. Water dragged on his clothes. His lungs were still half-full of the river. His legs were kicking, but they felt far away.

Too tired. Too fucking slow. Too fucking old.

A knee jammed into his chest. His own vision flickering. The sky above him was a fair smudge between barren tree branches.

Not like this.

He saw her face. Maya’s. Then Leela’s. Ellie’s. Faces he’d left behind to protect. Faces he wasn’t ready to forget. Just a little more time. One more chance. Go back home, forget this whole damn thing. Just live.

Not like this, not like this, not like—

BANG.

The body on top of him jolted. A spurt of red bloomed across his shoulder, steam rising from the impact.

BANG.

Closer this time. Blood misted across Joel’s face. The man slumped. Collapsed. Dead weight, sudden and slack.

Joel lay there for a second, breath snagged in his throat. The silence came back—but it wasn’t tranquil. It was sharp. Expectant.

He eventually gasped furiously, chest heaving, struggling to pull air through raw lungs. Hands numb, shaking. His ears rang. Blinked the blood out of his eyes.

Then slowly, painfully, he shoved the corpse off and rolled onto his side. Coughing. Wheezing. The river soaked into his bones like poison. His fingers dug into the pebbles just to remember what solid ground felt like.

A third gunshot wasn't coming.

He turned his head, half-expecting a hallucination, knife still in hand—every nerve sparking. His body was coiled, heart pounding in his throat, soaked through, freezing, half out of his mind—

And standing there, staring at him with wide, shit-scared eyes—

Ellie.

Still holding the pistol two-handed, her arms locked, face pale and furious and terrified. Her breath ghosted in the cold, breathing hard, like she’d run all the way here. Snow dusted her hair, melting into her collar. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, a smear of blood on her cheek—he didn’t even know if it was hers.

She looked like a goddamn kid again, that shock in her.

Joel stared at her for a moment that felt like the world had paused—like time itself needed a second to understand what the hell just happened.

She took a step toward him, lowering the gun.

“Joel—” Her voice broke halfway through his name.

And then, behind her, out of the trees—Leela.

Moving quick but steady, wrapped in that old worn coat of hers, fur-lined, hair tied up into a big, tight bun, eyes locked onto Joel like she’d been hunting him through a warzone. Her hand was clenched around something that looked cobbled together from broken bottles, tubing, and copper wire, rigged with metal scraps and cloth. A bomb, crude and half-melted, glass fogged with something dark and hissing inside. Acid, maybe. Of her own damn making.

A fucking acid bomb.

He stared at them both, still on his knees in the water, stunned, soaked, heart clawing its way back into his throat.

For a split second, he thought he was dreaming. Thought maybe he’d finally cracked. That maybe he died in that river, and this was what his mind made up on the way out.

But unfortunately, no.

Ellie was still holding that pistol, shoulders tense. Leela was here, real as anything, her breath catching when she saw the blood on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel rasped. He staggered upright to his feet, knees buckling, one hand pressed to his broken ribs. His voice was hoarse with cold and panic. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Ellie didn’t answer. She was staring at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug him or shoot him for leaving her like that.

Joel was still dripping, clothes ungainly, cuts stinging on his hands and face. His fingers flexed around the knife hilt, but he let it drop, slowly. His voice, when it came again, cracked with cold and fury and fear.

“Have you lost your goddamn minds?!”

He didn’t care how raw he sounded. Didn’t care that his legs were shaking. Because what the hell were they thinking?

Jackson was safe. He left them there for a reason.

Joel turned his gaze to Leela, eyes wild. Still couldn't believe this shit. No, he was definitely imagining this.

“You—you brought her out here?” he rasped to Ellie, the words stumbling out, shredded at the edges.

His voice cracked with wrath, but beneath it was something else. Something jagged and terrified. He wasn’t yelling at her—he was yelling because if he didn’t, he might fucking break.

But Leela didn’t move. Just stood there. Still as a statue, wet snow clinging to her sleeves, her mouth parted like she couldn’t speak. And her eyes—no.

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize what she’d found. Like she’d expected someone else. A stronger man. One who wasn’t half-drowned, bloody, and shaking from the cold. A man who didn’t have someone else’s blood running down his neck.

She’d come all this way, and this was what she got.

He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore. This was the whole reason he’d left. So she wouldn’t have to see this version of him. The one he tried to keep locked up in the dark.

The bleeding one. The broken one. The furious one. The one who failed and lost—over and over again.

Joel’s lungs seized. His ribs ached like something inside had torn loose. Not broken, just bitterly bruised. He didn’t know if it was the pain, the grief, or just too many nights without sleep.

“I told you to stay the fuck back,” he growled, staggering forward, fury spilling out of him just to cover the terror underneath. He took a step forward, wet boots dragging in the muck. “Do you even know what the hell I’m walkin’ into? You think this is a joke? You've just killed yourselves!”

He wasn’t shouting at her anymore. He was shouting at the world. At himself.

But Ellie’s voice cut through the fog like a blade. “He would’ve fucking killed you. How about a 'thank you'?”

“Coulda blown my goddamn head off,” he grunted.

“You scared the shit out of me, Joel! You just—” she rubbed her wrist against her nose, to quiet a sniffle, “When she came to my door with the kid, crying her head off, I thought you were... God, you're such a fucking asshole!”

Joel stopped.

Her hands were shaking. The gun still hung in her grip, barrel down, smoke curling from the muzzle. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. Ellie never cried, not where he could see it.

He wanted to argue. Tell her she shouldn’t have been here, that she was reckless, that she’d risked everything—

But he couldn’t. Because she was right.

So instead, he looked away. His jaw clenched. Hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The cold came creeping back in.

He didn’t know what the fuck this was anymore. Didn’t understand how they’d followed him this far. Didn’t even understand why. All he knew was that the two people he’d tried to protect by walking away were now here—wet, cold, bleeding. Standing in the wreckage of his silence.

And for a second, it felt like the whole damn universe had flipped inside out.

Then he muttered, hoarse and quiet, almost to himself, “I ain’t sure what’s what anymore. Stupid kids.”

He barely had time to let the words settle before Leela moved. Past Ellie. Past the smoking pistol still loose in her hands. Past all the invisible lines she obeyed—the ones built of silence, of distance, of dignity too scarred to name.

She moved like he had finally broken open inside her. And all he wanted was to just bring her close, sink her into his chest, all her warmth and strength, be grateful she had come all this way, and she was still alive. His good arm opened to do just that.

Until she hit him. Hard.

Joel didn’t even register the motion. Just the crack—a sharp, ringing pop against his cheekbone, like someone had fired a shot next to his ear. His head snapped to the side, mouth open in dumbfounded silence. The cold air lit up against the raw skin like fire on ice.

He barely managed to turn his head, blinking, confused, lips parting to speak—the fuck—to find her eyes, to demand something, anything—

When the second slap landed. Harder.

Across the opposite cheek, this one sent him a half-step back. His balance rocked. His knees gave a warning lurch. His vision blurred at the edges.

Ellie, though, came through with a hollow, “Jesus.”

The ringing in his ears drowned out everything. Even the birds had gone still. The only sound was that awful, hollow rush of blood in his head. His jaw ached. His mouth tasted of copper.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or stupidly impressed.

Leela was small. Smaller than him by a long shot. But she had those arms—those long, welder’s arms. He’d seen her rip stubborn rusted bolts loose like paper tabs, carry piping half her weight over her shoulder, hold Maya in one arm and stir sauce on a pot without breaking for a full hour. All that strength—he felt it now, blistering across his jaw. Twice.

She stood before him, chest rising and falling too fast, few loose curls clinging wet to her cheeks, lips parted like maybe she was about to say more—but didn’t.

And Joel just stood there, wordless.

The cold didn’t exist anymore. The bruising in his ribs didn’t matter. His back could be broken for all he knew, and he still wouldn’t have felt it.

Because all that existed now was her.

Leela. Storm-eyed. Livid. Trembling. Hot, if he might brainlessly add. And something else—something behind all that rage. A breaking point.

He had never seen her like this. Not once. Not even in the worst moments. Not even when Maya was screaming from frequent colic at two in the morning and Leela hadn’t slept in days. Not when the generator blew and she spent a week hauling scrap in snow up to her knees to get the lights back on. Not even when he'd practically roared at her for taking up that supply run with Tommy all that time back.

She always held the line. Quiet, astute, controlled. Too benumbed, sometimes. Too in her head to react. Never like this.

Then—her hand was on him again.

But this time, not to strike, but he did flinch though. Her slaps hurt like a bitch.

Her fingers curled into his scruff—rough and fast, like a wrench clamping down on rusted metal—and she yanked his face back toward hers.

He tried to look away. Tried to drop his gaze, tried to vanish into the pain, the shame, the damn noise in his skull—oh, she didn’t let him.

Her grip was iron. Her eyes locked with his, and what he saw wasn’t just rage. It was worse than rage.

It was finality.

“Listen good, Joel. I left my one-year-old daughter behind to travel for two days through stinking shit, trying to find your dumbass. And when we get back to Jackson after this,” she said, her voice low and flat, steel cooled just before it cracked. “I’ll make sure you never touch a goddamn hair on Maya's head again.”

She let go, just like that.

Her fingers unhooked from his chin like she was cutting a rope, severing the last thing tethering them together.

And he—well, he didn’t fall, not exactly. But his spine bent, his head dipped, and his shoulders slumped like something inside had gone slack. Like the immaterial weight he carried every day had finally doubled, and he’d just let it.

She stepped back, stiff, her breath catching now, arms trembling—whether from rage or the cold or the crash after adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. The acid bomb still dangled from one hand like a fucked-up metaphor—glass, cloth, something sharp—as if she didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn't force another word out.

He stood there in the destruction of it—soaked to the bone, shaking, cheeks stinging red, the blood of a stranger drying on his collar. His pack and rifle, drenched. His bearings were lost. Everything that had once made him sure of the next step.

And now—that one sentence—rattling around his skull like a bullet in a spent chamber, louder than the gunshots, louder than the river, louder than the slaps.

Leela meant what she said. And there was no fire, no flood, no click of a rifle or scream of infected that disturbed him more than those words.

He’d lost her for good. Not in some hypothetical, not in a nightmare. He lost her, in truth. In the cold light of consequence.

And he was losing Maya too. Not to death or sickness.

To himself. To the choices he made, trying to keep them safe.

He swallowed hard. It felt like glass going down. His eyes, dull and sunken, drifted sideways—to Ellie.

She hadn’t said a word through all of it. Just stood there, in the dying light, watching. Her eyes were too sharp, too old for her age. Her mouth set in a line like she was biting down on something jagged to keep it from spilling out.

She didn’t say I told you so. Really didn't have to.

Joel straightened up, rolling his shoulders. Slowly. Felt every snap and creak in his spine. His breath shuddered through cracked ribs. His jaw clenched once. Twice.

Then he did what Joel always did. He put it all in a box—every shattered piece—and shoved it deep, where the other shit festered, where it couldn’t get in the way. Where it couldn’t slow his hand if the trigger needed pulling. Where it wouldn’t matter.

Because they were still alive. And that meant the work wasn’t done.

So he cleared his throat. Almost a cough. And nodded once at Ellie. Then, he spoke in a voice low, steady, already shifting back into the man he had to be.

“We gotta get movin’.”

Ellie blinked at him. Leela didn’t turn.

The stinging wind picked up around. Joel looked toward the trees—branches swaying. The river was still coursing around him, still loud in his ears, but fading now.

He adjusted the straps of his pack on his shoulder and shook out the water from the rifle. Pocketed the revolver and a knife he couldn’t remember drawing.

He didn’t ask if they were ready or reach out. He just started walking ahead.

Because there were still threats out here. Still ground to cover. Still two people behind him who might not want him anymore—but they needed to make it back home.

And if that was the last thing Joel could give them, then by god, he’d give it. Even if it broke him for good.

X

Now, Leela knew everything.

It wasn’t about how much she knew—it was how deep it cut. And worse, how much she must hate him for it. There was no middle ground left. No soft place to land. Whatever warmth she’d once kept lit for him—whatever delicate belonging he’d built with her and Maya—it was probably gone. Extinguished.

They made camp off a deer trail, tucked under a collapsed ridge where the wind didn’t bite quite as hard. The sun was long gone, dragged under by the tree line, and the cold had come thieving in.

A fire snapped to life with Ellie’s careful work, dry bark and pine needles catching under flint sparks. It cast a low amber glow, flickering over ash-stained hands, over their little circle of silence. They were three bodies, orbiting the same silence. One fight too many.

Joel sat against a stone, one knee bent, the other leg stiff with bruises. He pressed the heel of his hand into his ribs—each breath was a blade. A cracked rib, maybe two. It'd heal in some time. His cheek throbbed where Leela’s palm had landed square beneath the eye. There was still the taste of blood in his mouth from the split inside his cheek, and he didn’t spit it out. He kept it there. Felt like something he owed.

But the rest—the real pain—had nothing to do with flesh.

His knuckles were broken open again. Skin peeled back, raw and crusted with blood. They hadn’t been torn like that in months. Not since Maya. Not since he swore to himself that those days—those versions of him—were done.

He found a patch of old snow, tucked in the roots of a fallen tree, and jammed his hand in it without thinking. The sting cleared his head for a second. Not long. But long enough. Better that than thinking about what he'd lost in the last twenty-four hours.

Across from him, just past the fire’s reach, Leela sat hunched against the bark of a maple, her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her silhouette was tense. A wire pulled too far. Her face was turned away, but he could still feel the gravity of her silence.

She hadn’t said a word since the fight. Since the slap. Since she told him he’d never touch Maya again.

Joel didn’t blame her.

He couldn’t look at her too long. It felt like staring at something holy that you’d already shattered with your own hands. Like the moment before a deer bolts—only this time, the deer had every reason to tear you apart instead.

Ellie passed around rations—some real food for once, not the dog-food shit Joel had been choking down since he left Jackson. Canned venison. A half-stale biscuit. Dried apples.

Leela barely took a bite. Just lifted the fork, stared at it, waited for the appetite that wasn't coming, and handed it back to Ellie with a quiet shake of her head.

“C'mon, Leela,” Ellie tried. “You can't just—”

“It's okay. You need more energy than I do,” she reasoned. “I'm really fine, honey. Thanks.”

Of course, she wouldn’t eat it. She wasn’t built for this kind of hunger. She could stomach a hundred theorems, burn through chalk and paper and sleepless nights like they were fuel, but this—this fire pit, this blood-caked survival shit—he never wanted her to have to endure it. He’d promised her safety. Comfort within their big, white house with walls thick enough to keep the world out.

But he’d dragged her right into it.

Joel watched her movements like they were coordinates. Markers of the damage. Not one bruise on her skin, but she looked like she’d been through hell. Not the kind he was inured to. The parent alone kind. The watching every shadow in case it takes your child kind. And he’d left her in it.

He cleared his throat. The words scraped coming up. “You two ate somethin’ on the way?”

Leela didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

Ellie glanced between them. Her voice filled the space like a thread trying to stitch up a wound that wouldn’t close. “She foraged,” she said. “I had rations. We got by.”

Joel nodded, though it didn’t ease a damn thing. Getting by wasn’t the point. One day was enough. One day without Maya, not knowing where she was—what she needed. Whether she’d cried herself to sleep. Whether she’d asked for her dad.

His hand throbbed inside the patch of snow he’d buried it in, and he left it there. A self-inflicted punishment that didn’t go deep enough.

He glanced across the fire again.

Leela hadn’t moved. She looked fossilized—ancient and delicate, trapped in amber. Beautiful, brittle. Ready to break under the wrong kind of breath. He wanted to go to her. Kiss her palms. Her feet. Kneel, grovel even. Say anything.

I’m sorry. I did this for you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m here now. I’m here. Take me back.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t trust his legs. Didn’t trust her to want him near. Didn’t trust himself not to ruin something worse.

“Who’s got Maya now? She okay?” he asked instead, softer this time. Barely a whisper.

Ellie shrugged. “Tommy has her.”

Yet, something in Leela shifted.

She turned her head toward him slowly, like a hinge rusted from disuse. Her eyes gleamed amber glass in the firelight—not soft, not tearful. Eyes that used to flinch from cruelty now dared it.

“Oh, you care so much all of a sudden?”

Joel shrank back. Not from the words—he could handle words. It was the disgust behind them, the truth he could hear in the marrow of her voice.

“Of course I fuckin’ do—”

He stopped himself. The old Joel—the one with fists and fury and pride—wanted to bark something back. But the man in front of her now? All of that had caved inward.

“It’s all I care about,” he said instead, quieter, shriveled on the way out. “She’s all I care about.”

Ellie glanced between them again, saw the scene for what it was, and without a word, she got to her feet with a grunt.

“I’m gonna go scout the area,” she sighed, a quiet, nonsense excuse. Her voice didn’t carry judgment—just tired understanding. And wise enough to leave broken things alone until they stopped bleeding.

Joel barely heard her leave. His eyes were on Leela. On the streak of dried dirt down her neck. The way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

Leela’s glare didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. Her mouth twisted, barely restrained.

“If you did care,” she continued slowly, “you wouldn’t have left her, you lying coward.”

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs ached with every breath. His hand stung. But none of it compared to that.

Coward. That one fit. And still, all he could think was—you deserve it. Every word. Every second of this.

“You nearly cost my daughter her father,” she went on. “The one you promised you’d be. All for your self-righteous, noble bullshit that I never even knew about.”

Our daughter, he wanted to say, but it caught in his throat. It rose halfway up his throat before dying there, stuck in that place where pride and sorrow went to rot. Because maybe it wasn’t true anymore. Maybe that word—our—was already gone.

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles ached. But none of it hurt like her voice.

“I left to protect what is mine,” he muttered. “I left because—”

“Because what?” Leela cut in. “Because you didn’t think I could handle it? Because you thought sneaking off in the middle of the night was kinder than just letting me choose with you?”

Joel blinked, and it hit him in the gut: she wasn’t exclaiming because she didn’t need to anymore. Because maybe she was done needing anything from him at all. It was worse this way—each word a clean and precise incision, a scalpel gliding through flesh. Pain wearing the skin of rage.

Grief had taken root behind her eyes, and it had teeth.

“I don’t care that you didn’t tell me about LA sooner,” she said. “I don’t even care that you thought you were loving me by keeping it all to yourself—because you’re a dense, selfish, sad, angry bastard, Joel, and I knew that from day one. I chose you anyway.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Hollow. Stupid. Like a man reaching for an apology after the fire’s already burned down the house.

“I hate your goddamn nerve,” she spat. “I hate that you thought you were sparing me. I hate knowing that if you died out here, I wouldn't even know where to bury you.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. That calm—that cutting calm—was worse than rage.

Joel tried to speak again, defend himself, make her understand. Nothing came. Just breaths. Just fire.

“I hate that you thought you were protecting me,” she said. “You always think that you know what’s best. That you can carry it all on your own. That if you just bleed enough, it counts as love.”

Joel leaned forward. His cracked rib barked in protest, but he barely registered the pain. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Yes, you were,” she snapped.

She turned her face back to the fire, as if looking at him hurt worse than the memories. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive, Joel.”

His hands shook now. Tremors he couldn’t hide anymore.

“I do,” he rasped. “I fuckin’ do. I’m the only one who does.”

Leela laughed. Not from amusement—but something bitter and jagged that barely passed for a laugh at all. “You think that makes it better?”

Joel looked down at his hands. At the crusted blood, the swollen joints. The man they belonged to.

“You haven't seen what I've seen. Fought, bled, and starved with this shit. Leela, there are slavers out here,” he said, eyes dropping to the fire. His voice was unraveling. “And if you get away from that, there are people who try to eat you. Hunters. Raiders. Rap—”

He stopped. The word stuck like a bone in his throat. A single syllable, too heavy to lift up. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.

But they both heard it anyway.

Leela flinched like she’d been struck. In half a moment, her shoulders straightened, eyes steel again.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, sharp as shrapnel. “I have been living with it in every breath I take.”

Joel wanted to disappear. Not walk away—vanish. Just cease. Be unmade.

“I left because I thought I could do something for you,” he said, voice low, cracking open at the seams. “Find someone. Anyone. Get them your proof. Make it count. That way, maybe everything wouldn’t just sit there in the dirt and rot, like you said. That is what you wanted.”

The fire popped. A spark shot upward, fizzled, and died in the cold air.

Leela stared at him. And in that look was every sleepless night. Every muffled sob she’d buried in Maya’s curls. Every second of silence and solitude he’d forced her to carry alone.

“You think I needed you to go fix it for me, Joel? What are you, my partner or some god?” she asked. Her voice was raw now. Stripped to the bone. “You don’t get to disappear and say it’s for our own good. No. You don’t get to wrap your guilt up in goddamn sacrifice and act like it’s some kind of gift.”

His lips parted, then closed again. His throat constricted like it was physically rejecting words.

Because what was he going to say? That he did it for them? That he didn’t tell her because it would’ve broken her heart that he kept from her this long?

That he thought maybe—just maybe—if he made it out to LA, if he delivered her precious legacy, if he gave the Fireflies her working theory, maybe then he wouldn’t have to carry the guilt anymore?

He was supposed to carry it. That was the deal. That was the role he’d carved out for himself after all the blood, after every goddamn life he'd taken and every one he'd failed to save.

But Leela didn’t see it that way.

All she saw was the door closing. The boots gone from the threshold. A child wailing at night with no arms strong enough to lift her.

And all Joel could whisper—quiet, hollow, useless—was: “I needed to do the right thing for you.”

She stood. Slow. Heavy. Like her joints were made of stone. The firelight curved around her, throwing shadows under her eyes, painting her tired skin gold and gray.

“I needed you to stay. To talk to me, to trust me.”

And that was the kill shot. It landed clean.

Presence over preemption. That was all it was to her, only he realized too late.

“I didn’t need some far-off maybe or prove yourself to someone who knows you,” she said. “I needed you. Here. I needed to step outside the house without worrying if she’d choke or fall or cry herself raw. I needed her dad to hold her so I didn’t have to do it all alone. I needed someone to watch her grow with me. Because that is what is real, Joel.”

Joel closed his eyes.

And he saw her—Maya—small and warm in his arms. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt collar. Her big, bright, brown eyes blinking up at him. The way she said Dada like it meant safety.

He’d traded all of that for an empty road. A mission. A maybe.

And now here he was—blood dried on his collar, ribs cracked, knuckles split, and heart hollowed out like the carcass of some roadkill he hadn’t even seen in time.

He’d gone looking for hope. Thinking he could trade blood and sweat and scars for redemption. For Ellie. For Tess. For Sarah. That if he walked far enough, bled hard enough, proved his love with enough miles and silence and pain—he’d earn something back.

But Leela was right. He’d dressed his guilt in duty. And called it love.

And now all he had to show for it was this—The wind in the trees. The crackle of dying fire. A man lost.

He wanted to go to her. To hold her back, take her hand, press his forehead to hers, say the words he couldn’t ever seem to find.

But he didn’t move.

He just sat there, broken and burning, his only fallback left to survival. The fire crackled on, spitting cinders into the dark.

And Joel—protector, survivor, fool—just watched it, and hated the man he’d reverted to.

X

DAY 3-5: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. SIXTY HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

“We're seeing this through. So I'm not leaving, and neither is Ellie,” Leela had finalized for him outright.

“Look, I can't—”

“I don't need you to. I said I'm not leaving, Joel.”

Stubborn fucking mama.

And Joel didn’t fight them on it anymore.

He should’ve. He told himself that. Told himself it the morning since they saddled up and rode out together—that if he were the man he used to be, he’d have grabbed both of them by the arm, dragged them back into Jackson, forced them to stay where it was safe.

But Leela had made her choice. And the truth was, he didn’t have it in him to push her away again.

So now, they rode.

The world around them unspooled like a reel of forgotten film. Dry plains gave way to rocky scrub, sagebrush rustling under the winter wind. They passed old highways cracked wide with weeds, a rust-eaten railroad bridge swallowed half by floodwater, a small burned-out town swallowed whole by silence. The road south stretched endlessly ahead, its shoulders littered with bones of the old world—billboards sun-bleached to blankness, gas stations gutted, houses like open, parched mouths.

The cold had let up somewhere past Idaho. By the fourth day, they’d started peeling off their outer layers, stripping down to threadbare flannel and undershirts. The sun was sharp now, almost springlike in the way it bore down around noon. Nights were still bitter, but the frost no longer clung to their boots come morning.

Ellie named every strange cactus they passed, tried to make him laugh by pointing out skeletons shaped like they died mid-dance. One, half-buried in the sand, was hunched like it was tying its shoe; another leaned back, arms splayed, the skull twisted toward the sun.

He gave her a few hums in response, nothing more. His attention kept drifting behind her—to the woman riding pillion, quiet as a shadow.

Leela didn’t speak much. Not to him. Just to Ellie. She wasn’t angry anymore. That was the worst of it.

Anger had a shape, volume—one he could understand, parry, push back against. This silence was weightless and permanent. Like the ash after a burn.

At night, she curled in close to the fire, wrapped in her own coat. She didn’t sleep easily, just like old times. Joel noticed the way her body stayed curled too tightly, like she was bracing for something. And sometimes, when it was his turn to take watch, he’d hear her stir behind him, restless, breath catching in her throat.

She’d wake with a sharp noise, legs thrashing, hand flying to her side like she expected something there.

Joel would glance over, pretend he hadn’t noticed. But he always did.

One night, she jerked upright so fast her hood fell back. Her breath came fast, shallow, and she folded forward with her arms around her knees, head ducked low like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

“Darlin’, you alright?” he had tried to call to her once.

“I—I wasn’t sleeping, just...” she drawled off, voice dry with exhaustion.

He nodded. “Okay. I'm right here.”

Joel turned his gaze back to the dark horizon, giving her that thin veil of privacy she always clung to. But when he heard the rustle of her coat, the soft scrape of her boots in the dirt, he realized she hadn’t lain back down.

Instead, she stayed awake beside him. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there with her arms folded, eyes watching the fire.

This happened more than once. Sometimes she’d wake from those dreams and never return to sleep. Other times, she didn’t even bother lying down—just sat with whoever was on watch, a silent shadow, her eyes rimmed red and distant come morning.

Joel didn’t ask. He wouldn’t push her, not about that.

He knew the ghosts that came back louder in the quiet. Knew how the wilderness could turn remembering into something sharper, hungrier. How it could whisper the worst things back to you in your own voice. And even if she didn’t say it, he knew exactly what kept her awake. What she was afraid of.

Sometimes he wondered if she thought Maya would be safer if she’d stayed behind. If she questioned the math, the risk. If she blamed herself, the way people like them always did.

But even like this, she was still… same old Leela. Which meant she was still incredible.

She knew how to move through this land, the way a bird knows when to migrate. He caught her one afternoon scaling the knotted side of a tree that had grown wild across the ruins of a collapsed overpass. She gripped the bark like she was born to it, legs coiled beneath her, moving with deft efficiency. She tossed down a fistful of small, yellow apricots, slightly underripe, and a few wild pears with bruised skins that thudded onto Joel's waiting jacket. Later, he watched her dig up something near the riverbed—root veg, maybe burdock or wild carrot—and clean it carefully, rubbing the dirt off with her sleeves, pressing them to her nose, testing if they were sweet or poisonous.

Joel lowered himself beside her with a grunt, his knees stiff. He held open her pack as she added more roots, careful not to crush the fruit she’d wrapped in a handkerchief. Woodsmoke wafted through the air from the fire that Ellie had just started uphill.

“You always know what to look for,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The stuff that won’t kill us, I mean.”

Leela didn’t look up. “You get good at it when you’re tired of throwing up pine bark.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Pine bark?”

She picked up another root, brushed the dirt from its ridges. “Good for the heart.”

Joel nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I'll take some of that when we get back home.”

She doesn't say anything more. His sentence hung in the air, almost shaping into a misreality.

He kept looking at her hands—fast, continued, precise. She wasn’t being cold. Just simple. Honest. It was a fact of the earth, same as everything else she pulled from it.

Evidently, she hated canned food. Always had. Joel remembered how she used to nudge the tins aside, which he'd brought her from patrol, grimacing at mushy peaches and synthetic meat stew like they were poison. So now, she gathered what she could. Built fires. Let the fruit and roots roast slowly over the open flame.

That night, he found three apricots—peeled, pitted, still warm from where they’d sat on a flat rock near his sleeping bag.

Didn’t let him go hungry.

And in the morning, when he stirred against the half-deflated camping mat, shivering from the cold ground, ribs smarting, there it was—her jacket draped across his shoulders, fur tickling his nose. That puffy green one she always wore, the one patched at the elbows. Smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap. She must’ve covered him sometime before dawn, when the fire died low and the frost crept back in. His fingers curled over it without thinking, bringing it to his nose. He didn’t want to let it go.

Didn’t let him freeze either.

“Take care of your own damn self out here,” he muttered to her that afternoon, when Ellie had wandered off to check a sound in the brush. “I’ll be fine.”

Leela didn’t answer. Maybe she’d heard it too many times before.

Soon enough, they were moving through the shell of a city—some old Vegas township gutted by time and flame. Dust coated everything like it had fallen just yesterday and never stopped. Storefronts with sun-bleached awnings sagged in silence, windows cracked or blasted clean through, their displays long since picked over—or left to rot. An old jewellery store stood crooked between a payday loans kiosk and a shuttered vape lounge, its signage hanging by one rusted chain.

Joel didn’t like it. Too many angles. Too much open space.

Ellie pushed open the busted glass door.

“Gimme a sec,” she called over her shoulder. “Might be something useful in here.”

Joel stayed out on the sidewalk, scanning the street, back set against the tilt of the wind. Leela had wandered across the way, squinting up at a streetlamp that had snapped clean in half and was tangled in telephone wires like a dead limb. Her coat tugged in the breeze, hair pulled back tight today.

Joel kept half an eye on her, the other on Ellie.

From the inside, Ellie’s voice floated out through the cracked window. “Ooh, now this is romantic. Joel, check it.”

Joel let out a harshened sigh. “Don’t, kiddo.”

“C’mon,” she said, grinning, holding up an old velvet ring box missing its jewel. “Little shiny thing like this? She’d probably cry.”

“She doesn’t want all that,” he muttered, eyes tracking the rooftops. “Doesn’t want anything from me. The way she's goin' about this, I might have to move out again when we get back.”

Ellie snorted, still rummaging. “Sure, that’s what she says. But I dunno, man—if I survived the apocalypse and the kind of shit you two been through? I’d want some credit. Maybe a bouquet of barbed wire. Something symbolic.”

Joel gave her a flat look through the broken window. “You done yet?”

Ellie wiggled the ring box again, then tossed it onto a dusty counter. “You’re no fun. What happened to carving rings from bone for her?” She held up the sign of the horns. “Disgusting, but metal as hell.”

Joel huffed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Leela turned back then, catching his eye from across the street. She didn’t wave. Just nodded—barely—and returned her attention to the crumpled lamppost, fingers brushing the wiring like she was piecing something together.

And then came the gunfire.

No warning. Just the sudden crack-crack-crack of it, echoing off old brick, and Joel flinched sideways as the sharp hiss of a bullet splintered stone inches from his ear.

“Down, down, move!” he roared, rifle up in a second.

Ellie hit the floor, crawling fast toward the back exit, already firing through the jagged window glass. “Joel!”

Joel ducked behind a rusted truck frame, adrenaline flattening his breath. The street flared with gunfire, loud and close. Somewhere to his left, Leela had disappeared from the sidewalk. Goddamnit, where was she? Where was she?

“Ellie,” he growled, crouching low as he swung around the corner of the car, “head down, c'mon!”

“Yeah, I got it!” she shot back, sharp with focus. “You see Leela anywhere?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. His heart punched harder. Maybe she found cover nearby. Dammit, that stupid ring joke didn’t feel so funny now.

Ellie ducked and returned fire without hesitation, pushing herself into the side of a rusted-out car. Joel followed suit, rifle up, stock tight against his shoulder.

“Fuckin' ambush,” he grunted. “You see that? Two o’clock—rooftop. Gotta be fast, kiddo.”

Ellie scoffed. “I know, I ain't blind, old man.”

They’d walked right into it. Fucking scavenger crew—hunter types, the kind that circled ruined cities like vultures. Not Fireflies. Not FEDRA. Just the kind who didn’t blink at killing for shoes or rations.

Shots tore through the air like thunder cracks. Joel’s head snapped to the sound—figures ducking behind a flipped bus, another peeling off to circle left. Four, five, six—too many.

His gut tightened.

“Ellie, no. Stay down!”

“I got it, Joel!”

She broke cover, darting low. But she didn’t get far.

One of them—tall, fast—slipped out from the wreckage like a fucking shadow, got behind her, arm around her throat, dragging her back behind a wall.

Joel stopped breathing.

Everything else—gunfire, shouts, the pounding of his own heart—fell away. The world narrowed to that one point: Ellie being taken.

He saw red. And he pushed forward.

Not tactical. Not planned. Just rage and instinct.

He exploded from cover with a snarl caught in his throat, moving like he had a purpose and a goddamn clock ticking down. His revolver barked—once, twice. The first man went down with a bullet in his chest. The second—gutshot—dropped screaming. Joel didn’t blink.

He was already on the third.

The one with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s throat.

Joel hit him from behind, slamming him into the wall with bone-cracking force. The man grunted, tried to turn, but Joel hooked his elbow and wrenched—shoulder dislocated with a wet pop—and drove a knee into his spine, once, twice, until he dropped Ellie with a choked gasp.

She hit the ground, coughing.

Joel didn’t stop.

He fell on the bastard like a dog on a carcass, knife already in his hand. It wasn’t quick. He didn’t want quick.

First strike—base of the neck, just above the collarbone, angled down to sever the artery. Second strike—lower, ribcage, a twisting motion that made the man buck and scream.

Blood sprayed warm across Joel’s chest, his hands, soaking into his shirt. His knuckles were already skinned raw from impact. He drove his boot into the man’s hip when he tried to crawl. Then the knife again, this time straight into the chest.

Between the ribs. In and out. Faultless. Practiced.

Joel didn’t stop, grunting, letting the man bleed, until the man went still.

And even then, for a moment, he just crouched there—knife dripping, chest heaving, the silence crushing.

Then he heard it. Not Ellie. Not gunfire.

A gasp.

Joel’s head whipped up.

Leela.

Ten feet away, half-shadowed by the remains of a splintered awning. Her boots frozen mid-step in a puddle slick with oil and blood. She wasn’t crouched, wasn’t armed, wasn’t anything but exposed. Frozen. Not moving. Not blinking. Her hands had lifted halfway—toward her mouth, toward her wide eyes, he couldn’t tell.

Not just the scene. Not the blood. Not the body crumpled beneath him, throat torn wide, chest leaking into the cracked pavement.

Him.

Joel. The man who traced the outline of her ribs under cotton sheets. The man who kissed her slowly as breakfast sizzled on the stove, called her ‘darlin’’ until she broke out a grin, danced slow with her in the living room to the record player, Maya on his hip, all honey and drawl. The man she let in, trusted, after all she’d been through.

But he wasn’t that man now.

Only this was left. This feral thing she’d never seen before.

Blood up til his elbows. Wild-eyed. Panting like a fucking animal. Knife still tight in his broken fists. He didn’t know how long he’d been on top of the guy. Didn’t remember the last stab. Couldn’t even tell where the screaming had stopped and his breathing had started.

And she saw it. All of it.

Her expression—it gutted him more than the fighting ever could.

She didn’t look angry.

No, she looked like she’d just walked through a door into another life, and one she hadn’t agreed to. There was fear there—not loud, not flailing—but silent. Contained. Like someone who’d learned a long time ago that panic didn’t save you.

“Leela—” His voice was gravel, torn and rasped and nothing soft.

She flinched when he stood. Not away—just a jerk of her shoulders, like she’d been struck once and braced for the second.

And that—was the fucking worst of it.

Because Joel had seen her scared before. Seen her tense up in the dark, eyes scanning for shadows that didn’t exist. Seen her sit up from a nightmare with her hands clenched into fists, her breath short and strangled.

But she’d never looked like that at him.

He didn't get to go to her. Get to explain. He wanted to wipe the blood off his hands, off his chest, off the whole goddamn world. But it was too late. Because right then—

“C'mon, we have to go!” Ellie’s voice splintered through the space between them. She was already pulling on Leela’s wrist. “Now, now, go, go, go!”

Joel heard the shot before it echoed. Close.

He saw Leela’s fingers twitch—like she might reach for him, or maybe just steady herself. For one splinter of a second, he felt everything—her horror, her disbelief, the silent question in her eyes: Is this the man I love? The one Maya sweetly calls da-da?

And then that old, festering and terrible being in him took the reins. The hunter. The killer. The man who always fucking survives.

“MOVE!” he barked, voice cracked open by fury and urgency. A dire command.

Leela jolted. Her head ducked. Her feet moved.

And they ran.

They didn’t stop running until the city was a smear behind them—just smoke and ruin on the horizon, softened by distance and dust.

They found cover in a half-collapsed service station half-sunk into the dirt, the roof bowed like a snapped spine, windows blown out, desert wind whistling through the hollow bones of what used to be civilization.

Joel sat slumped against a concrete pillar, elbows braced on his knees, hands stained and stiff. Dried blood mapped across his knuckles, under his fingernails, along the creases of his palms like some fucked-up tattoo he hadn’t earned but couldn’t wash off. His shirt clung to him, crusted dark across the chest.

He hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Didn’t deserve the comfort of clean clothes just yet. No river around to wash off in any way, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t scrub out what was under his skin.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

She sat maybe too far away. Back to a wall. Her pack in her lap, unzipped. She wasn’t cleaning a weapon like methodical Ellie—not Leela. She didn’t carry guns. Joel would never let her.

Instead, she was threading a needle.

Or trying to.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, head bowed like he wasn’t. Her hands—usually so steady, precise—were quivering. The needle slipped from her fingers twice. She picked it up again, quietly, without swearing or sighing, and tried again. Her knees were drawn up. The strap she was stitching had only a small tear, maybe half an inch—but she worked it like it held her together.

He’d seen her sew before. Months back, she once fixed the lining in his jacket in less than three minutes with the same damned needle. She’d repaired most of Joel’s clothes back home, stitched her own strappy little tops, embroidered tiny designs into Maya's clothes, humming while she did it, threading them with ease, her fingers confident and graceful.

Every stitch is a solution, she'd say to him when he watched her, and the design is just the equation. A measure, a numeral. Now she looked like she didn’t even remember how to hold the damn thing.

Because every so often her eyes slid to him.

No, not to him. At him.

The difference. His hands. His shirt. His boots, still stained from when that last bastard had coughed blood all over the ground and it had splashed up onto Joel’s shins.

And she’d seen it all.

The way he’d moved. Not just fast. Not just angry. But precise. Like he knew the exact spots to hit to ruin a man. Like it wasn’t new. Like he’d done it before. Because he had. More times than he could count.

And she knew that now.

She’d seen what was under the soft Texan drawl, the morning coffee, the warm, calloused hands that tucked Maya’s curls behind her ears when she ate. She’d seen what that tenderness was built over.

Violence. Unapologetic, unflinching, survivalist violence.

And Joel couldn’t scrub it off. Couldn’t fold it up and stash it away before she got too close. He almost wished she had screamed and told him he was a monster. Asked how the hell he could do what he did. At least then he’d know where to place her in all of this.

Joel swallowed, jaw tight. A vein throbbed at his temple. His heart had slowed, but it still kicked, irregular, like a motor trying to start after a crash.

What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry you saw me gut a man alive? Sorry I turned into the thing you’ve spent a year convincing yourself I wasn’t?

He’d been brutal before. She just hadn’t seen it.

Only now she’d seen what he truly was. The old world didn’t raise kind men—it bred survivors. And Joel had survived every way a man could. Through pain. Through blood. Through choices that never stopped echoing even now.

The only thing he managed to say, finally, low and gruff and barely louder than the wind scraping across the station floor, “We’re still a full day out. We’ll keep movin’ at first light, so get some rest.”

X

And look, Joel was trying to rest. Trying and failing, but still.

His head was a goddamn mess. Static. Replay. A loop he couldn’t break. Blood. Breath. The sound that bastard made when the knife went in—wet and sudden, a choke of surprise right before the silence.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose. Closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the cracked concrete wall, cool against the sweat on his neck.

And then he heard it. Soft at first. Half-whispers. Barely there.

“I’m Leela.” A pause. A breath. A shift of cloth behind the shattered doorway of what used to be a bathroom. “Leela... no. Leela. I want to tell you—no. I have solved—my parents and I have solved—no.” A frustrated exhale. Then, quieter, “I am Leela… dammit. C’mon.”

Joel opened one eye. Turned his head.

The light in the bathroom was dim—barely a glow from some scavenged flashlight she’d propped up near the mirror. He couldn’t see her, but the words carried, echoing off tile and porcelain. She must’ve thought she was whispering. Must’ve thought no one could hear.

Across the room, Ellie was propped up on her elbow, her face lit faintly by that same flicker. She was grinning, eyes alight with mischief.

“Been goin’ on for ten minutes,” she snickered, voice hushed, like sharing a secret. “It’s adorable. I think she's nervous to meet these Firefly folks.”

Joel didn’t smile. Just raised an eyebrow. Looked back up at the ceiling.

Adorable. Maybe. Or maybe it was a bad sign. A red flag waving itself stupid in the middle of the dark.

Practicing your own goddamn name. Stumbling over words like they were bricks in your mouth. That wasn’t adorable. That was pressure. That was fear, chewing at the edges. That was a person so wound up she didn’t trust herself to say hello without screwing it up.

His jaw tightened.

There was a part of him—a stupid, reckless part—that wanted to get up. Walk over there, nice and quiet. Knock on the doorframe just once. Let her know she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to rehearse anything. That if she needed to talk, he’d sit there and listen, no matter how long it took.

But the other part—the bigger, meaner part—kept him pinned down.

Because he still hadn’t earned the right. Not after what she saw. And the last thing she needed was him looming over her, making it worse.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Exhaled slowly. He was a complete fucking idiot.

“You’re an idiot, Joel.”

For a moment, he thought he had been the one to say it out loud.

He blinked and turned his head again. Ellie. Still watching him. Smirking now, like she’d been waiting for him to figure it out.

He grunted. “Not in the mood, kid.”

“You’re never in the mood,” she shot back, flopping onto her bedroll. She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it—just the kind of tired, familiar sass that came from too many nights like this. “Doesn’t stop you from being a total dickhead.”

He gave her a look. One of those long, dead-eyed stares that usually shut her up. The kind that said, Don’t push me.

Not tonight.

She just grinned, hands behind her head. “You really think she came all this way—through all those cities, with people trying to kill us every ten miles—just to tell you to fuck off?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

“She cares about your hardass, just as much as I do,” Ellie muttered.

So, maybe Ellie saw all the things Joel didn’t let himself see. Or maybe she was just better at hope.

Because he had thought it.

More than once, he’d pictured it—that she’d reach the Fireflies, hand off whatever math magic was burning a hole through her skull, nod her thanks, and go. Cut the thread. Return to Jackson. Return to their—her daughter. Back to her life before he bulldozed into it like he always did with anything good. Maybe she’d have the decency to leave a note at the door when kicking him out.

Joel, please just leave us alone. I don't want a psychopath raising my daughter.

Maybe he deserved that.

He sat there a moment longer, thumb working absently along a notch in the stock of his rifle, tracing the smooth edge over and over. The kid was right. She had come all this way. Across states, through wasteland, through gunfire and ash, and sickness and silence. She’d fought beside them. Saved his life once. Slept with one eye open, traded warmth for distance, wore her grief like it was stitched into her coat. All of that. And not just for some cause.

She left Maya behind.

The thought hit like a hammer to the sternum.

Maya. His baby girl. His sweetheart, who barely fit in his arms anymore, yet so small she could tuck her frightened face under his chin when it thundered. He’d seen it. Seen the way Leela held her now, so different from all those months back—no fear, just pure maternal instinct. Even when she was dead on her feet, her touch was protective. Fierce.

You don’t leave that kind of love behind unless you got no goddamn choice. Unless whatever’s out there—the person, the reason—is worth the risk of not coming back.

He ran a hand down his face. Felt the rough scrape of beard under his fingers. Closed his eyes for a second. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Goddamn.”

Because no matter how many times he tried to tell himself she’d come for the Fireflies, for the math, for the cause—every time he looked at that bathroom door and heard her voice cracking around his name—he knew better.

She’d come for him.

A tangle of shame and wonder and raw, stupid hope in his chest made him feel like a little boy again. A dumb, dangerous feeling.

But his eyes slid back to the thin light under the bathroom door. The edge of her pack catching a sliver of glow. The sound of her voice still faint, repeating those words, again and again, as if she was willing herself into belief.

I am Leela.

Joel sat up.

His joints popped in protest, old aches coming to life as he rose slowly to his feet. The room tilted for a second—blood loss and no real sleep—but he steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

“Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit,” he hissed to Ellie.

“Whatta marshmallow,” Ellie mumbled, just watching him go, her smirk softening.

The door wasn’t fully closed. He nudged it open with two fingers.

The bathroom was dim and damp, smelling faintly of rust, infection and old mildew. A cracked mirror stretched above the sink, fractured down one side like a spiderweb frozen mid-snap.

Leela, hunched over the filthy porcelain basin, arms braced, hair falling around her face and body like a curtain. Her bare shoulders, under that black tanktop, rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. She hadn’t heard him yet. Or maybe she had and didn’t move, too far gone in whatever loop she was caught in.

Joel stepped in.

Quiet, like muscle memory. Like coming up behind her at the kitchen counter, when she was at the chopping board or scribbling on paper. In that quiet way he used to do, just to let her know he was there, he wanted her near, that he didn’t need her to talk.

He slid his hands around her waist.

Her body tensed.

Not a flinch exactly—but enough. A subtle stiffening beneath his palms that made his chest cave in a little. His heart fractured in that single instinctive reaction.

He didn’t pull away. Because as it had been established, he was selfish fucker. He stayed and didn’t say anything.

Just rested his forehead against the back of her head, where her hair smelled faintly of soap and smoke and salt. His eyes shut. He couldn’t bear the mirror. Couldn’t look up and see the condition of them—this makeshift version of a life that should’ve been warm, and home, and full of sweet nothings.

He’d had a picture in his head.

Them, side-by-side at a clean sink, still damp from the shower. Brushing their teeth together while Maya babbled from their bed outside, waiting to be put to sleep. Arguing about whether to fry the rice or save the eggs for pancakes. Leela nudging him with her elbow because he always hogged the mirror.

That was the image. The one he clung to.

Not this. Not her hands shaking just barely, gripping the sides of a stained sink as she tried to convince herself she still belonged to something greater than this broken world.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed her in—like maybe that alone could calm the blood in his veins. His hands were splayed over her powerful middle now, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She was too still. Not pulling away. Not leaning in.

So he moved slowly.

Pushed her all her thick, long hair gently over one shoulder, careful not to tug. It slipped between his fingers like threadbare silk. Then he bent forward, kissed the shell of her ear. Just once. Just enough.

“There’s a part of me that—I never wanted you to see that, darlin',” he whispered, the words nearly breaking in his throat.

She didn’t move.

Joel’s forehead pressed to the side of her head again. He closed his eyes. “That… thing. That man with the knife. That’s what’s left when I run outta reasons. When I think I gotta protect somethin’ I already lost.”

Silence buzzed in the air.

He wanted to tell her exactly that he’d do it all again to keep Ellie safe. That sometimes you didn’t get the choice to be gentle. That the world didn’t work in softness and she should wake the fuck up. But all of it sounded like a goddamn excuse, and worse—it sounded like the truth.

His voice faltered off. “If you hate me… I get it. I ain’t askin’ you to forget what I did. I just—”

God, what was he thinking? He wouldn't want her apologies anyway.

His chin lifted a little. “But I’m still me, Leela. Still Maya’s. Still yours, if there’s any part of you that wants that.”

There was no dramatic pause. No breath held in hope. He said it like a man naming his failures in the dark. Mum. Certain. Not because he thought it would change anything—but because it was true. And because she deserved to hear it out loud.

Maybe she was remembering what it meant to let something dangerous that close. Maybe this was the moment she realized she couldn’t love him. Maybe this was the moment he proved he didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t blame her.

Then he felt her shift. Just barely.

Her hand came up and back, platting into his hair. Her fingers scraped lightly at his scalp, a slow, grounding motion—not tender, not affectionate, not forgiving. Just there. Present. Real.

She didn’t say it’s okay. She’d never needed to wrap things in softness. Sadly, she knew what it meant to be ruined.

To be taken apart and put back together with pieces missing. She’d lived in the wreckage of her own skin, patched herself up with logic and reason, with equations and notebooks, trying to make sense of something that defied sense.

And still—he loved her. Not in spite of it. Not around it. Just through it. All the way through. So what if he’d split a man open like kindling? What if she’d been split first—by someone who’d never deserved to touch her in the first place?

She was here. She’d come. With her voice cracking in the dark and her hands braced on a sink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was still herself. Still trying.

Joel let out a breath against her neck.

And then, quiet—low and splintering—she said, “I’ve been dead before, Joel. This is not what kills me.”

The words lodged in his chest like a nail. No dramatics. No trembling voice. The truth. Her fingers kept moving, dragging slow circles in his hair.

And when she turned her head—just scarcely—he saw her in the mirror. Saw the red-rimmed eyes, the taut mouth, the exhaustion etched so deep into her face it looked like it might never fade.

She met his gaze in the cracked glass. A long moment passed.

There was a change, not in her body, not in the set of her jaw or the tremble of her breath, but in the way she looked at him. Like seeing a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding and finally understanding why the bandages never worked. A clarity there he was familiar with.

Joel just watched her eyes, the way they softened and steeled in the same breath. The way grief and love could live in the same goddamn face.

He saw her swallow. Her throat worked once, twice, like the words weren’t forming—they were fighting their way up.

And then, without turning fully, she said, “It’s horrible. How grateful I am that you can become... that.”

He blinked. His heart gave a slow, brutal thud against his ribs.

“Because it means no one will ever touch her. Not Maya. Not while you’re breathing.”

And just like that, he had to bite the inside of his cheek. Hard. To keep from falling into whatever that was curling up inside him. All that shame and pride and an ache so old it had turned quiet.

Her head stayed dipped, his mouth just a breath away from her skin.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow anymore. It had mass. Weight. Like a room full of smoke that they’d both learned to breathe in.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t dare. His hand remained at her waist, palm flat, fingers barely curled. He could feel the heaves of her breathing—still tight, still not stable. But alive. Still with him.

He should’ve said something. He knew it. Should’ve said I’m sorry, even if it wasn’t enough. Should’ve said you can hate me, I’ll still kill for you. Should’ve said you can take Maya away, and I’ll still be at your back the rest of my life.

But every sentence that came to mind sounded like another wound. Another wrong turn.

So he stayed quiet. And waited. Let her have this moment to leave—if that’s what she needed. But then—

She turned. Just a little. Enough that her shoulder brushed against his chest. Enough that he saw her face not in the mirror, but right there—real and close. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips chapped from the cold, pale, parted just a bit.

There was no invitation. No demand. Just presence. And that—God help him—was what crushed him.

Joel raised his hand, slowly. Let his knuckles ghost across her jaw like he was scared to touch her too hard, like she might shatter.

She didn’t lean in. She didn’t lean away. She just stood there. Breathing still.

That was all the backing he needed.

The kiss he prompted was not soft. Not romantic like the hundred before. It was dry, cracked and laced with grief. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing the shape of her pain, and hers opened to him with something like surrender—not of will, anything but.

They didn’t move or deepen. Didn’t gasp or moan or pull or want or seek anything more.

They just connected. Two broken things, sealed at the seam for a single breath of repose in the storm.

Joel’s hand stayed on her cheek, rough thumb grazing the edge of her temple. His other hand, the one still resting at her waist, gripped just a little tighter, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go now. Not after everything. Not after seeing the worst of each other and still not walking away.

He didn’t know if this meant anything, if it was the beginning of the end. Or just a flicker of what used to be.

But when they pulled apart—slow, wistful, just inches—her eyes opened again.

Clear. Tired. Still full of all the rage and grief and brilliance that made her who she was.

“You’re still in there, Joel,” she whispered. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just observing. Like she was taking stock of a fire that wouldn’t quite die, even after the smoke had choked the sky.

Joel held her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it—couldn’t take the weight of it. He exhaled, slow and heavy, eyes closing. His voice came low and coarse, barely brushing the air between them.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss just below her ear. A whisper of a thing. A thank you. An imprecise I’m sorry. A Jesus, what the hell are we now?

Outside, the wind pushed against the walls of the small bathroom like it wanted in. The fire crackled somewhere in the next room, Ellie’s shadow moving quietly near the doorway, always vigilant, giving them space.

Inside, Leela didn’t speak. But her fingers—still trembling—moved to cover his on her abdomen. Held them there. No tighter. No looser.

Just there.

Joel let the moment breathe, let the silence settle. His throat worked once before he spoke again, voice barely a rasp.

“When we get to California, whatever happens… I just…” He paused, brow furrowing. “You don’t gotta decide anything yet. I just need to know I’ll still get to see my little girl.”

A flicker passed through Leela’s eyes. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but she didn’t soften either.

She looked at him like she was trying to hold him in focus through a haze of old pain and newer fractures. Behind her gaze, where he lived, there it was—subtle, distant.

Her fingers didn’t move from his. But her voice, when it came, was quiet. Neutral. Like she was choosing every word as if it could tilt the precarious balance in this world.

“Let’s see what happens first.”

That was all. Not yes. Not no. Not never. But not enough either.

Joel’s jaw worked. He almost nodded—but didn’t. Almost pulled away—but couldn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand where it was, over her belly, where Maya used to sleep once, safe and tiny. Where Leela had once felt the flutter of her little feet and hands through her skin, long before she had her pretty name.

“You don’t gotta do it for me,” he said at last. “But she’s mine too. I need both of you.”

Leela didn’t argue. Her silence said she knew. Said she’d always known. But knowing didn’t always mean trusting.

Still, she kept his hand where it was.

X

DAY 7: CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. EIGHT-FOUR HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

The sun stretched long over the broken streets of Pasadena in the Golden State, just as much, casting amber behind a veil of smog. The quiet clip of hooves on cracked asphalt echoed like a heartbeat in a place long hollowed out. Joel rode just a pace ahead, his rifle slung low, boots scuffed from days on the road. Ellie was beside him, reins loose in her hands, a sliver of calm in her eyes. Behind her, Leela fidgeted with her hair again—first the braid, then a ponytail, then nothing, then the braid again.

She’d done it twice in the last hour.

Not out of vanity. Joel knew that. It was nerves. Restlessness. That same rhythm she used to have with a pencil—tap, scribble, flip a page, start again. Always thinking. Always fighting something unseen.

She hadn’t said much since sunrise. None of them had. The weight of what might be waiting ahead pulled the air taut between them.

“Do you think we could stay for some time when we get there?” Leela asked, not looking at either of them.

“Sure thing. I wanna see the beach, too,” Ellie replied without pause, smiling and all loyal, already craning her neck for the first sign of the Caltech buildings.

Joel said nothing. But his hands tightened just a little on the reins.

Stay. Stay for what?

See, if there were scientists there—real ones, still working on things like cures and vaccines—then it wasn’t just Leela they were walking into that place for.

It was Ellie. It was the blood in her veins. That cursed miracle pulsing just beneath her skin.

His mind was running ahead of him, tearing through what-if after what-if. What if they were here? What if they had the equipment, the knowledge? What if they looked at Ellie like she was the key again? What if they asked—no, expected—the same sacrifice?

And Joel—he knew himself too well by now. Knew the panic that twisted up in his gut and tried to claw its way out. He didn’t let it show. Not in his face or voice. But it made him nudge his horse forward just slightly, pace picking up, eyes scanning rooftops and blown-out cars and anything that might look like trouble or, God forbid, hope.

They crested a slight hill, and Caltech unfurled below.

Golden light skimmed the cracked concrete and broken signage like it was trying to remember what wonder looked like. Ivy crawled up the old physics building, curling over shattered windows, draping across the once-grand entrance like a shroud. Palm trees stood like sentinels over long-dry fountains.

Joel pulled his horse to a stop beside Ellie’s, her body swaying forward slightly with momentum before sitting back straight.

For a moment, no one spoke.

They were here.

This was it.

“This is where they're supposed to be,” Joel murmured, more to himself than to either of them.

Or what was left of it.

Buildings, sure. A few were still standing proud. Brick and steel and glass, scabbed over with vines and scorch marks and time. But no movement. No guards. No posted signs or perimeter watch. No sound beyond the dry creak of trees and the hum of wind through broken fencing.

Joel felt it like a gut punch before anyone said a word.

The front of the building looked like it had been blown out from the inside—glass scattered across the steps like a trail of brittle petals, black scorch marks clawing up the stone walls. Half the Caltech signage still hung above the arched entryway, its metal frame twisted, under layers of ash and grime.

Joel dismounted first. His boots crunched over the broken glass, rifle already in hand. Ellie hopped off behind him, lighter on her feet, but just as alert. Leela stayed on the horse a beat longer, her eyes locked on the faded lettering above the entry. ‘California Institute of Technology for Advanced Research.’

She whispered it aloud like it was something sacred. “Wow. We're here.”

Joel motioned for her to stay close. Light slanted in through fractured skylights above, catching on overturned desks and moldy file boxes. Drawers like mouths wide open. A bunk with a Firefly logo stamped on the wall above it—old, faded, forgotten. Emergency cots folded and stacked like they'd been waiting for orders that never came. A faded banner still hung across the far end of the lobby, reading proudly:

‘INNOVATION FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.’

Oh, what a big fucking joke.

You try to innovate, you end up like this. You pick up a gun, you get to live. The world they lived in now.

Now, what they hadn’t expected was the smell.

The moment they stepped inside the physics building, it hit them—thick, wet, and metallic. Like mold and meat. Old rot. The kind that stuck to your tongue. He knew what it was already. Joel raised a hand, signalled Ellie behind him. Leela paused just inside the threshold, her face blanching.

“Get back outside,” Joel said to her. “Don’t need you in here.”

But Leela didn’t move.

She stared down the hall like she could still pretend it was just dust and old desks and the smell of something dead not walking.

Until the first one came.

It staggered out from a lab at the far end, skin sloughing off in ribbons, yellowing mouth open in a wet click-click-click. Ellie didn’t hesitate—she dropped to one knee and put a bullet through its eye. But the goddamn Clicker wasn’t alone. From the shadows, they came dragging, stumbling, clicking—two, three, five of them—some already burst open with fungal bloom, their faces split by time and Cordyceps.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, rifle already up. “Leela—go, get out of here!”

She bolted off. He didn’t watch where.

The gunfire echoed in the narrow halls. Joel moved with brutal efficiency—tight shots, clean execution. Ellie flanked him, nimble and fast, clearing corners. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. Well, because they had.

But Leela was new to it. She waited outside, pacing, clutching the straps of her bag so tightly her knuckles nearly bled. Her eyes flicked to the windows, to the flashes of movement inside.

She hadn’t come for this. To watch them both die at the end.

When the last echo faded, Joel emerged from the stairwell, blood on his sleeve and a tight grimace on his face. “All clear.”

Leela didn’t answer. She pushed past him, boots scraping on tile as she made her way deeper into the building. Joel wanted to hold her hand back, tuck him into his side.

“Maybe they were Fireflies?” Ellie muttered, nudging one corpse with the toe of her boot.

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about it, even if he knew the signs.

This wasn’t an outpost.

It was an exodus.

He pushed the doors open into the next wing—a long hallway flanked by glass-walled rooms, some still scrawled with chemical equations and 3D renderings of gene splicing. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in lazy spirals, disturbed only by their presence. The deeper they moved in, the clearer it became: this had been a research hub. State of the art. Once.

Now it was just dust and silence.

Ellie was the first to call out. “Helloooo? It's Dr Leela here with your math magic miracle! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Her voice echoed down the empty walkway. And no answer.

“Shy buncha nerds,” she harrumphed.

“Ellie,” Joel sighed.

Leela drifted toward one of the labs as they moved up to the second floor, climbing over debris, her hand brushing against the edge of a metal table. There were still beakers here, clipboards thick with faded paper, broken monitors, glass casings. Her fingers hovered over them like she didn’t know whether to read or weep.

Joel had gotten used to failing so much, this didn't hurt anymore.. He’d brought her all this way. Let her believe.

Now, he stood in the doorway of the ruined lab like a man caught between two times—one where hope had still been breathing, and the one he was in now, where it lay stiff and cold on the floor.

Joel’s eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the skeleton, slumped against a bank of monitors, mold climbing up one arm like ivy.

It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen. Not even the hundredth. But this one was different. There was something almost edifying in the way the figure was wilted—propped against the monitors like they’d died mid-thought, clinging to some last hope that didn’t pan out. What had they been hoping to see? A breakthrough? A miracle? A sign someone else had made it?

The bones were dressed in a lab coat, name badge still clipped to the collar. YAMADA. What was left of the face was caved in, probably from the gun still lying on the floor beside them. A personal choice, Joel figured. Easier than turning, for sure.

But it was the recorder nearby that made his stomach knot.

He watched Leela reach for it like she was reaching for her own fate. Slow, careful, fingers trembling despite all her control. She glanced back at him—asking for what? Permission? Support? For him to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like?

He gave her the nod because it was all he had.

And because he couldn’t lie to her anymore. Whatever that device held, bad or worse, he had her always. What were another hundred miles? Perhaps another boat, a storm in the ocean, another open city, another ten years on the road? He'd do it with her if she wanted to.

Leela pressed play.

As the recorder whirred to life and that ragged, weary voice filled the silence, Joel’s heart dropped to somewhere cold inside him. Every word was another nail in the coffin.

“This is Dr. Kichiro Yamada. March twenty-third, the time is four-twenty-four in the evening. If you’re hearing this, then you’re too late. Or maybe you’re lucky. Jury’s out.”

Joel stared at the monitors. The screens were dead, cracked, and flecked with grime. Whatever brilliance had once flickered there had gone out long ago. There were notes on the desk, too, curling with rainwater. He couldn’t read half of them, and didn’t understand the other half. But he recognized the desperation in the handwriting. Bold strokes turned frantic. Numbers blurring. Whole pages scratched out. A slow unraveling.

“We gave it everything. Years. Two whole decades. All of us. There were twenty-four of us here once. Distinguished faculty of professors, scholars and dedicated students—from aeronautics, biochemistry, theoretical physics to fucking art history—working toward a common purpose. Persevering in the face of extinction. Then we dwindled. Nine of us, then four. Then Dr. Connelly, now it's... just me. See, the world didn’t wait for us. Supplies dried up. People got scared. We had raiders come in once or twice, and butcher some of our best. Most of them left. Some went east, to survivor settlements. I stayed until the end. I made it this far.

Joel looked over at Ellie. She was still. Watching Leela. Watching him.

“To whoever finds this... you’re standing in the last Firefly outpost in California. Maybe the whole goddamn continent. Shit, I don't know anymore. We had data. We had hope. And then we had death. I’ve just managed to upload everything we had and researched to the central terminal. If you’ve got the brains to use it, maybe it won’t be for nothing. Help yourselves. Save yourselves.”

A long silence. He thought of how long they must’ve laboured in here, chasing answers. How much belief it took to type that much down.

“This place was supposed to save the world. We were supposed to make a difference. What a fucking waste.”

Click.

Joel let out a long-suffering sigh. Ellie hovered near the door, her jaw set, eyes wide, trying to take it all in, trying not to crumble.

Leela stood motionless, eyes fixed on the blank recorder. Her shoulders started to tremble, slow at first, then all at once—tight, pulled inward, trying to keep from flying apart.

She didn’t cry.

She just knelt down beside the desk, knees hitting the floor in a slow, mechanical motion, folding over her own legs like her body had given up on standing. Her hair—braided, unbraided, ponytailed, undone—hung limp down her back, as if it too had finally settled into stillness. No tears, no words. Just the quiet shape of someone who’d hoped too hard for too long.

Joel stood there, unsure if he’d made her kneel or if the world had.

He swallowed hard.

He’d brought Leela here. Not just her—her hope, her faith, her genius, all bundled into that same quiet determination she wore like armor. She had believed in this place. Believed in the people who’d once lived here. She’d believed him, maybe worst of all.

And now? Now it was just another tomb. Another place the world had forgotten how to care about.

Joel clenched his jaw. “Wasn't supposed to end like this,” he said softly. But the words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.

And yet, somehow it always did.

The world didn’t care about minds like hers. It didn’t give a damn about brilliance or sacrifice or the people who tried to fix what was broken. It just… moved on. Swallowed the light whole. Buried the good with the bad and let it rot in the dark.

Behind him, Ellie spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “Hey, we should check out that terminal.”

Joel nodded once, not looking back. “Yeah.”

He moved slowly, boots scuffing against the floor. That terminal—an old monitor, half-sunken into the desk, still humming faintly—blinked as they approached. He expected nothing. Expected it to flicker out, dead and useless, like everything else.

But somehow, when he moved the mouse, it lit up.

“C'mere, baby,” he called out, trying to will what he had left into her. “Let's see what this is.”

Leela had already started typing. Her hands trembled, but she typed anyway—quick, practiced keystrokes, as if her muscles still remembered how to do this even when her heart didn’t.

Lines of data filled the screen. Pages and pages of it. He didn't know what the fuck it was. Research logs. Complex equations. Genetic markers, timestamps, decay models. Scans of buildings and servers. Plant growth charts. Vectors and resistance patterns, and computational models he didn’t understand, but recognized by the sheer significance of them.

She stared at the formulas like they were the names of the dead.

Joel knelt beside her, slow, as if any sudden movement might shatter her.

He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Didn’t deserve to. Just stayed near, let his voice reach across the inches between them.

“You did what they couldn’t,” he said, hoarse. “You're a goddamn saviour, Leela. You did it all.”

Her eyes didn’t move from the screen. “They were supposed to be here.”

Joel glanced toward the body by the monitor, the fingers still curled like they’d meant to hit save and didn’t make it. “They left it behind for you,” he said. “They wanted it found. You found it.”

Leela turned to him, finally. Her eyes were dry—but there was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a dull, hollow ache where everything else had been scorched out.

“It’s not enough, Joel.”

“No,” he whispered. “It ain’t. But it’s all we got.”

And he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He reached out. Gently. Palms callused, hands unhurried.

This time, she let him pull her into his arms. She didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry, or shudder, or whisper anything dramatic. She just leaned—slow, silent—against him, her face resting into his shoulder like the grief was too dense to lift her head anymore.

It wasn’t forgiveness she gave him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t even warmth. And for the first time in days, Joel didn’t feel guilt, or fear, or even that thick, choking regret.

Just the excruciating, quiet ache of being alive.

He turned his head, pressing his cheek to the top of her hair. She smelled like the road. Like leather and firewood. Like survival. Like the kind of person you meet once in a lifetime and never again.

He almost didn’t hear the footsteps—soft and measured.

Ellie, framed by the last of the sun bleeding in through the broken glass. She crossed the room slowly, past ruined dreams, past rusted lab equipment and flickering terminals, past the slumped skeleton and the shattered hope. She didn’t speak. Just knelt beside them, her shoulder bumping gently against Leela’s other side.

Joel looked at her just in time to see her hand reach out—hesitant, hovering for a second—then settle across Leela’s back.

Not in comfort or even empathy.

Recognition. Kinship. Guilt.

Leela was everything Ellie wasn’t—older, brilliant, composed—but in this moment? They were the same. Two people who gave their hearts to something that’s gone.

Ellie's fingers splayed across the jacket, tentative at first, then firmer. She didn’t look at either of them. Her face stayed turned, eyes down, jaw clenched. Simply being there.

Joel could see it in her—the way she held her breath, the way her lips were pressed into a thin, white line. That familiar cyclone behind her eyes. The echo of so many other losses.

He didn’t say a word.

Because in that lab, surrounded by failure and rot, the three of them formed something that had no name. Not victory, hope or even survival. Just austere, tangible proof that they were still here.

He looked at the recorder lying in Leela's palms like a gravestone, and as she hit rewind, that last line rang in his ears like a verdict:

“...What a fucking waste.”

Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t know if the voice was talking about the science, the building, the people, or the whole damn world.

But whatever it meant—however it was intended—it felt right now. And maybe all the brilliance in Leela’s head, all the years she’d clawed her way through loss and theory and impossibility—maybe even that had nowhere left to go.

He knew this one all too well. The one that told him some endings weren’t explosive or tragic or heroic.

No last stand. No meaning. Just a hush. A breath. A door that closed without ceremony.

Some endings just... stopped.

The storm comes, you crawl into shelter. Find something—someone—to hold onto. And when it's over, you are left to breathe in the quiet afterward.

Waiting for the next storm. The next door.

X

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[sinofwriting]

Points Have Been Made - Charles Leclerc/Reader/Max Verstappen

Words: 3,363 Summary: Max and Charles find out something happened to their girlfriend. Note(s): Thank you Mak for commissioning this! Mentions of medical stuff, infertility (not reader). One German word, one Dutch word, some French words. Jenson Button appears in this fic, because uh, well, I love him and honestly, I’d like to think (write) him having a weird soft spot for Max (and Charles) after seeing him more recently around Logan.

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“Max.”

He lets out a hum, his focus on the car and racing line into turn nine.

“Box box.”

“What?” His eyes flick up to where a yellow or red flag would be waved but there isn’t anything. “I’ve only done three laps on these tires.”

“Box box.”

His brows furrow beneath his helmet and balaclava at the non-answer.

Pulling off the track and into the pit lane, his fingers tap against the wheel as they pull his car back into the garage. He sits there expecting the mechanics to make some sort of adjustments but instead they start doing what they do at the end of a session, cooling the car down, prepping it for its next use.

He feels a slight pressure to the top of his helmet and then GP is in his line of sight, leaning into his space and car, perfectly helping to cover him with the mechanics and engineers, so the camera can’t see inside. “Something happened, Max. Session is over for you.”

His heart starts thudding in his chest, panic threatening to overtake him. “What happened?” His voice is muffled by the helmet but he knows that GP hears it from the way his frown deepens.

“Out of the car, Max. We’re doing our best to not let cameras see in, but who knows how long that will last.”

Max looks at the mechanics and engineers and only now takes note of how they’re standing. It’s a carefully constructed wall, not allowing the cameras to see him at all. “Alright.” He murmurs.

He focuses on his hands as he disconnects the steering wheel, resting it on top of the car before pulling his gloves off. He doesn’t know why but he expects them to be shaking, but they’re perfectly still, like always. Jaw clenched, he stands, bending at the waist to grab the steering wheel and put it back on before hopping out of the car.

It’s odd to take his helmet off, passing it gratefully to Annie who whisks it and his gloves away.

“What happened?” He asks GP again.

A hand is pressed against his back, pushing him to walk and he does. Undoing the near too tight collar of the race suit as he walks. It’s only once they’ve nearly disappeared behind the wall, where outside cameras aren’t allowed that GP speaks. “It’s about Y/N.” And the rug disappears out from underneath his feet.

—

“I’m okay, mama. I promise.” She says, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she rubs at her head.

“You’re sick. And I know that neither Max or Charles is with you.”

“I will be okay, I’m a big girl.”

“You're my baby.”

Her heart clenches at her mom’s words. All of her friends growing up and even some now all thought of her mother as overbearing, with the weekly phone calls, daily check-ins and texts, but she was her mother’s only child. She grew up knowing that she was supposed to have siblings, that she was never supposed to be an only child, but it hadn’t worked that way for her mother and it had made her protective of her only child.

“I know, mama. But I’m okay.” Her words nearly flatter as a wave of dizziness hits her, but she pushes it away, clutching at the counter with her left hand as her right rubs at her temple. “The weather just changed here in Monaco. Y’know how that goes.”

Her mom makes a noise, not believing her.

“Pascale will be coming over for dinner, to check on me. Charles’ orders. Will you believe her?”

“Oh, kindchen.” Her voice is soft, so reminiscent of her childhood. “It is not that I don’t believe you. It is that you are always the last to notice when you are unwell.”

“I will be okay and she will text you to update you. Now go to your book club. I know that it is today.”

“It’s not a book club!”

“It’s a book club, mama.” She laughs, wincing immediately at the way the movement makes her feel unsteady.

“I’ll call you first thing tomorrow alright?”

“Alright.” She agrees. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

As soon as her mom hangs up, she takes a deep ragged breath. Her hand on her forehead, that’s damp now with sweat which makes her nose wrinkles, grasps at her phone before setting it on the counter.

It’s only when it knocks into something she realizes she’s had her eyes closed and she doesn’t know for how long. Opening them, she blinks at how bright the kitchen is. Turning her head slowly, her nose wrinkles up again at how the sun is positioned in the sky. No wonder it was so bright.

Letting go of the counter and taking a step towards the living room, she swears when a wave of dizziness rushes over again and she’s clutching at the counter again. The edge of it digging into both of her palms.

“Fuck.” She breathes when it’s passed. She watches as a bead of sweat drips off of her onto arm. She needed a shower. She needed to shower before Pascale got here. With the reminder of Pascale coming in a few hours she takes a few more deep breaths before letting go of the counter and walking.

Only it isn’t just a wave of dizziness that hits her, but a tidal wave and before she can catch herself, she falls to the floor, head hitting the tile hard and knocking her out.

—

“What happened to her?” Max asks, feet seeming to be glued to the floor as GP tries to push him deeper. “GP, what happened?”

GP looks around before leaning into his space, a hand on the back of his neck pressing, and Max lets him push his head down. “Pascale found her passed out, she hit her head on the way down. They’re still waiting for test results.”

“But,” His mind is whirling, trying and failing to understand what is happening. “Where is Charles?”

If GP is surprised by his next question he doesn’t show it. “He’s still out there. He just about told Xavi to fuck himself when Xavi told him to abort his lap.”

Normally that would make Max smirk, chuckle but he can’t be bothered. “I need to tell him. He can’t hear it from Xavi or Fred.”

“Andrea was going to tell him.”

Max shakes his head. “She’s in Monaco. Charles can’t find out by himself.” He looks at GP pleadingly and the older man nods.

“I know, go and get out of your race suit and you can go right on over. Fred is expecting you.”

Max quickly claps GP on the shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you.” He rushes to say again as he moves quickly to his room.

—

Charles is grinning as his car is pulled into the garage. He doesn’t know what Xavi was thinking, telling him to abandon that lap. It was amazing. And yes he knew that his session was over, cut short due to a new setup that they wanted to try out, but it was fine. This track had always treated him nicely and with this car, it would hopefully even treat him to a win or he mused considering Max, second place.

Climbing out of the car and pulling his gloves and then helmet off, he doesn’t notice the way the engineers and mechanics are blocking the cameras from seeing anything, or the worried looks from Fred and Xavi. He just notices the worry on Andrea’s face when he catches sight of Max, standing just out of sight if you look into the garage, close to where the drivers rooms are. And he does notice the look on Max’s face, it makes his stomach drop and he rushes to him, not even murmuring a thank you to Jean who takes his helmet and gloves from him.

“Max,” he breathes, hands fluttering before they rest gently on his face. “What happened, mon coeur?”

“Charles,” his name is broken up by a stuttered breath.

“Did something happen to Sophie? Vic? Luke? Leo? Jos?”

Max shakes his head at every name.

Dread fills him even more. “Y/N?”

Max’s eyes close and he nods.

“No.”

“Charles.” Andrea’s voice is in his ear, ushering him forward. “Let’s get you both somewhere private.”

He nods, letting his hands fall away from Max’s face, though he can’t help but to grab Max’s hand, intertwining their fingers, needing the touch, and Max clearly does too with the way he squeezes his hand back.

As soon as his driver’s room door shuts, Andrea speaks again before Charles can ask anything.

“Pascale called me maybe ten minutes ago. She went over to yours for dinner, to check on Y/N and found her passed out on the kitchen floor.”

Charles makes a wounded noise and his already tight grip on Max’s hand grows worse and the barely older man doesn’t even wince or jump. Doesn’t seem to notice.

“They’re at the hospital.” Andrea’s voice is somehow even gentler than before when he says it.

“They are at?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, maman.” He murmurs, feeling tears prick his eyes and Max drops his hand, wrapping an arm around him, bringing him close.

“They are waiting for test results.” Max says. “GP made me box. He told me and I rushed over here.”

“I,” Charles shudders. “Is she okay? I mean she passed out on the floor. How?”

“I don’t know. They only just got there or at least that’s what it sounded like.”

Charles nods.

“Thank you, Andrea. For getting a hold of GP.”

Andrea sends Max a look. “Of course, Max.”

Andrea leaves the room, leaving them alone and Max as soon as the door shuts, wraps Charles completely in a hug, holding him tight as he tries to comfort himself with at least having one of his partners healthy and safe in his arms.

“I,” Charles struggles again. “I should call someone to go be with maman. She shouldn’t be there alone. Not at least till I can get there.”

“Charles,” Max starts to say and Charles shakes his head, pushing away.

“No, Max. I know it is a race weekend. But it is just a two-hour flight away, I can be back before qualifying if it is not too bad.”

“Charles,” he tries again.

“I have to go. I can’t just be here while she is unwell.”

“Charles,” and this time Max is holding his face, making him incapable of speaking. “I am going with you. Fuck the race. If it is bad, it is not like we will lose our spots in the championship. Everyone else is more than forty points behind, we will be fine. Let me call my pilot, the jet will be ready by the time we get to the airport.”

“Merci, Max.” Charles breaths, pressing their lips together. “Merci.”

—

“Pascale?” She mumbles when she opens her eyes and sees the woman sitting beside her. “Did I fall asleep?”

She tries to sit up but her head aches, making her groan, and Pascale is gently pushing her back down. “Lay down, sweetheart.”

“What?” Her eyes wander around the room as she realizes this isn’t her, Max, and Charles shared place. It’s far too clean, sterile. She tries to lift her arm and winces when there’s a tugging sensation. Her eyes fall to her arm and more confusion builds as she sees an IV. “Pascale, what happened?”

“I found you passed out on the kitchen floor.”

“But,” she couldn’t have passed out. Right? Her mind struggled to remember it. She knew she had been feeling dizzy, but enough to pass out. “Are we at the hospital?”

“We are.” Pascale’s hand pats hers. “I will be right back. I’m going to get the nurse, okay?”

She nods and as Pascale darts out the room, her eyes land on someone sitting just outside her room. “Jenson?”

—

“Anything new?”

Charles shakes his head, frowning at his phone. “Like before, they knew that she was dehydrated as soon as she came in but they are still waiting for everything else to come back.”

“What is taking so long? Is it money?” Max runs his hand through his hair, before he looks at Charles. “Call them, the hospital. Throw your name around, prince of Monaco.”

“Max.” Charles hisses. “I am not the prince of Monaco. And I can’t call them. Nothing will happen if I call.” He huffs, slumping back in his seat.

It’s silent for a moment.

“Are you,”

“Yes, I’m sure, Max.” He reaches over and squeezes Max’s hand before tangling their fingers together, lifting them to give him a kiss. “We will be there soon.”

—

She tries her best to focus on the doctor as they examine her but her eyes keep going to Jenson. Now inside of her room and standing in the corner, arms crossed over his chest as he watches intently.

“You have a mild concussion from the fall. The back of your head will be tender.”

“But why did she faint?”

The doctor frowns, “Normally I’d have the answer for you. But our lab is abnormally backed up and we are down to one lab technician. As soon as the results are in, I will be back to give them to you.”

“Take your time.” She smiles.

Jenson shakes his head when the doctor leaves. “How does Monaco, of all places, have only one lab technician working?”

“Jenson, what are you doing here?”

He smiles at her, coming closer to her and bending quickly to press a kiss to her cheek. “Max texted me. Asked me to keep you and Pascale company. I was already here in Monaco.”

She smiles at the older driver. He and Max’s friendship wasn’t too well known, but they talked often. Then she frowns, because Max had asked him. “Max asked you?” Her eyes then look over at Pascale.

“I texted Andrea.”

She nods. “Can you tell them I’m okay? There is no need to worry.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Pascale, I’m okay. I haven’t felt dizzy since I woke up, my head hurts a little from the concussion that’s all.”

Before Pascale can respond her attention is drawn away by the sound of the room door practically being thrown up and two voices on top of each other.

“Chérie!”

“Schat!”

—

“We were so worried.” Charles murmurs, holding her face gently.

“How is your head feeling?” Max asks, sitting beside her on the bed, arm wrapped around her.

“I’m okay.” She smiles at both of them. “My head hurts a bit, but that will go away soon enough.”

Charles frowns, fingers gently brushing over her cheekbones, before he drops his hands to hold both of hers. “Are you sure? I’m sure we could get you some meds.”

“I’m sure, Prince Charles could get you some meds.” Max whispers in her ear making her laugh while Charles sends him a dirty look, though a smile is playing on his lips.

“Don’t listen to him, chérie.”

She smiles at Charles, carefully leaning forward to press their lips together. Before being even more careful as she turns her head to kiss Max.

“Thank you both for coming.”

“Of course.”

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Charles and her both look at Max, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, I can think of places I’d rather we be.” He admits.

Charles shakes his head, “so silly.” He murmurs, leaning across her to kiss Max. “Now, why don’t we have your test results back yet?”

“There’s a backlog.” Jenson says, grinning when Charles jumps at the sound of his voice. “Max sent me over to keep them company as soon as you guys figured out the game plan.”

Charles’ entire face softens and Max flushes at the look their boyfriend sends him.

“And they only have one lab technician.”

Max lets out a curse. “Did you try bribing them?”

“I could go try if you’d like.”

Max starts to nod, but a knock sounds on the door and it opens.

She watches as the doctor blinks at the two new people in her room but ignores them, focusing on her. “I’ve got your results right here. Hypoglycemia. Low blood sugar and I mean very low blood sugar. When’s the last time you ate?”

Her brows furrow.

She remembered eating Tuesday night with Max and Charles before they left. A nice dinner that her and Max made, Charles pouring them more drinks or chopping and stirring things. But she had eaten something the next morning hadn’t she? Her head throbs as she thinks, but she ignores it, trying to remember and winces from both the pain and the realization that she hadn’t eaten anything since Tuesday night.

“Tuesday night. I was going to eat breakfast on Wednesday but we were out of my breakfast bars and then I got so busy and I just wasn’t hungry.”

“Are you not hungry often?”

“Sometimes. But even then I make sure to eat at least one meal a day, I snack throughout. I’ve never done this before.”

They nod. “As long as this isn’t a normal occurrence, I don’t see an issue. But, you need to make sure you are eating often. You don’t want to be back in here because you forgot to eat and it made your blood sugar drop.”

“Of course. Thank you so much.”

They nod. “I’ll get your discharge paperwork done and as soon as you’re finished with the bag, you’ll be free to go.”

—

“When are you guys flying back?” She asks, Max’s head in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair as she leans against Charles.

Max makes a face. “We won’t be.”

Charles and him had both talked about it as they got Pascale home and she settled in. Their teams would be unhappy, but it wasn’t like they could be overtaken in the championship. They could live. And they had two weeks after this with no racing. Two weeks where they could make sure she was eating, taking care of herself. And she’d be going to the next race anyway. This had been a sort of one-off due to all the things that had piled up at home.

“What do you mean you won’t be?”

“We can miss a race. Max is twenty points ahead of me, I am forty-seven points ahead of Oscar.”

“I have so many questions about that.” She murmurs, because god what was this season. Checo barely hung onto fourth in the championship with George hunting him down, Lewis and Lando hunting down George. Barely fifteen points collectively separating third to seventh.

Charles snorts. “Many people would like to know the same.”

“You should go though. Put more of a lead in the points.”

Max and Charles share a look, a bit hard with their positions but they manage. “No.” They both agree.

“I can survive not even two days. I’ll go stay with Pascale. Have Arthur stay with me. Or Jenson since he’s here in Monaco.”

“No.” They say again at the same time.

“You are far more important than another twenty-five or eighteen points.” Max continues.

She sighs, looking at them both. “Three stubborn people is way too many people in a relationship.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

“Suck up.” Max coughs and Charles flicks him on the forehead.

“Says you.”

“Boys, settle down.”

“Love you.” They chorus.

She shakes her head, sighing. “If you will not go without me, I will just go with you.”

“You have a concussion.”

“A mild concussion. And we all know that you have flown before with a concussion, Charles.”

He pouts, “it was just once.”

“Twice.” Max coughs and Charles flicks him again.

“I will go with you tomorrow. Just please make the flight later than eight am.”

“Done.” Max says, already texting his flight crew.

“Thank you.” She starts to bend to kiss Max, when her face is redirected to look at Charles and he kisses her.

She expects Max to whine but as soon as Charles is done, Max is turning her head the other way, no longer laying in her lap, to kiss her as well.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Vans Valentines - Sugar

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

Valentine Masterlist

A/N: Apologies if this seems short and rushed! I don't have a lot of time this week, but I still want to put stuff out since it IS heart week!! Also no graphics for this one either until I get the time to catch up oopsie

Plot: You and Logan don't do much for Valentines, but you decide to surprise him with something sweet

Warnings: SMUT, MDNI thank you :), unprotected PiV, sweet talk from Logan (he does a lot of praising), cream pie, lingerie, some breast play, romance :)

Word Count: 1890

“Sugar?” 

Logan's voice called out for you, as he stepped into your makeshift living space in the old factory. He held a bouquet of roses in one hand, that he stopped and grabbed for you before he made his final drive back to the factory. 

Neither of you did much for Valentines in the few years you’ve been together, but he always made a point to do something nice for you. Whether it was some flowers or some of your favorite chocolate, or just a nice gift. In return, you’d always either got him a set of cigars, and made his favorite dinner. It was a little tradition. 

Admittedly, Logan wished he could do more for you. With everything you do for him and Charles, he wanted to truly show his appreciation. The ache in his bones, and his work schedule tends to exhaust him before he could truly plan or think of something.

He immediately noticed something was weird by how dark the place was. Even if you went to bed before he came home- a rare event- you would’ve at least left a few lights on for him. He sniffed the air- he could still smell you, so you were here. There was a scent of your perfume too, stronger than usual.

He carefully made his way to the bedroom, staring at the door that was closed- also strange. 

“Sugar?” He called out, opening the door and stepping inside. His brows raised in surprise, as he took in the sight before him.

You were lying on your side in a provocative pose, adorning a sexy piece of light pink lingerie. A top that barely concealed your breasts, with a light see through cloth that floated over your belly, complete with lace panties attached to thigh garters. There were red candles and tealights that illuminated around the room, creating a romantic ambiance that made you glow as you sat up on the bed, smiling at him.

You bit your lip, as you felt your face heat up as he stared at you. “Hi love.” You greet him softly. “I just…wanted to do something nice for you.” 

He let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?” A small smile appeared on his lips as he stepped into the room. He could feel his trousers getting tighter in the crotch each step he took towards you. “Wanted to look pretty for your old man?” He asks as he stepped up to the mattress. 

You nodded, blinking innocently up at him and he grinned, before pulling up the bouquet of flowers that was at his side. You smiled bright at the roses, taking them in your hands as you sniffed them. “Lo! They’re beautiful…” You smiled up at him, but he already leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss. He grabbed the bouquet, dropping them to the side as he pushed you down on the bed, climbing over you. 

“You’re beautiful sugar...” He murmurs softly against your lips. You giggle, bringing your hands up to cup his face as he pecked your lips over and over, before moving to kiss your neck. You sighed contently as you arched your back against him. His thigh came between your legs, and you began grinding your core against him. “Hope you weren’t waiting long doll..” He says apologetically as he lifted his head up to look at you. 

“I’d wait forever for you Lo.” You say softly, scratching as his beard. A soft smile spread on his face. You sat up, gently pushing him off you so you could straddle him. You slowly began undoing his shirt, carefully unbuttoning each button as his hands came up to rest on your hips and looked up at you lovingly. 

Unbuttoning his shirt revealed his wife beater he wears underneath. He sat up, letting you pull off the button-up shirt and wife beater, revealing his broad, scarred chest that you pressed your hands against, running it through his chest hair. You gently pushed him back down as you began to press kisses over his chest, kissing along the various scars that littered his body. A soft sigh escaped him. 

“You deserve better sweetheart.” He mutters softly. You stopped, a frown on your face as lean up so you were face to face with him. 

“What did we say about that?” You raised an eyebrow at him. He chuckled. 

“That it’s true?” 

You scowled and he chuckled warmly. “You’re cute when you make that face.”

“Logan.” You say in a warning tone. 

“Alright alright.” He hums his hands running over your thighs, tugging at the garters hugging your thighs. The snap against your skin, making your thighs flinch. He chuckled warmly. “I’ll drop it for tonight.”

You smiled. “You’re gonna drop it forever. I don’t wanna hear that from you again.” You say leaning down to press a kiss to his nose. He chuckled. 

“Yes ma’am.” He said in a low tone, before grinning, his hand smoothing over your thigh over to your ass, and then smacking it. You yelped and he let out a loud laugh at your reaction. You smiled shaking your head and kissing him posessively. You began grinding your hips over his, you wet cunt running over his trousers, where you rubbed against his hard erection. “Damn.” He mumbled into your lips. 

He brought his hands up to cup your face, kissing you again, licking your bottom lip for entrance that you allow him. His beard scratched at your skin, but in a way you loved. “I’m sweet on you sugar…” He mumbles over your lips. “Getting yourself all dolled up for me like this…” He breathed, his hand cupping your cheek. 

“You deserve it Lo. You deserve only good things.”

His expression softened as he stared up at you with fondness. You smiled, sitting up from him, your hands on his chest, smoothing over his hard pecs. 

You brought your hands down to his trousers while he watched, undoing his pants and pushing them down as far as you could. You bit your lip as you saw his hard cock straining against his boxers, wetness staining where his tip was. 

Peeling his boxers back, his cock jumped out, the tip hitting his stomach. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, the vein that started at his stomach and traveled up onto his cock towards the tip. Your hand reached out, gripping him and giving him a few small strokes, biting your lower lip as you felt how he throbbed against your hand. 

“Go on baby. Take what you want.” He urges. 

You moved forward, resting you clothed cunt rub against him as you began to roll your hips back and forth. You could feel his pre-cum leaking out, soaking into your panties, already soaked by your arousal. 

“You’re soaked darling.” He hums, putting his hands on your thighs again, squeezing them as you continued rolling over his cock. His breath began to pick up, as your rolled your hips faster. “C’mon sugar, I need to feel that sweet pussy.” 

Your breath hitched. He has such a way with words.

You sat up, and he reached over to pull your lacey panties out of the way, then grabbed the base of his cock, holding himself up so you could lower down on him. A sharp gasped escaped you as you felt his tip pushed into your entrance.

“Oh Lo-” You moaned tipping your head back as you lowered yourself onto him, feeling himself deeper and deeper inside you until he bottomed out.

“Fuck.” He cursed. “C’mere, give me some sugar.” He groans, his adams apple bobbing his throat as he tipped his head back, staring up at you pleadingly. You leaned forward, pressing your lips on his, and his hands grabbed your hips, slowly leading you to move up and down his cock. “Feel so good for me darling - you’re my good girl.” 

You let out a small whine against his lips, your hands gripping at the bedsheets on either side of his head. You rolled your hips, going faster against him but he stopped you from picking up to much pace. 

“Slow down baby. I ain’t going anywhere.” He chuckled warmly. His laugh shot straight down your spine, clenching around his cock, making him growl. “Yeah, I’m staying right here. Just enjoy it.” he purred. His eyes trailed over the lingerie you were wearing. “Pretty girl you are…” He muttered, as if he was talking to himself. His hands moved to grope your breasts, squeezing them and rubbing his thumbs over your peaked nipples. He tugged the bralette down, exposing your tits that bounced every time you moved and he let out a small whine by how lovely you looked.

The candles lit in the room illuminated your figure perfectly, bathing you in a warm glow that made you look ethereal. Your skin was glowing, your face contorted in heavenly pleasure. He didn’t know how or why you chose to stay with him. He was a cranky old asshole, who brought more harm than good in this world yet for some reason you doted on him like he was the most beautiful thing you ever soon. 

That’s okay though, he was smitten with you too.

You did your best staying at a steady pace, his large hands on your hips as he helped you move up and down on him. You tipped your head back, rolling your hips against his again, making him hitch his breath. “Lo- You feel so good…” You whined.

“You’re fucking amazing baby.” He muttered. “I’m so damn lucky. How’d I get you? Huh?” 

His hand came up around your cheek, moving down to the back of your neck, pulling you down to kiss him again. “Stay close pretty girl.” 

His hips began thrusting into you. You moaned his name, arching your back, angling yourself so he would hit that spot that curled your toes. Your hands went into his hair, as you met his pace. His arms wrapped around your back, pulling you to his chest as he thrusted harder and faster. You panted, your cheek pressed against his chest, as your body became dumb and pliant from the overwhelming pleasure you got from his cock stretching you open. 

“Lo-!” You whined. “Harder!” 

He grunted, thrusting into you hard as you moved your hips back on him, that warm honey feeling pooling in your belly. 

“Get close doll?” He moaned, “C’mon baby, c’mon. Cum for me.” 

You cried you as you finally snapped, your body trembling against his as your pussy pulsed around his cock. Your release flooding and soaking his thighs and lower stomach. He thrusted into you one more time, and a loud shout of your name and you felt his cum filling you up, slowly dripping out of you.

A moment passed, as you both took a breath, before you managed to push yourself up, face to face with him. He had a goofy, lovesick grin on his face, and you tilted your head. 

“I love you.” You tell him, 

“Mm, love you too sugar.” He hums, his hand coming up to rub up and down soothingly down your back. “I’m…sorry I didn’t get you much for Valentines.” 

“That’s okay pumpkin,” You hummed, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “All I need is you anyway.” 

[spiceofvy]

SKZ - Reader getting hurt during Sex

cws: gender neutral reader, nsfw, comfort, no angst, reader getting hurt, slight dom!Chan, minor mentions of blood (Minho, Felix), bottom reader (Minho, Hyunjin, Jeongin), slight dom!Changbin, Changbin underestimating his strength, slight dom!Hyunjin, mentions of bondage and shibari (Hyunjin), forgetting to check your rope (Hyunjin), reader going to the ER (Felix, but it's nothing dramatic I promise), Jeongin having a big dick

Chan: One day he tried to do this cool movie thing where he shoves you against the wall while making out with you, completely forgetting that he needs to shield the back of your head. So you just hit the back of your head against the wall behind you, wincing in pain. It doesn't hurt too bad but still enough to push a stray tear to your eye. He is so sorry and mad at himself apologizing over and over. He will make it up to you, on his knees if you let him.

Minho: It was during one of his favorite activities, mirror sex. He pushes you against the cold surface, making you look at yourself as you are just about to come, when suddenly there is a sharp edge underneath your fingers. It's not a deep cut, just a few droplets of blood but enough for him to kinda freak out and immediately getting you a bandaid. Moving the two of you to the bed where he worships the hell out of you, treating you like you are made of glass.

Changbin: The two of you were just going at it as Changbin decides to be a little bit more dominant, holding your wrists above your head. It feels good until he suddenly grabs you just a little bit too tightly, squeezing your wrists too tight accidentally. Making you let out the tiniest whine of pain. He is shocked about the situation and immediately gets ice for you. He feels terrible and after the first pain is gone which really wasn't that bad he does need some reassurance.

Hyunjin: He definitely enjoys some artsy bondage or even Shibari. In the heat of the moment he forgets to tightness check one of the ropes and so while he fucks you, you get some slight rope burn. You quickly tell him, and he immediately unties you. In the end it's only slightly red and you aren't hurt. But he still feels terrible and the next few times he double-checks all his rope so you don't get hurt again.

Jisung: Jisung is a friend of many positions. Including many positions during one session. Always trying something new, some even including some low key acrobatic movements. Until he suddenly pushes your leg in a weird direction sending a short pinch of pain through your body. Nothing too bad but he still feels like a monster leading to the two of you only having missionary sex for some while.

Felix: Felix is a biter in bed, and it's cute honestly. He wasn't even aware of it until you once pointed out the bite marks to him. Sometimes they are on your lips, your neck or maybe even your thighs. Just some faint dark marks in your skin that heal within days. But one day while he cums he bites your shoulder a bit too hard, drawing blood. And he absolutely freaks out. He heard horror stories about how dangerous human bites can be so he immediately takes you to the ER. Where he very shyly explains to the doctors what happened.

Seungmin: When the two of you came home you couldn't get your hands off each other, messily making out, undoing each other's clothes uncaring if a button goes astray or a zipper breaks. You two were lost in the heat clawing at each other for release. You were just wiggling out of your own pants when suddenly one of your legs got stuck and you fell backwards, onto the ground. Seungmin stares at you confused before he bursts out in laughter, helping you up and carrying you to your bed.

Jeongin: I think we all know that Jeongin has a huge dick. And that he is not the most experienced out of the bunch. So one time you guys were really excited to go at it. But he still took his time prepping you, making sure you are relaxed and ready for him. Or at least so you two thought, turns out you both kinda underestimated just how big he was, and when he enters you you feel the short painful pinch of stretching too fast. Of course he slows down, worried that he could have hurt you too much. How cursed our baby is with his big dick.

[whatispersonalspacejyp]

Nightly activities

Genre: Smut, (slight gang au)

Pairing: Bang Chan x (f) reader

Word Count: 1319

Warnings: Cunnilingus, nipple play, nipple piercings, blow job, using condoms (cause safety first), after care

Authors note: maybe I'll make it in some kind of universe with the other members as well ;)

Date: 15 February 2025

I turned off the water and walked out of the shower, grabbing a towel for my hair and wrapping it up before taking a second bigger one to dry myself. This whole situation is just weird: once a poor person, now living in a luxury mansion under the protection of Stray Kids.  

Putting on my panties and a shirt and for my dignity a bathrobe. It was 2 pm, and all of them were most likely asleep, but I didn’t want to risk anything.  I want some water and a small snack. The door softly opened as I sneaked out of it, I didn’t want to alarm any of the others. The kitchen was pretty much on the other side of the building, but still a few slept on this side.

I walked into the kitchen to grab a small snack and some water. Once I had everything I turned around and got scared as Chan just stood there, watching me like a hawk. Chan smirked as he noticed my scared expression before walking to me, easily lifting me up on the counter. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” His hands stroking my thighs all while staying quiet, slowly revealing more and more of them all while looking at my face. I felt my face burning up, why was he so hot? Chan’s hands stopped at the panties with a small smirk before slowly pulling at them before going for a kiss. While I was shocked at first, I quickly collected myself and started kissing him back. It was something new, all the men before him were so quick so eager, and only cared for themselves. By now many of them would have put their dicks inside and were going at it like a wild animal. But not Chan, he was going slow, lifting me slightly to get rid of my panties, and just kept on stroking my thighs. 

“You’re such a pretty little thing.” He whispered in my ear before going down to my core. “I want to taste you.” He said looking up at me, wanting confirmation, so I nod my head. Chan smiled before kissing my inner thighs, slowly going toward the core. My head fell back at the sensation of his lips on my clit, then something more wet, his tongue. The sudden feeling made my hands go to his hair, pulling at it. It felt so god damm good. His hands still stroking my body before going down too, rubbing my clit while with the other hand, he pushed a finger in. No one has ever done this before. It felt sad when Chan suddenly stopped and moved up again towards my face before kissing me again, tasting myself on him. “I want you, sweetheart, I need you, but not here.” 

Chan lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as we descended into the long hallway to his room. Once in his room, he threw me on the bed. His room had a red hue due to some decorative lights on the wall. Chan turned back and undid my robe. I move up to my knees to undo his button-up shirt. Chan just stroked my arms while I did that. I helped him get rid of his shirt before he took a step away from the bed to get off his shoes and pants, I decided to take off my shirt at that moment before looking at Chan. His body looked like a god, it made me excited. I wanted him too. Chan smirked again before crawling onto the bed, attacking my neck. Nipping, biting and nipping at it, claiming me as his. 

Chan moved his mouth down towards my breasts. “Oh baby, those piercings look so good on you.” He purred as he started stroking my nipple and moved his mouth the other one to lick it. “You like that baby,” I whined out a yes before Chan quickly stopped and grabbed my arms.

Chan pinned my wrists, while his other hand was shoved in between my legs. Stroking a bit before pushing one of his fingers inside of me. I bite back and moan at the feeling. Chan moved closer and started running his tongue over my lips before pushing inside of me. We swirled our tongues before pausing, barely touching each other's lips to get some air. “Chan… please.” I cried out. Chan just smiled and pulled his fingers out. “Suck.” Chan held out his fingers to my mouth and I started sucking them clean. “Good girl.” Once Chan was satisfied enough he pulled them out and I quickly got of the bed towards the edge, making Chan follow in slight confusion. 

I sank on my knees in front of Chan who sat at the end of the bed. I started stroking Chan before my swollen lips went around his cock. I hollowed my cheeks around him as I started sucking him, even playing with his ball for more pleasure. Chan growled slightly and grabbed my hair to get more control. All that made me look up at him. Chan looked at me with hazy eyes, even smirking a bit. He then started fucking my mouth to get to his release. “Oh, god, yes.” He choked out before cumming in my mouth. Chan pulled out as smiled as he noticed my lips had darkened and was both wet with saliva and his cum. 

Chan moved to his nightstand and grabbed a condom out of it. Chan ripped the package open and rolled it around his cock. I in the meantime got on the bed again, waiting for Chan to move towards me. Chan crawled towards me and started kissing me. I moaned at the feeling of him entering me, holding onto Chan. “God fuck, you’re so wet.” his lips brushed against my ears, before ghosting over my neck and started with a slow pace. “Faster,” I begged. Chan shoved his hips a bit harder against mine and started picking up his pace. My hands have found his back and hair. One raking through his hair while running my fingers lightly over his shoulder blades. Chan nuzzled his nose in my neck while trying to keep his moans and groans quiet. 

The thrusting made me see stars. I started clawing at his back making Chan let out a breahily moan. “Baby… oh god, please you feel so good.” He loses the rhythm as his climax approaches, one of his hands moves to hold mine. Chan started rubbing my clit all while hitting that G-spot. I clenched around Chan's cock, making him leave out an animalistic growl and sloppy speeds up to thrust to his own release. The feeling of him continuing to thrust felt like bliss, making my back arch.  “Oh fuck, oh yes, there fuck.” Chan panted out before coming himself. While he rode out I felt my body going limp while trying to catch my breath.

Chan pulled out and collapsed next to me, both of us panting. A musky smell of sweat hanging in the air. He then moved to me and kisses my forehead before removing his condom and throwing it in the bin. I looked at Chan for a few seconds, seeing him leave into what I thought was the bathroom. I moved back to look at the ceiling before closing my eyes.

My eyes opened at the feeling of something wet between my legs and made me let out a shakingly moan. “Sorry baby.” Chan whispered as he cleaned me with a wet towel. I relaxed again at his words and seeing what he was doing. Chan smiled and threw the towel away and grabbed the duvet which had fallen of the bed and pulled it with him on the bed, covering us both with the blanket. I moved closer to Chan and he put his arms around me, holding me close. “I love you baby.”

[very-merry-birthday]

Sun Dress Season

~~~~~

Summary: A hot day, a long drive, an overactive imagination. When you just can't stand it anymore you finally say something- and get more than you bargained for.

Sam x Reader

Warnings: A little bit of roughness

A/N: It's crazy to me that I'm posting again after so many years. This started as a Dean idea in my head- but I just couldn't stop picturing Sam instead.

~~~~~

You'd known the Winchesters for years now, and hated Sam for just as long.

He's always been uptight, too proud, a health freak. Dean, you could get on with, have a beer with. But Sam? He was an absolute drag and only worth talking to about hunting. Not that he liked you either, you didn't always follow his rules, didn't do research like he did. Usually you just steered clear from one another, Dean the only connection between you.

You watched him carefully from the passenger seat as he drove along, eyes steadfast on the road, his jaw tightening and relaxing as he chewed his gum. You couldn't deny he was hot, strong frame made him stand out in a crowd, and with his hair pushed back out of his face you were able to trace his chiseled face with your eyes.

"It'll get colder as the sun starts to set", he prompted, undoing another button on his shirt to let the cool air from the open window hit him. You fanned yourself with a takeout menu, not bothering to respond. It had been hot for weeks, and the nights barely provided relief. Not to mention you hated the way he described simple facts as though you didn't already know them.

Your sundress clung to your body, your skin tacky with heat. You hated the feeling. "I need a shower."

He glanced over at you, his eyes quickly darting up and down your body and back to the road. Clearly he didn't want to bother responding to you either. You watched as a small bead of sweat formed at his temple, quickly wicked away by his own shirt sleeve.

Last summer Sam had kissed you during an argument. His hand was tight on your jaw as he crashed his lips into yours. It was angry, and heated, and confusing. But so fucking hot. And too quick. As soon as you'd finally registered what was actually happening he'd pulled away and walked off without another word.

For the last year you'd barely been alone with him, both of you hesitant to be around one another, and never bringing up what had happened. So much so you were beginning to wonder if was actually real or if it was a heatstroke induced hallucination. But watching him now, with the air in the car stifling and muggy, your skin beaded with sweat and his jaw constantly clenching around his gum, it was all you could think about. You fiddled with Dean's cassettes to keep yourself occupied, cursing him out in your head for getting sick enough to leave you and Sam alone on a hunt.

Sam let out a small cough, clearing his throat in the awkward silence. "I, uh, like your dress." He let his eyes dart over your body again momentarily, and then back to the road, steadfast.

You looked down at yourself, the short white sundress was nothing compared to some disguises you'd worn over the years as a hunter, all outfits that Sam had never commented on. "I- thanks". A beat, the sound of the engine filling the air. "It's too hot for anything else... It's old."

"Yeah it's nice- it makes you look nice- or whatever." He stumbled over his words, taking you aback. "It suits you I mean, it's nice to see your legs out." He swallowed hard.

Another beat, friction. "Is that shirt not boiling?"

He looked down at his own outfit now, his thick flannel tight on his arms, the top of his chest shining with sweat where he'd unbuttoned it unusually low. He let out a small chuckle, "it was a stupid decision, I didn't really think it through."

It felt weird seeing him admit a mistake, something about it made you feel far more comfortable. You were desperate to reach out and touch him, his neck, his arms. You wanted his hands on your body, wrapped around your hips, around your throat. The images flashed through your mind, sending a pulse through your body and making you clench your thighs together.

You knew you couldn't think about this, not with him right next to you, and you also knew nothing could come of it. But with the heat filling the car, you allowed yourself the indulgence of your thoughts. You watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and quickly pictured his face buried between your legs, his tongue inside you, grinding against his mouth. His hand tightened on the wheel as he sped up along the straight stretch of road, and you allowed yourself to picture his long slender fingers thrusting into you, teasing you. You pictured one finger - no two - sliding through your wet folds, gliding over your clit and pushing deep inside you. Slowly, you glanced over to between his legs, watching as the bulge in his jeans shifted as his legs moved on the accelerator. You pictured him on top of you, both of you naked and sweaty, his cock pushing into you, your leg over his shoulder. Then you were on top, riding him as he threw his head back in a moan. Then you were stood in the shower, pressed against the wall with the water washing over you. Finally you were in the back of the impala, the leather seats ripping at both of your skin as he furiously pounded into you.

You tried to clear the images from your mind, watching the trees outside speeding past as late afternoon set in. As the cooler air began to pour through the window, your mind continued to drift back to Sam, his tongue, his fingers, his cock. The silence only made it harder to stave off the thoughts, impossible to hold them off for longer than five minutes at a time.

After a short while, Sam looked over at you, curiosity finally breaking the silence. "You're quiet..."

His voice shocked you back to reality, unsure how to respond. He looked over at you again, "... What were you thinking about?"

You couldn't take it another second.

"If you pull over right now I'll suck your cock" what the fuck did I just say?!

Sam let out a spluttered cough. "Wha- I- What?!" He was vocalising your own thoughts right back to you.

"I mean- Look we're both adults, we're both hot, and neither of us have been laid in a while." It was true that the hunting life was not kind to either of you. "It doesn't have to mean anything it's just two adults trying to get some urges out." At this point you were trying justifying it to yourself more than to him.

"I- right here?" He looked towards the outstretched road in front of him, no cars had passed for at least an hour.

"Look, I just want you inside of me okay?" I need you inside of me.

His face turned darker and his voice dropped deeper, you could see your words were starting to have the desired affect. "Right now?"

"I'm not going to ask again, so right now's your chance." At this point I'd get down on my knees and beg you.

His jaw clenched again, a thousand thoughts washing over him within seconds. You shut yourself up, watching the micro expressions spread across his face, not wanting to accidentally talk yourself out of it. Then, to the relief of the tight ball in your stomach, he began to press on the break and turn the car to the side of the road, pulling off onto a dirt track lined with a thicket of trees. He turned the car off and swung himself around in one fluid motion, his legs spreading out across the front seats.

His arrogance once again astounded you. He was by no means a short man and the idea you'd both be able to fit while fucking in the front seat was laughable. All the same, you realized your body was already unintentionally reaching towards the fly of his pants, desperate to touch him.

You tugged at his clothes, his cock springing free from his boxers, already on its way to becoming fully hard. You allowed yourself one more glance up at him, and saw him staring back at you, his eyes trained on your mouth. You realized he was just as desperate as you, just more successful at keeping his mouth shut about it, and decided maybe you did still hold some power in this situation. With that you wrapped your mouth around the head of his cock, sinking down on him and letting him fill your mouth. He let out a short grunt, his hand gripping the back of the leather seat.

You weren't completely shocked by the size of his dick, you knew a man so full of himself must be carrying around something larger than average, but as it filled your mouth you were still surprised to feel just how large it really was. With one hand still on the seat, his other came to the back of your head, coaxing your mouth down lower. You choked slightly as his cock hit the back of your throat, momentarily blocking your airway, and he let out another involuntary groan before catching himself.

You pulled yourself off of him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Honestly you're not as big as I expected," you shot, hoping to bring him down a peg.

He watched as you sunk your mouth over him again, your tongue darting out to his tip, and the taste of salty precum mixed with the heat induced sweat filled your mouth. You swallowed it down, allowing him to once again press himself to the back of your throat.

"Yet still large enough for you to gag on." He retorted, shooting you a smug grin. You wanted to call him a prick, but you felt your core tighten with arousal.

Your hand gripped the base of his cock, allowing yourself a few extra inches to breathe, and continued to bob your head around him, his hand pushing you lower each time. You looked up at him again, his eyes shut, head rolled back, mouth slightly ajar. The look on his face made you moan, sending vibrations through his member. He gripped a tight handful of your hair, desperate for the control he was loosing every second to your mouth. You used the pause in rhythm to pull your head back up, dedicating your efforts to his tip with light licks and sucking, and his grip tightened.

"Don't- don't stop" he managed to get out in tight breaths, no longer feeling any embarrassment for his needs, desperate for your touch. You smiled around his cock, once again letting him push you down further as he continued to hit the back of your throat.

Steadily you swallowed him down, becoming used to his size and rhythm, his hand guiding your head. He let out another whimpering moan, "I need-".

You let yourself break free for a moment, looking up at him with wide, desperate eyes, "where do you wanna cum?"

"Fuck!" Just the sound of your question caused him to keel, pushing you back onto his cock and rolling his head back. You took that to mean your mouth, and went back to work on the rhythm of his pounding. "Jesus Christ-"

He tangled his fingers into your hair, pushing you deeper, until it felt like your whole throat was filled with his cock.

"-I, God hang on" he spluttered out, continuing to push you lower before finally allowing you to come up for air. "Hang on- I need your pussy, get out the front of the car."

His request turned your legs to jelly, and watching him try to pull himself together for long enough to open his own door wasn't helping. You pulled your eyes away, desperate for some composure, and kicked open your side. Getting out quick, you wasted no time in hopping up onto the hood of the car, as he came around the other side. With no gentleness, he pulled your hips forward, looking down at you with a stern but needy look. Your hand reached out to his chest, following the contours of his defined muscles.

"This fucking dress-" he dropped to his knees, pushing his face between your legs and biting down hard on your inner thigh. You let out a squeal, and grabbed his thick head of hair, half in pain and half wanting more. He kissed up your thigh, heavy thick kisses that left you hot, as you pulled his head in closer. He lent back, pulling off your panties tortuously slowly, watching for your needy reaction the whole time, and dropping them to the ground next to him. He smiled to himself again, and then buried his face into your pussy.

You let out a desperate gasp, your legs clasping around his head as your body rolled back, looking for stabilization. His tongue pushed through your folds, lapping at your wetness. His hand went to your hip, gripping you tightly as he found his rhythm. A grin started to form on his face as he enjoyed your taste and noises of desperation, and you let your need for control disappear.

His tongue darted out to your clit, causing you to let out a needy gasp for more. He withdrew, his grin growing with his teasing, as he mumbled into you, "that good?"

You could barely reply, just a "mhmm" of confirmation.

"Come on, use your words", he pulled his head away and looked up at you, replacing his tongue with a long digit.

Oh that did it, you composed yourself, drawing on your last bit of pride, and swallowed down the growing desperation for his tongue to be back in you. It helped that you were able to momentarily remember what you really wanted out of all this. Looking back down at his now confused face, you replied, "are you gonna finally fuck me or what?"

He shot you a sudden hungry look. Standing back up straight he grabbed your hip, pulling you towards him and off the front of the bonnet. You landed unsteadily as he spun you around so your front was facing the car. His hand found the center of your back, pushing you down heavily, your jaw colliding with the hard metal. A sharp pain shocked through your face, quickly replaced by the sensation of cooling metal. You should have known he liked it rough.

He pushed your dress up to your hips, giving himself a second to admire you bent over and having to bite his bottom lip to stop a groan escaping. He gave your ass one quick sharp slap, before carefully rubbing it to stop any stinging as he roughly pulled out his cock. He lined himself up with your entrance, and you could feel his tip gently pressed against you.

A simple "Yeah?" caught in his throat was all he was able to get out.

"Yes!"

He pushed himself into you, his cock stretching you out, filling you up as you let out a wanting moan. You steadied yourself against the metal as he thrust into you, gaining speed, careless hands gripping your hips hard to keep himself balanced.

"You look so fucking good," he growled, pounding into you, "bent over with a cock in you. Christ- I'll never get over this image".

He moved one of his hands up to your hair, grabbing a tight fist full into a ponytail and pulling you closer, causing your back to arch further. You let out a gasping moan as he thrust deeper into you, causing your legs to shake.

"-and don't you just sound so fucking good." He groaned, giving your ass another sharp slap.

"Sam I'm gonna-"

"Wait-" he cut you off, his focus back on thrusting faster, pushing you further and further. You felt your orgasm begin to rise, knowing you could hardly handle another moment.

"Sammy seriously I'm gonna cum-" you begged, another moan escaping your lips.

"I told you to-" another deep thrust "-fucking wait". His tone was deep and in control, his animalistic groaning giving way to a man who wanted to make this last as long as he could. The sensation of his voice sent another wave through you, but you held off your orgasm, desperate to please him.

His thrusts grew deeper yet, a sharp exhale of breath on each one stopping him from moaning any louder, as he watched his cock drive into you. He bit his lip again, hard, as he watched your ass bouncing off of him, your pussy dripping wet and taking him so well. With you bent over the Impala, he wished he could continue this moment for a lifetime, but he felt his own orgasm on the brink of explosion.

"You wanna cum with me?" He moaned, his hand tugging at your hair in a tight motion.

"Please-"

He couldn't even let you finish before his hot cum shot out of him, sending his body shaking as it took everything in him to keep himself stood up. You felt as he continued to pound into you, allowing you to ride out your own orgasm, the sensation of his cum filling you only sending you more wild. Both of you gasped with hot, shaky breaths, the once consistent thrusting becoming messy and frantic, his grip on your hair and hip loosening.

He allowed himself one more deep thrust, enjoying the feeling of stretching you out along every inch of his cock before pulling out. He braced himself on the front of the car and composed himself, pulling his pants back up and doing up his fly in one quick gesture. You hopped off the bonnet and began to straighten out your dress. He chuckled lightly, a shit-eating-grin spreading across his face as he lent down to pick up your panties, holding them out to you on an outstretched finger.

"You're a gentleman", you stated sarcastically, rolling your eyes as you took them from him.

"Don't get used to it." He took a step back in order to draw you all in, his eyes once again darting up the length of your body, allowing himself to linger on your thighs and breasts. He closed the gap between you, hooking a finger below your chin and tilting your face up to look at him.

"Next time you wear that dress, I'm going to make you sit on my face for as long as I want, you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Get back in the car we've got a long drive still to go."