#it flickered on and off for a second and we were just slack jawed and when it came back on we literally started RIOTING

[gu6chan]

THE POWER'S BACK ON!!!!!!!! IT CAME ON 7:23 SO LITERALLY LIKE AN HOUR AGO OMGGGG

[stareiiez]

You're Mine, Now and Forever

notes: first actually long fic for this fandom, and its giving a slow start. don't worry! it gets better from here. also idk how I feel about this style of writing, it feels off. idk.

warnings: MINORS DNI.

words :3.3k

chapter two

You don't know how it happened, or how much time passed when the first scream ripped through the air and the first bloody body collided with your frantic driving on the express lane outta town. After all, it was just supposed to be like any other day, with you spending your time at work during a slow hour; organizing and reorganizing dresses for what felt like the nth time that hour just so you looked productive. Pop music filtered slowly through the store's speakers and you hummed to the few lines you knew of Chappel Roan's new hit song. The two customers milling around the clearance section chatted to another one of your coworkers across the store, and your manager was at the cash register, scrolling through logs of ordered clothing items to make sure they were in stock in the store's catalogs.

It was a boring day. A lunch break was the motivation for you to continue mindlessly nitpicking at full clothing racks when the first explosion shook the very building. The music stuttered glitching just to accompany the flickering overhead flourescent lights. Then another explosion follows soon after, a deep heavy boom that sinks into the soles of your shoes and rockets up your spinal cord to shake your back molars. Your mouth wants to open, to ask the obvious ' What the fuck was that?" out loud like every stereotypical blonde that questions the bloody scream they heard in the middle of the night in every 90's horror movie. But the chorus of screams and chaos answers your inner thoughts instead. Screams of fleeing citizens running away from whatever danger caused the very ground to shake, and smoke to plume into clouds upwards.

"Stay back, " your manager barks to you and three other women who cower together in a small huddle. She walks towards the still rattling glass doors of the store. A shared fear decorates your faces as you all watch with bated breath; the two sets of wide doors swing open, and your manager steps out into the chaotic mass of running bodies that swarm past her.

Horror paints her face when she sees the source of the destruction. Her head is tilted backward and jaw slack, her amber eyes the size of marbles, she's rooted to the spot. You're surprised she's not knocked off her small feet with every push and shove she endures. "Oh my god." Your ears strain, eyes focused on the way her mouth moves over each syllable with a slow, shocked pace. You're not blessed with reading lips, but you'd like to think that adrenaline fuels your brain enough to make out the word 'Invincible' before the ground shakes again.

This time, the destruction targets your building particularly. One second you're standing and the next, you're knocked on your ass washed away in a wave of shattered glass and minuscule pieces of asphalt and rubble that spray into your vicinity. The outside world, once muffled by plexiglass, screams with sirens, and people running for their lives berate your ringing eardrums. Your front doors are destroyed and buried under brick-and-mortar rubble. Severed limbs stick out this way and at odd angles from the tight crevices of drywall and insulation. The dust makes your eyes water, and you choke on a scream that squeezes your throat something fierce. You like to think you're not consumed by the panic and the trauma of watching your manager and several others get crushed to death in a matter of seconds because Mark has gone off the deep end.

"Come on!" Your coworker's words bark at you. Suddenly she's at your side, in your shocked haze, she managed to be the functioning one out of the rest of your group. Her hands grab onto your forearm and yank all your dead weight to your feet. "We need to leave! I don't want to die here!" Her free hand holds onto the sobbing customer, the other woman accompanying her is missing. Surely buried under the rubble that caved in one corner of the dress store, maybe she was one of the hands that was reaching out from the concrete bloody mess. The thought makes you want to stop and vomit, your stomach curdles with how much stress and adrenaline swarms through your body in nauseating waves.

You follow her, not like you had a choice, she's pulling your trio towards the back of the store and the emergency exit. Her breaths are ragged and half-sputtering between prayers to some god she believes in that your only exit isn't blocked off either. "Stay here, I need to get the keys in the office." Your coworker says, dropping both of your hands. Her face is an ashy pale gray when she turns to give both you and the other woman a once over, checking to see if you're all in one piece and able-bodied enough to book it once she gets the door open. You must look just like her, the expression of unrestrained fear and cement particles dusting your face. Small streaks of blood trickle down your temples and nose bridge, thanks to the shards of plexiglass that rained over you in the third explosion.

You nod, swallowing down acidic bile that bubbles at the back of your throat. Your eyes linger on her small back when she makes a mad dash to the small back office down the hall. When she disappears from your line of sight, your phone vibrates in your pocket. It makes you jump right out of your ashen grey skin. The woman beside you startles as well, her hand clutching at her heart. "Sorry," you manage to whisper, while your hands scramble to the right back pocket of your jeans to dig out your phone. The now cracked touch screen illuminates too brightly, shining a picture of you and Mark Grayson posed in a goofy pose. Your fingers poised in a 'peace' sign, while the male was peeking out from behind your shoulder with his two pointer fingers raised above either side of your head. Your twin smiles look so carefree in the saved contact picture you have of him.

Your thumb taps on the green answer button, and you raise the phone to your ear. Mark's out-of-breath panting sends chills down your spine in some sickly worrisome way. Your name barks through the speaker of the phone, the continuous screams make it almost hard to hear him. "Mark? Mark, what's going on? " You don't even question why the hell he's calling in the first place, isn't he the supposed one murdering and tearing down the city? Isn't that why the people screaming his superhero name saw him wreak havoc?

"No time! Please tell me you're safe. ." a pause, his ragged inhale makes your heart squeeze in time with your clammy palm gripping the phone tighter to your ear. "Please."

"I'm fine." You copy his pause, brows wrinkle in thought. You know you're lying, you're not fine. You're dazed and confused, shaking in your sleek shoes. Your legs are unsteady and becoming more and more unstable, the comedown from adrenaline is going to be a fickle bitch that'll do you in if whatever happening outside doesn't kill you first. "I'm still at work, I'm waiting for the door to get unlocked as fast as it can be."

Even through the grey background noise on the other side of the line, Mark's sigh crackles through the call. You could picture his shoulders just dropping the tiniest inch in relief, that a loved one of his hadn't been hurt or god forbid, even slaughtered mercilessly in the devastation that had been going on. "You need to get out of here." His voice urges, tensely.

"Mark-"

"I'm serious!" His tone jumps, he's barking. Halfway yelling, and you flinch. The woman at your side reacts by recoiling, both of your nerves bouncing off one another like electrons bouncing off the walls of an atom. "You need to get the fuck out of here, find a car-- any car. Don't even think about hiding, you need to drive as far as you can outta here. You hear me?"

You swallow dryly, fingers squeezing tighter. Blood rushes in your ears, you know you can't argue. There's no way to get information outta him now, not when his words are clipped, whatever is happening outside is far more important and drastic than arguing with his girlfriend who's too stubborn to flee for her life without asking stupid questions. You're smarter than that, and he knows it. He's lost far too many things, and gone through too many traumatizing situations than to waste time and not save the people he loves. Your eyes close briefly, counting to three in your whirling hellscape of a mind. You nod like he can even see you. You can sense it's different now. This isn't some closed-off fight between Nolan and his son that trying to stand up to him and not ' ready the Earth' for the viltrumites to come. This is far more scarier, it's drastic and life-shattering. "What about you? People are screaming Invincible is causing this."

"Don't worry about me." Mark says, his tone more gentle than before, "Just run, I can handle them and if anything happens to me? Just know I love you, okay?"

Your breath hitches. You hate how that sounds; you hate the confession on his lips. It sounds more like a goodbye than him admitting his affection for you like he does every day so casually. It feels heavier on your heart, it rattles your bones, and the tidal wave of curdling bile in your stomach roars into a tsunami. You need to vomit. You need to yell at Mark and tell him to not talk like that. You want to tell him that whatever is happening outside can be handled by the two of you together, even if you don't have any powers. Yet, before you can even voice any of those options over the phone, the call ends with a sharp click. You don't know tears are dotting your waterline till you blink so rapidly that a few salty drops cut trails down your ashy cheeks. Gray water stains the front of your shirt, and your phone lowers from your ear. Your grip is loose on the device.

"Got them!" Your coworker calls out, jogging back to you and the other woman; the jangling keys clenched tight in her fist. You don't know if it adds to the hurt your heart is already holding onto when she doesn't acknowledge the distraught on your face. She's more focused on jamming one of the silver keys in the keyhole and twisting it to the right, the satisfying click and rough opening of the door rings in your muffled ears.

The woman shoves past the two of you without hesitation, making a break for it as fast as her forty-five-year-old bones can carry her. She won't make it far, she barely would last surviving running around the bend of the building before the crowd of citizens tramples her half to death in their need to live another minute longer. Any man for themself is a fickle bitch. Your head turns to your coworker as you follow suit, breaking into a jog. She's already following behind, her pace a lot faster. "Stay safe." You call to her when she breezes past. Her silhouette disappears when she blends into the waves of people, fighting against the current so she can get to some sort of safety before she gets crushed to death herself. Her kindness, her stupid jokes, and her natural leadership are all you're going to have to remember her by; if you live long enough to even see her again.

You run a different path, following the makeshift alleyway that's half crumpled down and now smaller in size, your shoes threaten to trip on jutting-out stone and rebar when you traverse too fast. Your heart thuds faster in your chest, brain running a million miles an hour on how to keep yourself from running further and further away from the manic crowds. Alley water splashes at your ankles, sinks into your shoes, and makes your socks stick to your soles. You cringe inwardly, pumping your legs harder till you too start to run. The small alley breaks out into wide open space, and sunlight and smokey skies greet your frazzled complexion. Crashed cars and abandoned vehicles greet you immediately, some are still smoking and burning. Hot oil and melted rubber don't do anything to quell the queasiness you've been fighting this entire day, but there's no stopping now.

Now, you have to leave. No matter who Invincible knock-off is causing this; they'll be busy fighting off Mark and his team. You run along the cracked sidewalk, eyes sweeping over the conditions of the vehicles.

The lessening of people crying for help is eery, the whole city should be shouting from the tops of their lungs. It's like everyone got wiped out in a matter of seconds, or on a lighter note, they're all hiding and being as quiet as possible so they don't die next. You expected to see clogged highways and people running along the highways seeking freedom, instead, there are only deserted streets and cars tipped over on their sides that you brush past in your search for a ride.

Finally, you spot a buggy. A cute little Volkswagon with dents decorating its doors, and still running. Its engine is the loudest thing in the pin-drop silence, even compared to your sneakers pounding on the pavement. You know it's stupid to take the bait, that some conveniently placed car is here while you were in the middle of your search. You like to think you're better than the dumb female lead of a horror movie, that falls for every trick and ploy the killer lays out for her; but you're desperate. You need to fulfill Mark's wish, that you get the fuck out here and run as far as you can. The leather seat squeaks under your weight when you throw yourself inside the car and shut the door behind you. The car's radio crackles with dead static over its speakers, it sends chills up your spine and only adds to the apocalyptic atmosphere your once-busy city has been subjected to.

You're a walking target. The last survivor of your bug colony that trying to outrun the burning magnifying glass held above your head by some sadistic fucking toddler. The realistic side of things is, that you won't live to see the outskirts of the city before the Invincible knockoff crushes you and your car into smithereens. It'll be quick and painless, but you would hate to be another headstone in a graveyard that your family and Mark would have to visit. That's if they can separate your body from twisted metal and leather. With bated breath, you shift the car from park into drive and slam your foot down onto the gas. Clammy hands clench the wheel when you speed down the streets. You weren't prepped to see the mass destruction that greets you with every twist and turn you made. Bodies littered the streets, some in one piece, others most likely ripped into multiple pieces and scattered over the road and sidewalks. Collapsed buildings and homes make you swerve and splash puddles of oil and blood on the car's exterior. Your tires have run over a body part or more not to crash; the squish of flesh being flattened unnaturally is unmistakable in your ears.

"This is so fucked." You whisper under the roar of your pounding heartbeat. The city limit sign seems to grow closer and closer to you once you hit the wide-open highway. The drive through the rest of the city was thankfully quick, and you still were alive and unharmed. It's a miracle.

Your hope swells and stirs in the pit of your stomach like acid-covered butterflies, you're going to make it. You're going to make it! The delirious bubble of laughter peels from your parched throat, you can't help it. However, that laughter dies just as fast as it came. Just when you were going to pass that beloved city limit sign that seems just in arms reach now, your car hits the dark blue blur that launches itself in front of you. Your foot doesn't react quickly enough to hit the brake, but somehow you're violently stopped. Your chest hits the steering wheel, forehead threatening to follow suit if it wasn't for the seatbelt yanking you back just in time to save you from a concussion.

"Well, and who do we have here?" A male voice speaks out, way too calm for your own disorientated liking. "Hey pretty girl, didn't know if I'd see you again."

Again?!

You blink quickly, as a hand rubs at your bruising chest. In front of you, is . . Invincible. His color scheme is the same, black and blue, but he looks different. His ears stick out, and his hair is hidden away by his suit. His smile which you thought was charming and shy, is replaced with a sick stretched look. He bares all of his white teeth at you like a predator intimidating its prey. In your heart you know this isn't your Mark, it can't be. Not with the way he doesn't move a single centimeter of his body, he doesn't even look like he's breathing. The man is so quiet like he's waiting for you to freak out or scream, yet you disappoint him when you don't do either option. Boring, all you do is stare at him. Jaw slightly slacked, brain whirring a million microseconds a minute. His smile, however, doesn't waver. No, not at all; of course his pretty girl has always been smarter than any bimbo bitch that cried out when he flew through their bodies and ripped them to shreds in his hands.

It's what he loves- - no, it's what he was obsessed over back in his world. It was a shame you didn't last long in his care, and now it's like a higher being is rewarding him for his hard work here in your world to plant you in front of him so suddenly. He's glad the others didn't get to you first, who knows who he would have had to kill off his variants to get to you. He rounds to the side of the car so smoothly, your eyes watching his every step. A hand smacks down on the roof of the car, adding to the multitude of dents to its being. His other hand grips the handle of the driver's side door and pulls it off as easily as peeling off a sticker from its page.

He bends at the waist, his face invading your space far too close to your liking. He can smell the waves of fear and the new spike of adrenaline leaking from every pore of your body. Your natural scent mixed in is an addicting concoction that he never seemed to get enough of, you smell the same. You look just like the one in his home world. He hit the jackpot. You flinch at his movements, leaning far back in your car seat.

"Who are you?" Fuck you sound just like her. Your voice exhales so quietly, warmed breath fanning over the lower part of his face. Delicious.

The Invincible doesn't respond, doesn't even emote as much as that smile you start to grow unnerved of. It's unnatural, just like this entire day. Just like you don't know what the fuck even happened to get you to where you are now, staring in the face of a clone of your beloved Invincible.

[sinofwriting]

Fling - Charles Leclerc

Words: 1,072 Summary: Charles overhears his girlfriend telling someone that they are just a fling and will be ending soon which is more than confusing for him. Note(s): Reader is plus size in this. It is not said outright but very much implied. Charles and Reader both suck at communicating btw. Also this is based on a somewhat recent convo I had with someone where they told me I’d be pretty if it weren’t for me being fat so… Good thing I have thick skin

Masterlist | Support Me!

“It’s not going to last.”

Her eyes flicker off her phone screen for a second, eyebrow raising just a hint before they go back, typing a message. “Okay.”

“That’s all you have to say? Okay.”

“Well, you were a bit vague.” She draws out the last word, sighing. “So, yeah,” she nods, pausing. “Okay.”

The other huffs, shaking her head. “Charles and you, it’s never going to last. It was a good fling, a summer romance, but by next year you’ll be gone.”

Her lips thin and she pockets her phone, finally making eye contact with Silvia. “I’m more than aware that I don’t look like Charles’ past partners and that you have more than your fair share of issues with that and me. But Silvia, you don’t have to state the obvious. I’ve been aware.”

The older woman’s eyes are wide.

“It’s called enjoying something while it lasts and I intend to do so, enjoy this thing with Charles until it inevitably comes to end. Probably in the next month. We all know how you like him to be single going into the new year.”

Respect settles across Silvia’s face. “You are different than I thought.”

“Should’ve had a conversation with me.” She counters and Silvia concedes with a nod of her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll put out an insta story saying we parted on good terms and that things just don’t always work out. I’d say better as friends, but I think you’d kill me if I ever showed up in the garage again after this.”

“Just a bit.” Silvia then frowns. “You really knew this was never going to last? Between you and Charles?”

“Silvia,” And her tone softens for the first time. “It’s like I said. I’m aware of what I look like, especially compared to Charles and his exes. But it’s Charles, I would have been more stupid to say no to him and then to have him for at least a few months.”

Silvia holds her gaze for a few seconds before nodding and reaching forward, patting her hand. “It is a shame how you look. You would have made the perfect partner.”

And she doesn’t even flinch at the insult to her weight.

—

“Is everything okay?”

Her eyes are full of concern as she watches Charles move around the hotel room. His body tense, lips pressed together, jaw twitching.

His nostrils flare and she swears she can hear his teeth grinding.

“I overheard something, you and Silvia.” He fully turns to look at her and she’s unable to even get a second to mourn the loss of his side profile as she sees hurt in his eyes that’s surrounded by frustration.

“We aren’t going to last? I’m leaving you in the next month?”

“Charles,”

“No.” He shakes his head, cutting her off. “This is all news to me.”

“Is it?”

His head jerks back, “what?”

“We never talked about being serious, Charles. And you have a type, I’m so far away from that type it’s not even funny.”

“We never talked about being serious because every time I try to talk about our future you shut me down, you change the subject. And my type is you!” His voice is louder. “I know what my exes look like, I know my pattern, the jokes of how and why I date, but you are the most gorgeous woman in the world, as soon as I saw you, my type changed, I have no type, it is just you. It’s been seven months and I haven’t even looked at another woman.”

Her mind is struggling to process, her heart nearly beating out of her chest, her mouth slack with shock.

“You never tried talking about our future.” It’s all she can say because she can’t think of a single time he brought it up, he tried bringing it up.

“I tried asking you to come to lunch with my brothers and mom.”

Her eyes widened. “That was in July.”

“I asked about holiday plans, I asked about meeting your family. If you wanted kids, when you wanted them. And all I know is that you are going to family for two days for the holidays and that you want kids. That is all I got out of you. I tried giving you a key to my apartment.”

“I’m only ever in Monaco when I’m with you. Why would I ever need a key?”

He flushes, rubbing at the back of his neck. “This might be my bad, it was my way of asking you to move in, or just keep things at my place at least.”

“Charles.”

“I love you.”

Her heart skips a beat and all the hurt and frustration that had been on Charles’ face is gone, replaced by something she’s never seen directed at her.

“I’m crazy in love with you. And obviously we both need to work on things, talking, but I want to do that. I want you. I want you to move in with me, to continue going to all my races, to chide Leo before cuddling him. I want to marry you. In a day, a week, a month, a year, I don’t care when. And I want children with you. I want them to have your smile, your laugh, your stubbornness even though it infuriates me.”

Tears are spilling down her cheeks, lip trembling, and she nearly can’t speak.

“Charles, I want you too. I want all of that. I love you.”

He’s striding forward, his hands gentle on her face as he steals the breath from her lips.

They’ve shared many kisses in the seven months since they’ve known each other, but none like this.

“We are never breaking up.” Charles states when he pulls away after brushing their lips together once more.

“Never.” She agrees, a rush of excitement flooding her as she realizes that she gets to have this, have him, and never give him up.

He smiles at the answer, at the happiness that has flooded her face, the tension he didn’t even know was there that has left her body. “Now, when would you like to get married? I think I have a favor or two I could call to get us married tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Charles,” She shakes her head.

“What?”

“Take me to bed.”

His eyes widen for a brief second and then a smirk plays on his lips. “Happily, amour.”

[riqomi]

WOAH! ────ㅤ엔하이픈

엔하이픈 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff. suggestive. ──── BOOKSHELF ( 1496 ) tw: kissing. skinship

HEESEUNG heeseung goes still the second he sees you. the room’s quiet, low light flickering from the hallway lamp behind you, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed—shirt half-buttoned, jaw slack. “baby…” his voice is low, almost breathless, and his gaze drags down your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. “you’re seriously trying to kill me, huh?” he stands slowly, walking toward you, eyes never leaving yours. his fingers brush your waist, then settle there, firm. “this dress,” he murmurs, voice husky as he leans in, “i’m not gonna be able to focus on anything but you all night.” his lips find yours before you can tease him, slow and hot, like he’s tasting every second. his hands slide down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left. when he finally pulls back, breath shaky, he smirks. “we are still going out, right? or should we just… stay in?”

the door clicks shut behind you, and you barely get your shoes off before heeseung’s pulling you in. his jacket’s already tossed somewhere, tie loose around his neck, eyes darker than they were earlier—and they were already sinful. “you don’t even know what you did to me tonight,” he whispers, voice hot against your ear as he presses you against the wall. his hands slide down your waist, slow and deliberate. “sat across from me looking like that… touching my leg under the table like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.” you giggle, but it’s cut off by the way he kisses you—deep, possessive, like he’s been holding back all night. his lips part yours, tongue sliding slow, and you melt under the weight of it, of him. “been thinking about this all night,” he mutters, trailing kisses down your jaw, his hands already pulling you closer like he needs more skin, more heat, more you. “and now,” he says, lips brushing your collarbone, “i’m gonna take my time.”

JAY jay looks up from tying his shoes and freezes—like, full-on stunned, laces still half-undone in his hands. “...you’re joking.” you raise an eyebrow. “what?” he exhales a breathy laugh, standing up slowly as his gaze travels from your shoes to your eyes. “you seriously expect me to act normal while you look like that?” he asks, tone light but eyes full of something deeper. admiration, maybe. or awe. he walks over and straightens your necklace, brushing his thumb against your collarbone a little longer than necessary. “you’re gonna make my heart stop,” he murmurs, smiling. then he offers you his arm, grinning like he just won the lottery. “shall we, my princess?”

JAKE “holy…” jake’s voice catches in his throat when you step out of the bathroom, heels clicking softly on the floor. his jaw drops, eyes wide like he’s just seen something sacred. “you look… wow.” he crosses the room in two strides, hands warm as they slide over your waist, down your hips. “how’s a guy supposed to act normal with you lookin’ like this, huh?” you giggle, but his gaze darkens just a little, hungry, the kind of look that makes your breath hitch. he tilts your chin up with two fingers, brushing his lips against yours so lightly it’s barely there. “you knew what you were doing when you put this on,” he murmurs against your mouth. then he kisses you for real—deep and slow, tongue teasing at your bottom lip, hands pressing you flush against him. he pulls back only an inch, his smirk dangerous. “we might be late to dinner,” he whispers, “or not go at all.”

jake’s hand doesn’t leave yours the whole way home. you catch him looking at you every few seconds—smiling, dazed, a little like he’s in love and a lot like he’s starving. when you walk through the door, he backs you up slowly against it, pressing kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “you were so good tonight,” he murmurs, hands sliding down your sides. “so beautiful. couldn’t take my eyes off you.” you laugh, breath catching when he tugs you closer by the hips. “jake—” “shhh,” he grins, lips brushing yours. “been patient all night. let me have you now.” he kisses you slow—like he’s savoring every second, like the taste of your mouth is his favorite kind of dessert. his hands roam gently, teasing but purposeful, tracing over every inch of skin he couldn’t touch in public. “i’ll take care of you,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “all night. just say the word.”

SUNGHOON sunghoon’s gaze is sharp when you walk out of the closet, soft music playing in the background, perfume still fresh in the air. he’s lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone—until he sees you. his phone drops onto the cushion. “what are you wearing?” his voice is low, rough around the edges, and when you give him a little twirl, his tongue clicks against his teeth. “baby…” he’s on his feet in seconds, walking toward you like he’s in a trance. his hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the fabric of your outfit like he’s checking if it’s even real. “you expect me to let people see you like this?” he says with a smirk, but there’s heat behind his words—desire simmering just under the surface. he leans in slowly, brushing his lips against yours, soft at first… until it deepens. your fingers curl into his shirt, his hands gripping your waist tighter, kiss growing heavier, hotter—like he’s trying to speak with his mouth alone. “we’re not leaving yet,” he whispers against your lips, “not until i get a few more of those.”

sunghoon’s quiet on the ride home, but not in a bad way. in that focused way. eyes on you. hand on your thigh. thumb stroking slow circles, like he’s thinking. plotting. when you step inside the house, he lets you walk a few steps ahead before he’s behind you again, tugging the zipper of your dress down without a word. “you were so good for me tonight,” he says lowly, breath warm against your shoulder as he pushes the straps off, kissing the bare skin beneath. “but do you know how hard it was watching people stare?” you shiver when his lips trail lower, his hands sliding around your waist. “they don’t get to see this part,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck. “only i do.” you turn in his arms, and he kisses you—slow and deep, with a hunger that’s been brewing all evening. his hands are everywhere but somehow still gentle, like he’s worshiping you. “bed?” you whisper against his lips. he smirks. “floor. couch. wherever i get to have you first.”

SUNOO sunoo gasps. literally, gasps. like he’s in a drama. “baby… you didn’t tell me you were gonna show up looking like that!” he circles you dramatically, hands clasped over his heart, making the most ridiculous amazed faces that have you giggling already. but then he stops in front of you, and his smile softens into something real. “you’re stunning,” he says, voice lower now. “like… glowing. you always are, but tonight it’s just—wow.” he links his fingers through yours, swaying your hands between you as he rocks on his heels. “we’re gonna be the cutest couple out there,” he declares, like it’s a fact. “they won’t be able to handle us.”

JUNGWON jungwon opens the door to your place, ready to pick you up like always—only this time, he’s frozen in the doorway. he blinks, once. twice. “...wait.” you turn slowly, dress swaying around your legs, and his jaw drops just a little before he immediately tries to collect himself. “you—you look so nice,” he says, voice cracking the tiniest bit. you smirk. “just nice?” he laughs, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “no. i mean—really nice. like, pretty. really pretty.” he steps inside, cheeks pink as he offers you his hand. “can i take you out now? or should i stand here and stare a little longer?”

RIKI

riki looks up from his phone the second he hears your footsteps—and yeah, he wasn’t ready. his eyes widen just a little before he catches himself, shifting his weight and trying to play it cool. “…you look really good,” he says, and it’s simple, but the way his voice comes out quieter than usual says everything. you smile at him, teasing. “just ‘really good’?” he huffs a laugh and looks away for a second, cheeks tinting just slightly pink. “okay—fine. you look… like, kind of perfect.” you walk over, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve without saying anything, and he watches you the whole time. not saying much, but looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment. he bumps your shoulder gently with his. “let’s go before i forget how to talk.”

likes and reblogs, much appreciated !!

[luckystay]

One Step Too Far

idol!bang chan x manager!fem!Reader

word count : 3k

a/n : this is my first time writing smut so bare with me now!!

Content Warning: smut, fingering, argument, cheating

Minors DNI

The clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the studio felt heavier with each passing second. You lay on the worn leather couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your body aching with exhaustion. Across the room, I.N sat in the recording booth, his head bowed as he sang the same line over and over. His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed on, even as his shoulders slumped further with every take.

Chan, seated at the control board, hadn’t looked up in hours. His focus was unrelenting, his hand hovering over the controls as he tweaked and adjusted, chasing some invisible standard only he seemed to see. It didn’t matter to him that I.N was obviously running on fumes or that you were tired of sitting in this room, the weight of the day pressing down on you. It didn’t even matter that you had a life and a boyfriend waiting for you at home and you’re not just stray kids’ manager.

You sat up slowly, the irritation bubbling inside you stronger than the fatigue weighing down your body. Chan wasn’t going to call it. You could see it in his posture, the stubborn set of his shoulders. If you didn’t step in, this would go on until morning.

Without sparing him a glance, you stood, smoothed out your skirt, and made your way to the booth. You opened the door and turned to I.N, your voice firm but calm. “You’re done for tonight,” you said, leaving no room for argument. “Go home. That’s an order.”

I.N blinked, startled, but his relief was obvious. He hesitated only for a second, glancing toward Chan, who had finally stopped what he was doing to look over. His expression was tight, but you ignored it. I.N grabbed his bag and slipped out of the booth quickly, like he didn’t want to stick around long enough for anyone to change their mind.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving just the two of you in the studio. The tension hit immediately, sharp and suffocating. You could feel Chan’s eyes on you as you turned back, crossing your arms and standing near the control board.

“You’re pushing him too hard,” you said, breaking the silence. Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the edge in it.

Chan’s jaw tightened. He leaned back in his chair, shifting slightly as his hips pushed forward. Against your better judgment, your eyes flickered downward, catching on the way his sweatpants hugged his thighs—thighs that looked criminally good thanks to the extra hours he’d been putting in at the gym. His forearms, revealed by the sleeves he’d pushed up, were a distraction all on their own, every muscle flexing with restrained tension. The effortless control he exuded made it harder to focus, a warmth creeping between your legs that you tried to suppress.

“I’m doing what I need to do,” he said, the sharp edge of his voice cutting through your haze and snapping you back to reality. His eyes locked on yours, unwavering. “This comeback has to be perfect.”

“At the expense of what?” you shot back, frustration lacing your words. “At the expense of them? Of you? He was exhausted, Chan. He could barely keep his eyes open!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he snapped, standing abruptly. The scrape of his chair against the floor was like a gunshot, “I see it, okay? I see everything. But this is what it takes. If we want to be the best, there’s no time for slacking off!”

Your chest tightened, and you exhaled through your nose. “Slacking off?” you repeated, “You think letting him rest after a full day of hard work slacking off? He’s not a machine, Chan, and neither are you!”

You could feel his frustration radiating through him as he argued, “If he can’t handle a little extra work, then maybe he’s not cut out for this.”

That was it. The last straw. Your heart drummed hard in your chest, “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re supposed to be their leader, not their drill sergeant! You’re burning them out, and for what? Your idea of perfect? Which is completely unrealistic btw!”

Chan’s face hardened, his jaw muscles flexing as his eyes bore into you. His voice dropped, colder now. “Don’t act like you understand what it’s like to be me. You don’t. You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under, the things I have to do to keep this group moving forward.”

Your pulse quickened, the anger now burning hotter than before. This wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that, not the first time he’d pushed you away, and not the first time you’d had to bury what you were feeling. Because even though the tension between the two of you was anything but professional, you’d never given in. He was the leader, and you were the manager. He had a job to do, and so did you. But the way he spoke, the way his eyes softened when they lingered on you, it was clear that something was there—something neither of you wanted to admit all these years.

You swallowed, trying to stay composed. “And you think I don’t feel that pressure too?” you fired back, not backing down. “This is my job too, Chan. I see what you’re going through, and I try to help, but you won’t let anyone in! You’re so obsessed with being perfect that you’re driving everyone—including yourself—into the ground!”

he took another step toward you, his voice rising now, matching your anger. “Because if I don’t, who will? Who’s going to make sure this comeback doesn’t fail? Who’s going to take the heat if we don’t measure up?”

the world around you blurred for a second. Your mind flashed back to the beginning when you first met bang chan. You immediately thought he was attractive—hell, who didn’t? He had that unspoken charm, that undeniable intensity that drew people to him. And, it wasn’t one sided, everyone could see the way he’d look at you too, the way his eyes would linger on your face, your body just a second too long when he thought no one was watching, the way he never denied you a request or told you no. But he always ended up pushed people away you’ve came to realize, kept everyone at arm’s length, including you.

while the chemistry between you two was undeniable, you’ve learned to push it aside. You couldn’t risk it. Plus, you had a boyfriend now, someone who understood the job and the long hours and the stress. But even then, there were times when Chan’s proximity, his touch, and that damn look in his eyes made it hard to breathe and it kept you awake at night with guilt.

“You think you’re the only one carrying this?” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “Newsflash, you’re not. I’m here. The members are here. But instead of trusting us, you’re shutting everyone out and pushing until there’s nothing left. Is that how you want to lead?”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, and the air between you two felt like it could snap at any moment. Chan’s fists were clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms visibly tightening. His eyes burned with a storm of emotions—anger, frustration, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

his breathing was heavier now, and you noticed how his chest rose and fell with every shallow intake of air. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. You were drawn to him, to the intensity that only he seemed to evoke in you.

Your gaze flickered to his lips, then to his eyes, still stormy, but with something darker. Something you knew all too well. Chan's gaze dropped to your lips, a slow, deliberate movement. His body was close enough now that you could feel the warmth coming off him. Your breath caught in your throat.

The space between you had never felt so charged, so filled with potential. Neither of you dared to move, all those moments where he had kept his distance, where you’d buried your feelings, where you tried to be professional going out the window.

You suddenly felt his hard grip on your waist, and it caught you off guard—his touch, so intense, so unlike anything he’d ever given you before. Your breath hitched, the warmth of his fingers pressing against your skin sending a rush of heat through your body. You had always been able to keep things under control, but now, with him so close, you realized why he had always kept his distance. Because this—this was too hard to back out of. This feeling, the sudden intensity of it all, was something that immediately made you crave more.

"You think I’m pushing them too hard?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. His lips grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “Am I pushing you too, uhmm…?"

His question made your stomach flutter. The way his hands tightened slightly on your waist made you feel every inch of his frustration, his desire, and it was clear that he wasn’t just talking about work anymore. His voice was lower now, more intense, and it made you feel like you wanted to throw yourself at him and merge together. His lips were just a breath away from your ear, and your body reacted before you could think.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers brushing against his shirt, trying to steady yourself, to remind yourself of where you were. But everything about him—his body, his musky scent, the way his voice trembled slightly with restraint—made it almost impossible to think clearly.

"Chan," you cried out, but the rest of your words caught in your throat as his thumb brushed across the skin of your waist, making you shiver. His grip was firm, but there was something softer in the way he held you now, like he was both desperate and careful all at once.

You didn’t have the strength to keep the distance anymore. The anger was still there, but it was quickly being replaced by something else, something more urgent. Your pulse was racing, your hands trembling as they gripped the fabric of his shirt feeling how firm his chest was, and you had to stop yourself from pulling him in. Because if you did, you might not be able to stop.

“Please, Chris” you breathed out.

His free hand, firm and warm, brushed the side of your face, his thumb trailing along your jawline as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. There was something different in his gaze now. No more anger, no more control—it was vulnerability, raw and unguarded, and it struck you harder than you anticipated.

His lips were just inches from yours, and for a heartbeat, everything stood still. It was like a moment suspended in time, a moment where neither of you could pretend anymore. The fight was over. The frustration, the tension—it was all just a gateway now, a bridge between you and him.

“Keep calling me Chris,” he said, his voice barely a whisper as his lips brushed against yours, just enough to make your breath stop.

And then, you felt his lips press against yours—slow at first, tentative, as if testing, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Your lips parted under his, and the kiss deepened, the heat between you growing unbearable.

His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, his touch both needy and gentle. Every inch of your skin burned under his touch, and you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt this drawn to someone. His lips were insistent now, hungry. Your body seemed to move of its own accord, desperate to close the distance, to press into him and feel him fully, finally.

He pulled away for a split second, his breath mingling with yours, a hot whisper against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice strained with desire.

You could feel it in the way his fingers gripped your hips, in the way his chest heaved against yours. The tension felt primal.

As your hips pressed together, you felt him—hard and thick, pushing against. you’d always noticed the outline through his pants. Feeling it now, against you, was something else entirely. It sent a wave of heat straight through your body, making it hard to think straight.

“Chris…” his name left your lips softly, almost like a plea. You didn’t even know why you said it, but it made him pause for a second before his hands tightened on your waist.

He leaned in, his lips finding your neck. His kisses were slow but heavy, like he was testing the waters, each one driving more insane. He moved lower, to your boobs, his breath hot as he let out a low hum. “Hmm…” he mumbled against you, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine.

Chan's teeth grazed the soft skin of your boobs before he bit down roughly you knew it would leave a mark. You should have cared—you should have stopped him—but the way his mouth felt, the way his hands claimed you, made it impossible to think about anything else. You were completely lost in him.

One of his hands slid up your thigh, fingers brushing between you legs until they found their way where you wanted him most. He pressed against your soaked underwear, his movements slow but deliberate as he started rubbing you through the fabric. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and full of heat. “I barely touched you and you’re dripping wet—like a virgin. That boyfriend of yours is not satsfying you, huh?”

before you could answer, he pressed harder on your cunt, drawing a pathetic whimper from your lips. He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Is that why you’ve been such a bitch lately? You just needed me to fuck the frustration out of you?”

The mention of your boyfriend slapped you in the face, dragging you back to reality for a moment. You almost forgot about him—about the person waiting for you at home, the one who trusted you. Shame and guilt clashed with the overwhelming pleasure Chan was pulling from you, leaving you frozen as his words hung heavy in the air.

Chan’s words hung in the air, daring you to respond. The way his fingers slid past the fabric of your underwear as he pushed one inside you left you gasping for breath. You knew this was dangerous, teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t take back, but the fire he ignited in you was too consuming to ignore.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as your lips parted, whispering, “More.”

A dark, smug smirk tugged at his lips as he slipped in another finger without hesitation. “You’re so greedy,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His free hand gripped your hips, adjusting them just enough to let him reach deeper, finding the spot that had your knees threatening to give out.

Your back arched against the wall, each deliberate movement of his fingers sending ripples of pleasure through you, throwing any last bit of control you had out the window.

He leaned in, lips just brushing against yours but not quite connecting, teasing you, testing your patience. “Say it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth, his voice full of raw intent. “Say you want me.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue, your pride and guilt fighting against the overwhelming desire coursing through you. But then his fingers pushed deeper, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, and all hesitation vanished. “I want you,” you admitted, your voice shaking but sure.

As soon as the words left your lips, Chan kissed you, hard and possessive. His mouth devoured yours, claiming you like he had every right to, his tongue sliding against yours as his hand moved inside you like an expert. His fingers worked you relentlessly, drawing out sinful moans, even as his other hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate for more.

Your back arched as his hard-on pressed against your thigh, the thin layers of clothing between you barely enough to keep the heat at bay. His growl vibrated through you, each thrust of his fingers sending a shock of pleasure through your body. “God, you’re so sensitive,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. “Does he even touch you?”

“Stop,” you managed, your voice shaky with both frustration and need. “Don’t talk about him.”

But Chan only smirked, his eyes darkening with possessiveness. His fingers didn’t slow, they only deepened, pressing into you harder. “Why? Are you thinking about him now?” he  mocked, his voice dripping with jealousy. “Does he make you feel this good? Bet he doesn’t even know how to make you cum, does he?”

Your heart stuttered, a burst of guilt and anger flaring up. You hated that he was right. Hated that your body was betraying you, reacting to him in ways you hadn’t felt before. You tried to push the thoughts of your boyfriend away, but the way Chan’s fingers moved inside you, so sure and commanding, made it impossible to think of anything else.

“Look at me,” Chan demanded, his voice sharp and insistent, pulling your attention back to him. His fingers slowed, but they never stopped, teasing you, driving you closer to the edge. When you finally met his gaze, his eyes were dark, focused, and intense—it made your pulse race.

“if im going to fuck you, atleast look at my face” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to remember who’s making you feel this way. Not him. Me.”

You gasped at the rawness of his words, at the way he claimed you with nothing but his touch and his voice. Your chest heaved with each shaky breath, your whole body betraying you as you leaned into his touch.

you could feel your body trembling, every nerve firing as if it couldn’t contain the mounting pleasure anymore. “Chris...” you gasped, your voice strangled, a plea more than anything, as your body arched up into him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders for support. His grip on you tightened, his movements deepening, pushing you to the very edge.

You were close and he could see it—the way you fought the need building inside you, the guilt and pleasure swirling in equal measure. he had you exactly where he wanted. “cum for me baby”

And then, with a sharp inhale, everything snapped. A flood of heat and pleasure consumed you, washing over you in waves, so intense it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. You felt yourself coming undone in his hands, your body trembling uncontrollably as the world around you blurred. His name escaped your lips in a breathless moan, as your legs shook and your heart raced—every inch of your skin alive, every thought consumed by the overwhelming feeling of being completely, utterly lost in him.

Chan groaned in response, his body pressed tightly against yours as he slowed, letting the aftershocks of your release roll through you, each lingering pulse making your body shudder once more.

Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as the last waves of pleasure faded, your body still humming from the intensity of your orgasm. Chan’s fingers brushed gently over your skin, a soft contrast to the desperation he’d shown just moments before. He looked down at you, his eyes softer now.

You swallowed, your throat dry, unsure of what to say. The weight of everything hung heavy between you. The moment was still too raw, too real. "That... that was..." you tried, but the words failed to come.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rich with satisfaction. “I know,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your forehead.

“I’m going to break up with him,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.

Chan’s expression softened just slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away.

As you regained some sense of your surroundings, your gaze drifted down, and you noticed his painfully looking boner, when your eyes met his again, he just smirked.

“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, his voice low.

He reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, and continued before you protested. “Get some rest. I’ve worn you out too much.”

You nodded, too exhausted to argue, and as he left, you couldn’t help but wonder what this meant moving forward.

[ariahmichelle]

Fake It Till You Feel It- Part 7

Rafe Cameron x Reader Series

Previous Parts Here

Summary- You see your ex with a new girl wrapped around him after he told you “wasn’t ready for a relationship” after you had slowly started to fall for him. The betrayal stings. Rafe Cameron is dealing with his own issue—Amelia, a girl who refuses to take the hint that he’s not interested. One night you impulsively pretend to be Rafe’s girlfriend to get her to back off. To your surprise, it works. You also notice Alex looking pissed. This starts to become an unspoken routine between you when either Alex or Amelia are around. Simple right? However, longer this goes on, the more the lines blur between what’s real and what’s not.

Part 7- Confessions

••••••••••••••••••••• •••••••••••••••••••••••

The conversation with Brooke replayed in your head on a loop.

You need to talk to him.

Easier said than done.

Because if you talked to him—really talked—you might get an answer you weren’t ready for.

So, instead, you let the music and the warm buzz of your drink carry you through the night, forcing yourself to smile and laugh as if everything was fine. As if your chest hadn’t felt tight from the second you saw Rafe with that blonde.

Which was exactly why you found yourself at the bar, talking to a guy whose name you hadn’t even bothered to remember.

He was tall, dark-haired, decent-looking. Not that it mattered.

You weren’t interested in him—just the distraction.

But the longer you stood there, the more you realized… you didn’t even want to be talking to him. Every laugh felt forced, every response automatic. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to you, either.

So, after a few minutes of mindless small talk, you excused yourself, leaving your half-finished drink on the bar and slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

The cool night air hit you the second you stepped outside onto the patio, relieving some of the tension pressing against your chest. The music inside was muffled out here, the distant hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of glasses.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face.

And then—

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Your breath caught.

You turned toward the voice, already knowing who it belonged to.

Rafe stood near the railing, the glow from the lanterns casting golden light across his sharp features. He wasn’t looking at you, though—his gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, jaw tight, hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks.

You swallowed hard. “Rafe—”

“It’s fine.” He exhaled sharply, finally looking at you. “I get it. You don’t have to say anything.”

Something in his voice—something quieter, something almost resigned—made your stomach twist.

You knew what he was thinking.

That after last night, after this morning, you wanted nothing to do with him. That you regretted everything.

And the worst part? You had no one to blame but yourself.

You sighed, crossing your arms. “No we should talk about this.”

Rafe’s eyes flickered to yours, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you were being serious.

But then, he nodded. “Yeah. We should.”

Silence stretched between you, the weight of everything unspoken settling in the air.

Finally, Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if you were uncomfortable last night… it won’t happen again.”

Your stomach dropped.

That’s not what you wanted. That’s not at all what you wanted.

Before you could stop yourself, you turned fully to face him. “That’s the problem, Rafe. I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

Rafe’s eyes searched yours, his expression unreadable.

You let out a breath, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I should be the one apologizing, Rafe. Not you.”

His brows pulled together slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Just waited.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I left this morning because I panicked. I felt awful for what I did because deep down that’s not how I want it to play out”.

Rafe’s jaw tensed, but he stayed quiet.

You exhaled, your voice quieter now. “I kept thinking about what Amelia said… how maybe this was just about her for you. That maybe I was just convenient.”

Rafe let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

You flinched slightly at the harshness of his tone, but he wasn’t angry at you. You could see it in the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides, in the way his whole body was tense—like he was holding something back.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Rafe said, voice lower now, but firm. “And you shouldn’t have listened to her.”

“I know,” you admitted. “I knew it even when she said it. But after Alex…” You hesitated, shaking your head. “I let myself believe that I wasn’t enough for him. That I was just something to pass the time with until he got bored and moved on. And I guess—” You inhaled sharply. “I guess I was afraid that if I let myself want this—want you—I’d end up feeling that way all over again.”

You swallowed hard. “And not to mention we made a deal—”

“Fuck the deal.”

Your breath hitched.

Rafe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I—I wanted to ask you out before Alex did.” The words tumbled out of him like he had been holding them in for too long. “I just—never got the chance.”

You stared at him, your mind struggling to process what he was saying.

“You what?”

Rafe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I was gonna do it. I almost did. But then you started talking to him, and… I don’t know. I figured I’d missed my shot.”

You felt like the air had been knocked from your lungs.

All this time, you thought you had been the only one struggling with blurred lines. But Rafe—Rafe had been there before this even started.

The weight of his confession hung between you, thick and heavy. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, could hear the distant sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

And then—before you could say anything, before you could even think—Rafe reached for your hand.

Rafe shifted slightly, stepping a little closer. “This was never fully about Amelia,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I will admit it was fun to see Alex squirm.”

This makes you let out a soft laugh and look up at him.

“I don’t want this to be fake anymore,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Neither do I” you smiled softly, finally ready to believe him.

Rafe’s eyes searched yours, as if waiting for you to take it back, to say this was still just a game. But you didn’t.

You squeezed his hand instead, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

For the first time, you let yourself really look at him. Not just the sharp jawline or the piercing blue eyes, but the way his thumb brushed against your skin, like he was memorizing the feel of you. Like he was waiting for you to pull away—but hoping you wouldn’t.

And you didn’t.

Slowly, cautiously, Rafe stepped even closer, his free hand ghosting along your jaw. Your breath caught, your entire body going still as his fingers trailed down to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t panic.

It was want.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the space between you.

The moment your lips met his, Rafe let out a quiet, almost relieved sound, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he pulled you closer.

The kiss was soft at first—hesitant, like he was waiting for you to change your mind. But when you didn’t, when you melted into him, Rafe deepened it, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed you flush against him.

Everything else—the party, the music, the voices inside—faded into nothing.

For once, you weren’t thinking.

You were just feeling.

———————————

What do we think ?☺️ how many more parts would u like of this series, it’s definitely coming to an end but there may be a couple more parts.

Taglist: @rafecameronsbaeee @wtfisastiles

@emmafitzzz @yourmomdotcom42069

@yasmin-oviedo @pogueprincesa @maybankslover @rrosiitas @my-name-is-baby @rafecameronsslut1234 @ggraycelynn @wtfdudesblog @lolasangelz @iwumrndbm

@sassyvilliantrope

[wolvietxt]

𝓭ay 𝓼eventeen.

daryl dixon and protective.

it was supposed to be a routine supply run. the group needed food, water, and a few extra supplies, so you, daryl, and shane headed out to a nearby town to see what you could scavenge. things had gone sideways fast when a horde of walkers had emerged from an alley, forcing everyone to split up. you’d managed to find cover and fire off a few shots to keep them at bay while daryl and shane took out the rest.

by the time the three of you regrouped, you were shaken and exhausted, but you’d made it out alive. however, it was clear from the second shane’s eyes landed on you that he was far from happy.

“what the hell were you doin’ back there?” shane’s voice cut through the air, loud and furious. he stalked towards you, his eyes blazing with anger. “you were supposed to cover our flank, not go runnin’ off on your own!”

“i didn’t - ” you started, but he cut you off before you could explain.

“yeah, you did!” he snapped, jabbing a finger in your direction. “if daryl and i hadn’t been there to pick up the slack, you’d be walker bait right now. you put us all in danger, runnin’ around like a damn headless chicken!”

“shane, i was trying to help,” you protested, your voice breaking as you took a step back. “the walkers came outta nowhere, and i thought - ”

“thought what? that you’d play hero?” shane’s words dripped with venom as he took a step closer, his chest almost bumping into yours. “you ain’t got the skills to be out there tryin’ to save anyone’s ass, includin’ your own. all you did was get in the way.”

your breath hitched, and you felt your throat tighten as tears stung your eyes. you blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay, but the pressure kept building. “i was doing my best, shane,” you said quietly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “i didn’t mean for - ”

“oh, here we go,” shane scoffed, rolling his eyes. “gonna start cryin’ now? what are you, a damn crybaby?” his voice rose again, echoing across the deserted street. “grow up. you wanna be out here with the rest of us, you better toughen up and stop actin’ like some scared little girl.”

the harshness of his words felt like a slap, and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. they spilled over, trailing down your cheeks as you stood there, frozen and humiliated. shane’s anger didn’t waver; if anything, it seemed to flare hotter at the sight of your tears. he shook his head in disgust, his voice a low growl. “unbelievable,” he muttered, stepping even closer so that you had no choice but to back up again.

daryl’s presence was suddenly there between you and shane, pushing shane back with a firm shove to the chest. his expression was deadly calm, but there was a fire in his eyes that you’d rarely seen before. he turned his back slightly to shield you, his broad shoulders blocking shane’s line of sight.

“what’s your problem, man?” shane barked, shoving daryl right back, his jaw tightening. “this ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

“it does when you’re standin’ here screamin’ in her face and pushin’ her around,” daryl shot back, his voice a low growl. “she did what she could out there, same as the rest of us. don’t make it her fault ‘cause shit went sideways.”

shane’s face twisted in anger, and he took a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at daryl. “you think you’re some kinda hero now, huh? stickin’ up for her ‘cause she’s cryin’? she’s a damn liability, and you know it. coulda gotten us all killed out there!”

“bullshit,” daryl snapped, his voice rising as he moved closer to shane, not backing down an inch. “we all took risks, and it coulda happened to any of us. but you don’t get to stand here and blame her just ‘cause you’re pissed. now, get the hell back.”

shane’s gaze flickered between you and daryl, and for a second, it looked like he might actually swing at him. but something in daryl’s stance, the unflinching intensity in his eyes, seemed to give shane pause. he took a step back, though his expression stayed hard. “whatever,” he muttered, turning away and spitting on the ground. “just don’t come cryin’ to me when she screws up again.”

as shane stalked off, daryl turned back to you, his expression softening as he saw the tears still on your cheeks. “you alright?” he asked, his voice gentler now, but the tension in his jaw remained, his hand twitching like he was fighting the urge to go after shane again.

you nodded, but a fresh wave of tears escaped, and you quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand. “i’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “just didn’t expect him to… i don’t know, freak out like that.”

“ain’t your fault,” daryl said firmly, his voice steady as he took a step closer. “he’s just lookin’ for someone to blame ‘cause he’s got his own shit he don’t wanna deal with.” his gaze flicked over your face, taking in the redness around your eyes, the way you were still trembling slightly. “c’mon,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to rest on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your collarbone in a comforting gesture. “let’s get outta here. ain’t no point stickin’ around when he’s all riled up.”

you nodded again, still processing the fact that daryl had jumped to your defense so quickly, so fiercely. “thanks,” you said, your voice small as you glanced up at him. “for stepping in like that. you didn’t have to.”

he grunted, his gaze flicking away like he was uncomfortable with the gratitude. “didn’t do it for you to thank me,” he mumbled, his hand slipping from your shoulder as he turned to lead you away. “just don’t like seein’ him treatin’ you like that.”

his protectiveness left a warm, confusing feeling in your chest. it wasn’t often daryl showed that side of himself - he usually kept his emotions locked down tight, rarely letting anyone get a glimpse of what was going on behind those stormy eyes. but in that moment, he’d been so unwavering, like there was no question that he would put himself between you and shane’s anger.

“still,” you murmured as you fell into step beside him, “it means a lot. i don’t know what i would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

he huffed, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “woulda been just fine,” he said, glancing over at you. “you’re tougher than you think.”

“well, guess you’re my knight in shining armor now,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

daryl shook his head with a gruff chuckle. “don’t start with that shit,” he grumbled, but the small, rare smile on his lips took the edge off his words. “just lookin’ out for ya, that’s all.”

“well, whatever the reason, i’m glad you did,” you replied, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “because i sure wasn’t winning that argument.”

he glanced down at your hand on his arm, then back up to meet your gaze. “don’t worry ‘bout him,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “he’ll get over it. and if he don’t, i’ll make sure he does.”

the quiet promise in his words sent a shiver down your spine, but not from fear. it was a different kind of feeling entirely, a mix of gratitude and something deeper, something you hadn’t quite let yourself acknowledge before now.

as you continued walking together, you realized that shane’s words, harsh as they’d been, were fading into the background. all that mattered was the man beside you. the one who had stood up for you without hesitation, who had shown you a side of himself you hadn’t expected but were grateful for all the same.

general taglist : @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @icurushasfallen, @eddxemxnson, @nickiinator, @cable-kenobi

@chamomile-tea420, @rooroen, @spitfy, @cannon-writes, @platinumblondeedition

@cloudcandyala, @v3lv3tf0x, @california-boys-and-sun, @lemoanaid

@notacleangirl, @aetherthetrashpanda, @schrodingersjigsaw, @sylaswrites

@t0mmy-th3-gh0st, @correnz, @fvhs-things, @kallmeweirdhprroe, @dugiioh

@thugbiscuits, @rosiahills22, @cassehtwah, @whxtewolf, @mystcrium,

@bluevclvet, @angellreads, @babey-fruit-bat, @m1cky-y-y, @sunnykittyzz

reply to be added to the taglist!

[slowdrawl]

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]

{TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}

|part 5| You Better Shape Up | 3.4k words|

Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

“It’s not just about the sex. Not about haircuts and humour. No, not anymore. This is real, breathing, something taking root." |A/N I want to thank you all for the love you've shown for this fic and these characters. this chapter is going to be where we let them rest for a while, not forever; I truly love them together so I won't be able to give them up but... I do have some other stories to work through. love uuuuu

Warnings: more at the end of the fic. SMUT, explicit language, alcohol use, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). the knee thing, alcohol use, YEARNING, unprotected sex, spanking.

You both finish your second glass of wine.

Joel twists and sets the guitar down again, scooting his chair closer a little to you. You lift your legs and drape them across his lap, he starts rubbing soft, languid strokes up and down your shins, you just sit there for a while, comfortable, watching the fire flicker, letting the subtle buzz settle into your chest.

He pulls your legs off his lap, swinging them to the ground, “I lied, one more thing. Dessert,” You watch as he opens the back door and heads towards the kitchen, “wait here, be right back.” You hear him clattering around in there for a bit, when he comes back he’s holding a pie in one hand, and a pint of vanilla ice cream in the other, just two forks—no plates in sight.

He places the pie down in front of you, it’s some kinda mixed berry, and the pastry draped over the top of it looks a lot more like a Rorschach blob than it does lattice. “You get this from a blind baker or somethin?” you say, holding back a laugh.

“Sarah, actually. I’ll be sure to tell her you were impressed, jerk.”

You scrunch your face, instant regret, “You know what, I deserve that. I feel like an asshole.” you say, shaking your head, looking down with your forefinger and thumb pressed against the bridge of your nose.

Joel smiles and starts to laugh, “S’okay darlin’ she said that it was like edible art.”

You let your shoulders relax, Joel picks up a fork and breaks into the middle of the pie like an absolute animal, you look up at him slack-jaw, astonished. “Who the fuck does tha—” He cuts you off, shoving the fork into your mouth, he’s giggling with that stupid smirk on his face. “Where is she anyway?” you ask, mouth still full.

“Tommy’s got her for the nigh—Taco Tuesday.”

You hum, grabbing the tub of ice cream and scooping some out, dropping it right in the middle of the pie before grabbing the other fork.

“She could open a bakery, this shit is good!”

You sit and eat the pie, talking about anything and nothing for a while, any silence filled by crickets and the distant hum of traffic. It’s still so easy, comfortable. It’s probably nearing 9 now and you don’t want the night to end. You make your way back into the house, flopping down on the couch leaning against him. Joel picks up the remote and starts scrolling through movie titles, “You ever watch Grease?”

“Uh, maybe when I was younger, not sure.” You squint, pulling out your phone. “Let’s check it out shall we?” You google it, scrolling. “No way, you’re telling me people believed these grown-ass adults were teenagers in this movie? John Travolta must’ve been, like, what…Your age here?!”

“You’re a pain in my ass.” Joel huffs, “Olivia Newton-John was my first celebrity crush, thank you very much.”

“I can’t believe you’re suggesting we watch a musical, didn’t think you were the type, I imagined more..Top Gun, or old westerns,” You lean closer, smirking. “Startin’ to think you’re just tryin’ to Netflix and chill me, Mr. Miller.”

“There somethin’ wrong with that?” He looks confused, brow furrowed.

“No fuckin’ way—you really are an old man.”

He just stares back at you, face blank.

“Sex—it’s code for sex Joel.”

“Oh, we could do that too, f’you want, I don’t usually put out on the first date, bu—”

You crawl into his lap, straddling him, ending his sentence with your mouth on his. His hands grip into your sides hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer. He slips his hands under your dress, callouses meeting your bare thighs as he kisses you, hungry and desperate. He slides his tongue into your mouth, he tastes like wine and berries. You nip at his lower lip just to hear him groan, low, rumbling, vibrating through you. It doesn’t take long before you feel him stiffen, and you roll your hips, slow and teasing, smirking against his lips.“How you holdin’ up old man? Past your bedtime yet?”

He looks at you, eyes flashing dark, narrowing, that dimple twitching like he’s fighting back a grin.

Yup, got him.

His breath is hot against your skin as he growls, “Call me old one more fuckin’ time—I dare you,” into your neck before biting at the pulse point there. His hands continue to explore your body, one spreading out across your lower back as he matches the way you’re rocking against him, chasing friction. You laugh, taunting and tipping your head back as he trails kisses down to your collar. He slides his hand to the crease of your thigh, finding the hem of your underwear, barely slipping a finger under the fabric and you moan softly, the contact and anticipation sparking low and sharp.

You look down at him, defiant—pushing him just a little further. “Just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He replies by biting down harder against your throat. You gasp, grinning at him, the sting of his bite pulsing hot on your neck. Then he shifts, fast; flipping your positions so you’re pinned under him, your back hitting the cushions with a thud. Joel looms over you, one hand braced on the couch's armrest, caging you in, his knee wedged between your thighs, pressing just enough to make you squirm.

Your dress is still around your waist, skirt flipped up, bare skin brushing his jeans as he gets closer, you feel him—harder now, thick and heavy through the denim, sending your pulse racing. "That all you got?" you taunt, voice low and teasing, your lips grazing his jaw as you nip at his stubble. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, pressing hard against your center, causing you to jolt and buck your hips into his knee. Needy and pathetic. It sparks something in him, something nearly sinister flashes over his face.

“Not quite, baby, but it’s about all I’m gonna give ya till you smarten up.” He grins down at you, mean and smug, “Go on then, take what you want.” He taunts you, voice dead serious, eyes glinting with a challenge.

Joel leans in close, his breath hot against your ear, “Ain’t gonna do it for ya, darlin’. You’re gonna work for it,” his voice a low, commanding rumble as he hovers over you, pinning you with his weight. His knee stays firm between your thighs, denim rough against your skin. He locks eyes with you, a smirk tugging at his lips as he dares you to move, his hand grips the armrest, keeping you boxed in. He doesn’t budge an inch, just stares down with that cheeky glint, forcing you to take over while his presence smothers you, heavy and unyielding. “Gonna make me do all the work?” you say, smirking up at him.

“C’mon, sweetheart—show me what you’ve got. Don’t get shy on me now,” he says, voice thick with control and a hint of tease. He grabs your hips to drag them once against him before letting go, making you do it yourself. You hesitate, a soft whine slipping out as you try to shift away, but he presses his knee harder, holding you still. “Oh, don’t pout now, you’re too damn cute when you’re tryin’ so hard,” he murmurs, his tone patronizing but warm, leaning back just enough to watch, steadying himself on his knees now. He rests his hands light on your thighs, making you do it yourself while he savors the show.

You grit your teeth, defiance flickering, and start to rock your hips upward, reluctant at first, but the friction builds quick, soon you’re grinding harder, needy and whining despite yourself. “Worth it yet, or you still watching?” you gasp, voice trembling, hands clutching his shirt for leverage. He chuckles, low and pleased, his gaze dark, proud. “That’s it, baby—fuckin’ gorgeous like this, bein’ so good f’me,” he says, voice softening with praise as you unravel, trembling and desperate. “Knew I’d be able sort out that attitude of yours,”

He quickly brings down his free hand and splays it across your lower stomach, forceful enough to pin you into place to stop the movement. You whine in protest, trying to reach your head up to his mouth, he just leans back further away as a low laugh leaves his chest as he starts to slowly drop toward you “Not so tough now huh?.” He juts out his lower lip, pouting at you, smug, cooing “ fallin’ apart and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He punctuates every word of the last sentence with a kiss, following an invisible line down your sternum. “Don’t flatter yourself old—“ “What did I fuckin’ say bout callin’ me old” He snarls, “That’s it.” He yanks you upright, cutting your sentence off as he jumps to his feet. Before you’re able to process anything, let alone protest he’s picking you up like you’re weightless, hoisting you over his shoulder in a fuckin’ fireman carry. “Joel!” leaves your lips, in a half-laugh half-shout, you’re hitting him on the back and kicking your feet as he moves you through the living room into a dark hallway. Your dress is still around your waist, skirt flipped up, cool air hitting your barely clothed lower half. The house becomes a blur of drywall and flannel.

“Gonna have you screamin’ so loud the cops get called, you little fuckin brat.” He growls as he places a firm smack on your ass—hard enough to leave a welt, the sound echoing in the hall, sending heat straight to your core. He kicks his bedroom door open, stomping over to the bed and suddenly you’re airborne for a moment hitting the mattress, springs creaking as you bounce. You’re sprawled out, breathless and laughing, dress bunched up around your hips.

He’s shedding layers fast, trusty flannel tossed on the ground behind him.

You lift yourself up onto your arms and watch as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, exposing his chest, strong and broad, your eyes fall to the sparse dark hair trailing down his stomach. You move forward reaching for his belt buckle eagerly, but he stops you, one hand gripping both of your wrists, throwing you back down on the bed; pinning your arms in place above your head.

“Nu-uh, you’re gonna keep your hands to yourself till’ I say you can touch,” he says, voice dark and gravely, pressing his weight down onto you. He starts to pepper open-mouth kisses down your chest again, breath hitching when reaches your breast, his hot mouth pauses overtop of the cotton of your dress before biting down gently—still enough to sting, forcing a whine out of you.

“Joel—fuck, please.”

“Oh so now you got manners?” He drawls, sarcasm thick. He shoves your dress up to your chest, leaving you exposed, he hooks into your panties pulling them down rough. His mouth crashes onto yours, fervent and dirty, tongue claiming you as he tastes the remnants of your earlier kiss—salt, wine, you, all mixed into something filthy and intoxicating. He pulls back, finally releasing your wrists, only to grip your thighs, bringing you down towards him as he settles between you on his knees. His jeans are long gone now, you watch as he pulls his boxers down, his cock springing free. Your eyes go wide and your breath catches in your throat, you knew he was big but now, in all of its glory, it’s honestly a bit fuckin’ intimidating. His cock is heavy and leaking, he moves forward, leaning closer to drag himself through your slick folds, teasing your entrance till you’re writhing, whining for it, dress still twisted under you like a rope.

“Please—need you” you plead, hips lifting, voice breaking, and he chuckles, low and mean, eyes locked on yours as he presses the tip against you, just enough to make you ache. “Beggin’ now huh? Thought you were tough,” he says, voice faltering as you both let out a breathy moan when he finally pushes forward. He leans into you, moving down, sinking in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you so full it’s almost too much, burning just right. He pauses when he’s buried, letting you feel him—thick, pulsing, pinning you to the mattress, his weight heavy and unyielding.

He pulls out nearly all the way, dragging slow so you feel every ridge, every vein, then slams back in, hard, knocking a cry from your throat. He sets a brutal, deliberate pace—slow, torturous drags out, rough, claiming thrusts in, possessive as hell, every move calculated to unravel you piece by piece. His hands grip your hips, tilting you up so he hits that spot every damn time, relentless, grunting with each snap of his hips, sweat beading on his brow, dripping onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already coating your skin. Your legs shake, nails clawing at his back, leaving red trails he’ll certainly feel later—a reminder. Your moans turn to screams, high, broken, raw chants of his name. You’re dizzy, vision getting dark at the edges as he pushes you higher, higher, ruining you with every slow, punishing stroke.

“I’m gonna—fuck Joel, I’m gonna come,” you manage to choke out, the coil in your belly desperately close to snapping.

He gets close to you, breath hot and ragged against your ear, stubble scraping your jaw as he nips at the soft skin there, sucking hard. “Let go f’me then—let me have it baby,” he says, pace picking up just enough to hold you on the edge, hips slamming hard, skin slapping skin, the wet, obscene sound filling the room. You’re a mess. Body trembling, thighs quaking, voice cracking as you practically sob his name like it’s the only word you know. The coil snaps.

Heat. Waves. No breath. No control.

You’re shaking. Sobbing. Oversensitive. Wanting more He keeps going, dragging it out, each thrust pulling more from you till you’re whimpering, wrecked, clinging to him. “Can’t talk back when you’re screamin’ like this huh?’” he groans, drawl out in full swing. You try to respond but he’s right, a pathetic whine escaping when you open your mouth. He grins, smug as fuck, hips still rocking slow, savoring every twitch of your body around him. “So pretty, takin’ me so good’” he praises, voice syrupy, hands sliding up to your thighs, spreading them even wider, giving him more room to work, his thumb finds your clit, rubbing merciless circles. He pulls out slow again, so slow you feel every inch of him leaving, your body clenching involuntarily to keep him, and he groans as sinks back in, like he’s claiming every last piece of you.

His thrusts are deliberate and punishing. A heavy, measured grind, his hips rolling hard against yours, pressing himself as far as he can go, stretching you till you’re whimpering, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. His breath’s gone ragged now, chest heaving, sweat glistening as he leans down, forehead pressing to yours, eyes locked on you, dark and wild. “Fuck—where do you want me” he rasps, voice breaking, his cock pulsing inside you, stretching you past your limit. Your nails dig into his shoulders, gasping, and he groans louder, a raw, desperate sound, his control fraying at the edges. You’re already embarrassingly close to coming again, warmth pooling low in your belly.

“Inside. Please, Joel—cum in me,” you beg, lifting to meet him, urging him on, needing it, needing him. His breath catches, and his hands grip tighter, bruising as he moans, undone by your words.

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice thick with need as he teeters on the edge. “Please—cum in me Joel, I want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands clawing at his back, pulling him closer, and that snaps him. He groans—loud, guttural, a sound that rips through him. His hips slam hard one last time, burying himself so deep it knocks the air from your lungs, you’re seeing stars as your orgasm crashes through you. He spills hot and thick inside you, a long, shuddering release, pulsing wave after wave, his body shaking as he grinds against you, claiming you completely.

He collapses half-on you, chest heaving, breath ragged against your neck, one hand still gripping your thigh like he’s not letting go, the other braced on the mattress to keep from crushing you. He stays there, buried, softening inside you, breath hitching as the last shudders fade. “Fuck—still think I’m an old man?” His voice is hoarse and spent, lips brushing your ear as he grins, sated. You’re a puddle—dress twisted, skin slick, heart racing—giggling through the haze, too ruined to answer. Sleep threatens to pull you under, tangled in his heat, the weight of him grounding you.

“Stay put,” he murmurs, voice soft now, pressing a kiss to your temple before sliding off the bed. You’re still catching your breath, body limp and buzzing, as he moves to the bathroom. He’s back in seconds, a damp washcloth in hand, kneeling beside you. “C’mere,” he says, gentle but firm, nudging your thighs apart again. You whimper, oversensitive, but he’s careful—warm cloth soothing the raw ache between your legs, cleaning up the mess he made with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. His hands linger, soft on your skin, tracing your thighs as he works, eyes flicking up to yours with a quiet intensity.

He tosses the cloth aside, climbing back onto the bed, pulling you into his chest without a word. His arm wraps heavy around your waist, pinning you against him, his heat grounding you. “You doin’ alright?” he mumbles, voice low and rough, lips brushing your hair as he tucks your head under his chin. You nod, giggling softly, too wrecked to form words, and he chuckles—a deep, warm sound. His hand slide up your back, rubbing circles that melt the last of your tension. “Fuckin’ brat,” he whispers, affectionate now, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep,” he says, voice a quiet command, his breath evening out as he holds you close, one hand resting possessively on your hip. You’re already drifting, tangled in his warmth, the steady thud of his heartbeat pulling you under fast, safe and sated in a way you didn’t expect.

You wake to your alarm, sunlight streaming through the blinds, his arm still heavy over your waist, pinning you to the sheets. He’s still out, breath slow and steady against your neck, hair mussed across his forehead. You grin like an idiot, kissing his face all over, the ache from last night softened by the warmth of him against you. “Mornin’, trouble,” he grumbles, voice heavy with sleep, eyes cracking open as he shifts, that dimple flashing in a lazy grin. His hand slides up your side, possessive but gentle, pulling you closer as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple; like he’s still savoring you.

You both lie there for a few minutes in easy silence. Golden light spilling onto your skin, seeping into your chest. You can feel the heat of his hand resting on your side, steady and solid. It’s the kind of easy silence that doesn’t demand anything, but still somehow makes your chest tighten, a subtle reminder that things have shifted.

It’s not just about the sex. Not about haircuts and humour. No, not anymore. This is real, breathing, something taking root.

You can feel the change in the way your body presses into his, like it knows something you’re still catching up to. The weight of it, the unspoken agreement between the two of you—there’s no going back now.

You stretch a little, the sunlight wrapping around you like a promise, like the future, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax into it. You glance over at Joel, who’s still watching you, a soft curve at the corner of his lips. For a second, it feels like nothing else matters. No regrets, no past mistakes. Just the two of you, here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice low, but with that unmistakable certainty.

And maybe for the first time, you let yourself be sure too.

“Neither am I.”

warnings!!: creampies, brat tamer joel! knee grinding, lowkey posessive sex,

[buckysgrace]

Can I make a request for Gator Tillman? It can be a short blurb but here we go : what about Gator seeing reader’s nips pierced for the first time?

Love your work ❤️💕

Thank you so much!! <3 I hope you enjoy!!

CW: Boobs jobs, facials, Gator likes piercings idk

It had been a long day for you, waiting in a mixture of boredom and anticipation for your boyfriend to finish his shift.

Your nipples were still sore, but the pain had slowly receded to a little ache. You could just barely feel it now, just a little ache here and there.

It had been a rushed decision, something that just sort of happened when you had joined your friend to get hers done. A brief thought had popped up into your head before you had decided to join her, getting matching piercings on your nipples. It had been fun.

But you were most excited to see how Gator would react. He had loved your belly button piercing, he still did. Often taking his time to lick and suck around your skin, dipping his tongue into your belly button at times. It usually made you giggle, but you could tell that he liked it in a whole different manner.

You couldn't wait to see what he'd do when he saw your nipples. Which you had tried to make as noticeable as possible. You slipped into a white tank top, trying to make your piercings pop as much as possible. Only now the material of your shirt was bothering you from the way it rubbed against your boobs.

"You won't believe what happened today," Gator spoke as soon as he entered the house, the door slamming shut behind him as the sound of his boots carried throughout the living room, "We had a- are you cold?"

"Hm?" You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows together in confusion as you looked at the way his expression went slack.

"Are you cold?" He repeated, blinking his eyes slowly, "Your-, uh-," He stalled again, gesturing his hands around his chest.

"Me?" You pressed your lips together, trying to bite back a smile, "Oh these?" You questioned as you playfully raised your shirt, flashing him.

His brown eyes grew wider, bigger than ever as he darted his gaze back and forth. He parted his lips, jaw dropping as he stared at your chest stunned. He was silent, no words rolling off of his tied tongue.

"What do you think?" You asked playfully, resting your shirt over the curve of your boobs. You felt confident as you looked at him, his expression still dumbfounded.

"Wow." He breathed out a second later, flickering his eyes up towards yours briefly. He licked his bottom lip a second later, staring at your nipples again.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, brown eyes filled with lust as he gripped your tits in his calloused hands. You laughed at the way he groaned, feeling like this had been a very good idea.

Until he leaned forward, his tongue dipping out across your swollen right nipple. You jolted in surprise, the pain traveling down to your core and mingling with the pleasure that formed in the pit of your stomach.

"Gator," You squeaked out softly, knitting your fingers through his hair to tug him away, "I can't. I'm too sensitive." You told him quickly as pleasure and pain mingled through your body.

"Fuck," He groaned as he cupped himself, eyes full of lust, "How sensitive?" He questioned you, looking like it would kill him if he didn't get his hands on you.

"Enough that it hurts if you touch my nipples." You added softly, forehead brushing against his as he groaned deeply.

"What about your tits?" He asked as he squeezed at your flesh, careful to keep from touching your sore areas.

"You're bad," You teased, laughing as your nose pressed against his, "Do you want me to get you off?" You teased as you pressed your fingers against his shirt, sure that you could feel his heart beating underneath your touch.

"Please." He groaned as you quickly began to remove his belt, followed by his pants and boxers. You nuzzled your face against his bulge, breathing in the scent of him before you laid onto your back.

He smirked as he straddled your midsection, his cock falling heavily against his abdomen. He swirled his tongue around his mouth, eyes locking onto yours as he spit messily onto your chest.

You gasped at the sensation, clit throbbing as he dragged his spit across your skin with his fingers. He tapped his cock against your sternum next, smearing his precum across the curve of your boobs.

You gripped your tits softly, pressing your flesh against his thick cock. He groaned, fluttering his eyelashes as he rolled his hips forward slowly.

"You've got great tits," He groaned as he began to grind his cock between your boobs, his balls dragging against your skin, "Fuck." He cursed, dropping his head back from the feeling.

You pressed your boobs closer to his heavy cock, savoring the feeling of his warm skin sliding between your tits. You licked at your bottom lip, enamored by the look of pleasure that was etched on his features. He was pretty. Too damn pretty.

"You like that?" You cooed softly, fluttering your eyelashes softly, "Are you gonna be a good boy and cum on my face?" You breathed out softly, heart hammering at the thought.

He groaned as he thrusted his hips forward harder, moving a little rougher as he brought his large hands over yours. He squeezed your tits a little tightly, giving his cock a good grip as he grinded into your slick flesh.

"Yeah," He moaned, lips parted as he dragged the curve of his cock across your tits, "Feels so good." He breathed out, moving a hand down to grip the base of his cock.

You held your boobs together as he pulled away, playfully tapping his tip across your nipples as another squeak left your lips. You were still sore, the pain mingling with pleasure once again as he roughly stroked his fingers across his cock.

"Fuck, fuck," He cursed, dark eyebrows furrowing together as he snapped his hips forward rapidly, "Oh my God." He cursed, voice turning raspy as cum shot out from his tip.

You gasped as his warm spunk shot out across your features, coating your skin. You moaned at the feeling, rolling your tongue out to taste what had fell against the corner of your mouth.

"Jesus," He groaned as he looked down at you, eyes hazy, "When can you get more?"

[cod-thoughts]

Day 6 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1.4k

Relationships: 141 as family

Tags: Face reveal ooo, crack treated seriously, the team fluster ghost

With a small sigh, he reached up and, in one fluid motion, pulled his mask off. No one noticed at first, too engrossed in their own idle thoughts. But then Soap, mid-sentence, glanced over—and froze. His eyes widened, mouth hanging open in a way that made him look downright ridiculous. “Bloody hell…” OR Ghost takes off his mask and the team go a little overboard with the compliments. Continue under the cut or on AO3!

The break-room felt smaller today, though that might have been because it was one of those rare moments where the entire team—Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost—were actually in the same place at the same time. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, blending with the quiet clinking of mugs and soft banter.

Price sat at the head of the table, sipping from his usual tea. Soap was lounging in a chair with his legs kicked up on the table, eyes scanning a magazine as he absentmindedly prodded Gaz about some half-remembered mission mishap. Gaz shot back with his usual sharp wit, earning a bark of laughter from Price. Ghost, as usual, sat at the edge of the group, masked and silent, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes flickered between his teammates, watching them with the faintest hint of amusement behind his stoic demeanour.

It was routine, really. The team was used to this version of Ghost—the silent sentinel who never removed his mask, never fully relaxed, and rarely, if ever, spoke unless there was something mission-critical to say.

“God, I could use a week off,” Soap groaned, stretching his arms over his head. “A proper vacation—somewhere warm. Maybe a beach, yeah?”

Gaz snorted. “You on a beach? Your pasty skin would burn in five minutes flat.”

“Oi!” Soap grinned. “I tan… eventually.”

Price raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you saw the sun for more than ten minutes without getting shot at?”

The banter continued, with Soap defending his skin tone as the others chipped in with their own jabs. Ghost, leaning back, let out a low, nearly imperceptible chuckle, so quiet only those paying attention would have caught it.

For a moment, the conversation lulled, everyone settling into a comfortable silence. It was then, seemingly out of nowhere, that Ghost did something completely unexpected.

With a small sigh, he reached up and, in one fluid motion, pulled his mask off.

No one noticed at first, too engrossed in their own idle thoughts. But then Soap, mid-sentence, glanced over—and froze. His eyes widened, mouth hanging open in a way that made him look downright ridiculous.

“Bloody hell…”

Gaz blinked, his head turning sharply towards Soap before following his line of sight. His reaction was nearly identical—jaw slack, eyes wide, staring at Ghost as if they’d just seen a ghost themselves.

Price was the last to notice, casually looking up from his cup of tea. But even his usually calm demeanor cracked. He blinked once, twice, clearly trying to process what he was seeing.

Ghost shifted in his seat, awkwardly clearing his throat. His face, the part of him that none of them had ever seen, was now fully exposed. And, to his dismay, all three of them were staring like he’d grown a second head.

“...What?” Ghost grumbled, voice quieter without the mask’s muffling effect.

Soap was the first to recover, though not by much. “You—” He gestured vaguely at Ghost’s face, seemingly at a loss for words. “Mate, you’re—”

“What?” Ghost repeated, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his tone. He looked down, as if suddenly self-conscious about his scars, the jagged lines that marred his skin. They were old, faded in some places but still stark reminders of a life lived in warzones. He’d always assumed they’d be what people noticed first if they ever saw his face.

Price coughed, breaking the tense silence. “We didn’t realise you were…” He glanced at Soap and Gaz, who were both still gaping, and then back at Ghost. “So damn good looking.”

Ghost blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

Gaz finally found his voice. “Mate, are you kidding me? You’re—” He made a vague motion with his hand, as if trying to summon the right word. “You’re bloody gorgeous.”

Ghost’s brows furrowed, and he shifted uncomfortably. “The hell are you on about?”

Soap finally managed to close his mouth, but a grin quickly replaced his initial shock. “He’s right, LT. You’re a bloody model under there!”

Price let out a low chuckle, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll be damned.”

Ghost, visibly thrown off by the unexpected praise, glanced away, a rare uncertainty settling into his posture. He could feel his face heat up, a strange, unwelcome flush creeping up his neck.

“Stop takin’ the piss,” Ghost muttered, reaching for his mask. “I’m scarred to hell and back. I know what I look like.”

Soap, quick as ever, leaned forward and snatched the mask off the table before Ghost could grab it. “Oh no, you’re not putting that back on.”

“Johnny—”

“I mean it, LT. We’ve seen it now, and we’re not lettin’ you hide that handsome face again,” Soap teased, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Ghost’s ears burned, his embarrassment deepening. He could feel the heat crawling up his face, and judging by the way the others were staring, it was clear they’d noticed too.

“Jesus Christ,” Ghost mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face in a futile attempt to hide his growing discomfort.

Gaz, always the sharp observer, chimed in with a laugh. “Did you see that? The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled? Damn, Ghost, you’ve been holding out on us.”

Ghost groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You lot are unbelievable.”

Price chuckled softly, his tone more relaxed now that the initial shock had worn off. “Well, Simon, I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting this. You’re going to have to get used to the compliments.”

Ghost peeked through his fingers, eyes narrowing slightly. “Compliments?” he muttered, voice muffled by his hands. “You’re all takin’ the piss.”

Soap’s grin only widened. “Oh, we’re not. It’s just… wow. You’ve been hiding a face like that all this time?”

Ghost finally dropped his hands, shooting Soap an unimpressed look. “Drop it, Johnny.”

But Soap was clearly having the time of his life. “Nope. Not droppin’ it. Not when I’ve just discovered that you, our own Ghost, have been hiding a face prettier than half the models in Vogue.”

Price rolled his eyes at Soap’s dramatics but didn’t intervene. It was too good to see Ghost, usually so controlled and unflappable, thrown off his game for once.

Ghost, thoroughly embarrassed now, glanced between them, trying to figure out if they were serious or just having him on. But the soft smiles, the lingering surprise in their eyes, told him they weren’t joking—at least not entirely.

“You really think this is funny,” Ghost muttered, though his tone had softened slightly.

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Soap admitted, “but also true. I mean, look at you. How have you been hidin’ that all this time?”

Ghost’s face burned. He wasn’t used to this—being the centre of attention, being… admired. He’d spent so long behind the mask, letting it shield him from the world, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be seen. Really seen.

Gaz grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Bet you didn’t think you’d get this reaction, huh?”

Ghost shook his head, still feeling out of place, exposed in a way he hadn’t expected. “Figured you’d just be staring at the scars,” he admitted quietly.

Price’s voice was gentle, cutting through the teasing with a calm sincerity. “We’re not bothered by those, Simon. You’re still you—scars or not.”

The warmth in his captain’s words, in the way the team looked at him, sent another flush up Ghost’s neck. He opened his mouth to argue, to downplay it, but Soap beat him to it.

“And now that we’ve seen that smile,” Soap said with a cheeky grin, “you can’t go hiding it again.”

Ghost grumbled under his breath, but the teasing continued, light and relentless. They were all enjoying it far too much, talking about his smile, his eyes, the way his expression changed now that they could see his face. They gushed about him as if he wasn’t right there, sitting at the table, clearly flustered and trying his best to keep his composure.

“Christ, you lot are insufferable,” Ghost muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Gaz laughed. “Get used to it, Ghost. You’re stuck with us.”

And as much as he grumbled, as much as he wanted to bury his face in his hands and pretend this whole thing wasn’t happening, there was a part of Ghost that felt… lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need the mask as much as he thought he did. 

[maxdreavus]

It should’ve been me. | Piers x OC Maxine*

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: Max loses her virginity to Nessa, both due to their mutual yearn for intimacy, and in an attempt to wipe her feelings for Piers from her mind.

After hearing about it, Piers reminds her why he’s so hard to shake in the first place.

Author's Note: This is part of a series of one-shots! Please see my SWSH Masterlist for the recommended reading order.

Give it some love on ao3!

Between Piers totally not telling Max that he loved her, and all of the times they’d sucked each other’s faces off since then, Max was beginning to feel hopeless. She needed a way to distract herself — to move on, to be able to still have her fun with him without the romantic feelings attached. Bonus points if her solution would get her to stop wishing they could just fuck nasty any time he merely looked at her a certain way.

That’s how Max found herself between her friend Nessa’s sheets (well, technically on Nessa’s fluffy living room rug) just a few weeks after her and Piers’ Halloween escapades.

Nessa was having troubles of her own, in a grueling will they-won’t they loop with Sonia. She had some experience, but none with women, and Max had no experience at all; so after a few hours of laughing, venting, and even flirting a little as the idea slowly crept into both of their minds, they decided to just go for it.

When Piers got the text that his roommate was staying out for the night, he thought nothing of it. It wouldn’t have been the first time she stayed at a friend’s place, and he’d known Nessa since they were kids in the gym challenge. He had nothing to worry about…

Until the next day, when Max plopped down cross-legged onto his bed and broke the news: “I lost my virginity last night.”

She held up a fist for him to bump, a smug and shit-eating smile painted on her face. It faltered when Piers didn’t return the gesture right away, instead staring at her slack-jawed in awe.

Noticing that, he kicked into autopilot, touching his knuckles to hers.

Say something, idiot. “Uh,“ he finally went on, “wow.”

Max snorted. “Not gonna lie, I thought there would be more fanfare than that.”

Stop being weird, “No, I’m just— Nessa, huh?” Max nodded too enthusiastically for his liking. “So are you two like…”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, then shook her head when she caught his drift. “She needed a distraction from some romantic squabbles,” so did I, “and I was kinda curious,” at least that’s not a lie, “so we figured we’d try it out. For funsies.”

Slowly nodding, Piers zoned out on Max’s shoulder for a moment. Then, feeling hopeful that sex with Nessa wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for her, he asked, “So. How was it?” He wiggled his thick brows, trying to play it cool as he leaned back on his palms.

Max covered the lower half of her face with her sweater, swaying side-to-side to stim a little while she thought up an answer.

While she still had feelings for Piers, the previous evening’s romp had done exactly what she needed it to do; now her mind was split between him and Nessa, with Nessa taking precedence.

Her brain flickered back to her friend’s slim and toned body, her expressive eyebrows, her dark and hungry gaze. The silkiness of her skin, the softness of her lips, her tangy-sweet taste, her blissful sounds…

And of course, the way Nessa very kindly popped a few of her press-on nails off, so as to not hurt Max when she tended to her in return.

“And they say chivalry’s dead,” Max had jested just before Nessa slipped a finger inside her.

Max punctuated the sentence with a shy moan, and Nessa was so mesmerized by the idea of making a woman produce that noise that she couldn’t find a witty response to quip back. It was entirely out of character, but Max was too zooted off of her touch to notice or care.

After receiving a second finger, Max’s back arched and she compulsively threaded a palm through Nessa’s hair, unsure of where else to grip onto. The carpet wasn’t enough.

“Hoooly shit,” the gym leader whispered, resting her cheek against Max’s thigh. Watching her with those bright, oceanic eyes; her plump lips forming into a gentle smile before she gave up all restraint, parting them against Max’s slit to allow room for a languid, world-shattering stroke of her tongue…

Max took a deep breath, grounding herself in the present. Couldn’t get stuck daydreaming — at least, not now.

“It was really nice,” she settled, hiding herself further to cover her warm cheeks.

Shit, Piers thought to himself. He was happy that Max was happy, but there was a dense pit in his stomach telling him that her response was the worst thing that could’ve come out of her mouth.

That it should’ve been him making her blush and fluster like this.

So he did what he does best: he performed a little. Hammed up the good vibes to avoid a situation in which he was acting so strange or looked so solemn that Max noticed, or worse, asked him about it.

“Aw,” he cooed, teasingly, “don’t tell me you caught feelings from a one night stand.” Please say no…

Max rolled her eyes, smiling. She dropped her collar in favor of meekly shoving his shoulder as she responded, “No way! I’m just…” she paused, then thought aloud, “What’s the pussy version of ‘dicknotized?’” She giggled mid-sentence, realizing how dumb that sounded.

Piers joined in, his nose scrunching. At least her silliness could distract him from the emotional ache. “Fuck if I know,” he mumbled. “Pussytized, I guess?”

“Coochietized!”

“Nooo,” he feigned disappointment, pointing a finger as if scolding a pokemon for being naughty.

Max was quick to lunge at the digit and lightly chomp down, playing along. Unfortunately, Piers’ maybe probably perverted ass could only wonder what it would feel like if she’d sucked on it instead.

He then thought to himself that maybe he should take a page out of her book and go get laid. Or would it be Nessa’s book, since she was the one — as far as he knew — looking for a distraction..?

Whatever.

As he wiped his recently bitten finger against Max’s sleeved arm, he chuckled, “Alright, weirdo.” He picked up the notebook and pen beside him and nodded at her, “Get outta here, I have work to do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumped, a knee cracking as she untangled her legs and got up. “Ough,” she reacted under her breath, rubbing her kneecap.

Piers snorted and called her a grandma; before he could even finish the word, Max was already telling him to can it.

When she got to the door, she bid her farewell with a simple “Later.”

Her roommate grunted back, his focus plastered to the empty page in his lap. He didn’t actually have work to do, at least not for now, but maybe he’d do it anyway. He just needed to ignore that their whole conversation happened, and then he’d be fine, yeah?

He sighed, laying back with his head and mane draped off the side of the mattress. Pressed the notebook to his forehead and shut his eyes. Tried to the best of his ability to avoid thinking about his love and one of his closest friends having sex... Opened his eyes with an annoyed growl when he inevitably failed because he was trying so hard to not let it happen.

He couldn’t help but wonder what it was like for Nessa in particular, getting to have such intimacy with the person who he thought was the cutest girl in the fucking world.

It should’ve been me, Piers thought a second time.

He sat back up and began chewing his pen’s cap. He wanted to know what it felt like for both of them, actually — not because of Nessa, though. Sure, she was objectively stunning, but he was more so curious about what it was like to experience all of that with someone else. To get off without doing the work himself. To feel and kiss and taste someone’s bare skin, and get that in return…

God fucking damnit, he thought again, It really should’ve been me.

__

Piers spent several hours pacing, changing positions on his bed, aimlessly strumming his guitar, and staring blankly at the walls and ceiling of his room.

Nothing he could do would distract him from the matter at hand. He didn’t want to play games or watch TV, didn’t feel like going outside, and couldn’t focus on reading. Didn’t have anyone to confide in, since he hadn’t told anyone about his love for his friend. He refused to.

Somewhere amidst his wallowing, Piers discovered that — in a dark, hidden corner of his mind — his jealousy morphed into possessiveness.

Max wasn’t his, by any means. She was her own person. She could do what she wanted — who she wanted.

But in a weird way, he felt like she was his. They were each other’s best friends, first kisses, first awkward make outs and teeth-bumps and dry humps. He was her first everything…

Well, except for this. And that sucked.

Piers wanted to remind her of that. Give her a quick jumpstart, a little razzle dazzle. Like a “Hey, don’t forget about me” sorta thing.

The more he thought this way, the stupider he felt. But the heart wants what it wants, or whatever, and Arc’s sake he wanted her with every ounce of his being, so fuck logic.

Some faint lip popping sounds and even fainter footsteps nearby indicated that Max had left her room. The well-rounded trainer had a ghost-type preference, but she might as well have been a ghost herself; her consistent tiptoeing made those creaky old Spikemuth floorboards sound like they’d barely been worn in.

Piers let a few beats pass before getting up to follow his friend, meeting her in the kitchen when he realized she wasn’t going out. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to accomplish, but he got through a lot of life by winging it, so there he was.

Max grunted and nodded once in greeting as she grabbed various greens from the fridge, placing them next to her recently retrieved mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, and loaf of bread. Her long tresses were loose and tangled behind her, her tall and fuzzy socks fell uneven on her legs, and she seemed groggy. She must’ve been napping peacefully while Piers all but lost his mind over her just a room away.

Rather than continuing to scrutinize Max, he made himself look busy with the electric kettle.

Maybe that would be a good thing, actually; maybe some tea would calm him the fuck down…

He turned on the kettle.

“Yo,” he finally mumbled, perusing their tea bags. As if he had much of a choice in his selection. They only kept black and green around.

Max began assembling her snack, unceremoniously dropping two slices of bread down onto her plate before twist-tying the loaf’s plastic casing shut.

“So, uh,” her friend muttered as she changed tasks and he finally began to prepare a mug, “if I kissed you right now, would you be opposed to it?”

Max almost dropped the bag of spinach in her hands. When she chanced a peek at Piers, eyes wide and lips parted.

Her whole plan was to move on from him, but as soon as she heard those words, her stomach tumbled and her skin tingled and she felt flustered and frazzled and more than anything she felt so eager.

Because of that reaction, she took a few short moments to answer. Obviously, she wouldn’t have been opposed… but was that a good idea, now that she has some semblance of freedom from her deep-seeded affections?

While avoidance seemed to be the wisest play here, Max realized she probably couldn’t live without feeling Piers’ lips on hers every so often. She wasn’t sure how it would work when one of them eventually had an exclusive romantic partner, but they’d both cross that road when they got there.

So she spoke, “No,” averting her gaze so as to not give too many hints as to what was going through her mind.

Piers simply hummed a response. “Hm.” No elaboration, no quips back, nothing.

After taking the chance to observe him again — he was acting so weird, maybe something about his songwriting today was frustrating him? — Max decided she wanted some tea as well. Hot tea wasn’t a wonderful pairing for her cold sandwich though…

She opened the fridge back up and grabbed an unfinished bottle of sweet tea that she’d bought from a Pokemart the other day. After a few swigs, she was reminded why she’d never finished it. She chanced a new brand since they had been out of the one she regulared, but it was almost acrid, with more of a chemically sweet flavor than a sugary, tea-like one.

Amidst her sipping, she thought to herself that maybe Piers seemed off because he felt lonely, and maybe he was jealous that she got to pop her cherry and he didn’t… then she thought, Does that metaphor work for penis-havers?

Or maybe, she swiftly moved on, he was worried that she wouldn’t want to kiss him again after having slept with Nessa. Maybe he was just as reluctant for their unspoken contract to be rendered null as she was.

Maybe it was both.

Max screwed the cap back on that wretched bottle and popped it back in the fridge, wondering if Piers needed some reassurance. Maybe that’s what this was?

Amidst her attempt to bump the door shut with her hip, and before she could offer Piers the words she wanted to say, she was swiveled around by two large hands, too dumbfounded to speak while her bum and back closed the appliance.

Before she could question anything, Piers’ mouth was crashing into hers with a mind-numbing kiss; and before Max could wonder why he crouched to match her height rather than just bending his neck to meet her halfway, he scooped his palms behind her thighs and lifted her, forcing her to wrap her arms around his neck and legs around his hips for stability while she grew airborne.

The breath left her lungs with a hushed whine as Piers pressed himself to her, effectively pinning her to the fridge.

Nessa no longer existed.

All Max knew in that moment was the silkiness of Piers’ skin and the softness of Piers’ lips and his lithe body which had so much hidden strength, and—

Piers breathed audibly almost a hum before pausing, letting his parted lips linger against Max’s own with a featherlight touch. After a moment of shifting their mouths and heaving each other’s air, Max grew greedy, craning her neck forward to take what she wanted.

He widened the gap with a smirk, then faked her out, leaning in to lightly lick her bottom lip before tugging it between his teeth. Hearing the pitiful gasp that jolted past Max’s tongue, and ignoring how the sound made his heart sing, Piers kissed her again, hard and frantic.

Max sighed wistfully through her nose as she returned the gesture. She subconsciously tightened her thighs around Piers’ waist while her fists gripped strands of his bicolored hair close to his nape.

Confident she wouldn’t slip with her legs all but digging holes into his sides, Piers let his right hand move up; shifting Max’s sweater in its path, peppering gooserene bumps along her skin as his nails grazed it. Feeling how her body reacted to his touch, a thought invaded Piers’ mind.

He boldly felt the impulse to vocalize it.

“Did Nessa do this to you?”

The question went straight to Max’s pussy.

“What?” she breathed — almost moaned. Almost.

“She kiss you like this?” Piers murmured against her lips, wrapping his bare arm around her bare lower back. “Make your skin prickle like this?” he added, squeezing her opposite oblique in his fist.

Max’s back instinctively arched, both from the feeling and his words. Eyes glazed over with want, she kept her vision on the lower half of his face, too cowardly to look him in the eye.

Her cheeks and ears were growing redder, Piers observed. Natural, considering how personal those questions were, he thought.

Surely it had nothing to do with him asking them, his voice husky and low in a way that melted Max into a puddle. Never.

Max shook her head slowly. Nobody could hold a candle to Piers. Her body had never reacted so strongly to another person as it had to him. Maybe it never would.

In that moment, she was convinced it definitely never would.

“Good,” he whispered, resuming his kisses with the corners of his lips quirked up.

Why is that good? Max wondered. Why did it matter?

Was he just being a little shit? Was he teasing her?

Tangling his tongue around hers, Piers shifted his hips — whether it was on purpose or not was a mystery — and his crotch pressed hers in such a way that she had to swallow back a moan.

It didn’t matter why he thought that was a good thing, she decided. He could have thought anything he wanted as long as he didn’t ever stop whatever this was.

Part of her wondered correctly if he’d felt a sense of competition with Nessa now. Like they were competing for Max’s body, in one way or another.

The thought itself formed a whimper in Max’s throat, and unbeknownst to Piers, she was legitimately seconds away from throwing their pact out the window.

Like, she was going to do it.

She was going to ask him if he was jealous. If he felt like he needed to prove something, if that’s why his answer was just “Good.”

She was going to ask Piers if he wanted to try to one-up Nessa, if he would do the honors of blowing her fucking mind, body and soul. If she could compare them, erm, for science, or something.

But when she parted her lips to speak, Piers eased her down, gave her one last peck, and fucking thanked her.

“Thanks, bruv,” he smiled as he scruffed her hair.

The questions died in her throat.

Dumbly, Max stood against the fridge trying to gather her bearings.

Feeling much better now that all of that was out of his system, Piers poured the boiled water into his mug and walked off, jostling the green tea bag so as to help the flavor distribute.

Max eyeballed her unmade sandwich. Her head was spinning. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but maybe food would distract her from the absolute monsoon between her legs…

She heard Marnie’s little footsteps pad down the hallway and towards her. She needed to focus, lest the little lady ask her why she’s being weird.

So, with a sigh, Max resumed, praying to Arceus she wouldn’t chop a finger off while daydreaming about what could have been.

[ababanerb]

Soldier On [5]

masterlist AO3

Safiya has been a lot of things in her life, has spent a lot of time scared shitless, and even more time high on adrenaline. Her heart had felt like it was going to beat straight out of her chest when she’d been drafted and shipped overseas to the Gottoro Empire. But sitting at the Freeman’s dinner table is scarier than she thinks it should be. 

Especially not when Kent’s wife and youngest son begin digging into all the finer details of being a mage.

“How long was it you served for?” Jodi asks, and Safiya wonders how rude it would be if she chose to leave and escape the wide-eyed gazes of Kent’s eldest son and his dark haired friend.

“Nine years,” Safiya supplies anyway, because Yoba damnit, Jodi can cook.

Next to her the dark haired guy sputters, Kent’s eldest son patting him on the back as he leans around his friend to peer at Safiya with wide eyes, “And you’re how old?”

“Twenty-three, twenty-four this fall,” She answers, slicing off another bite of the fish on her plate as the table goes quiet with a soft gasp from Jodi. Kent continuing to mow down on his food. 

Safiya chooses to ignore the slack-jawed faces around the table, instead eyeing the elaborate candlesticks in the center of the table, watching the way the little flames flicker on the candles. 

“I thought you’d be older,” Vincent remarks around a mouthful of mashed potatoes from next to Kent, “But you’re only kinda old. Huh,” He shrugs, ignoring the way Jodi and Sam hiss at him and smile apologetically in her direction.

“Only kinda,” She agrees.

“Did you ever get the chance to see your mom again before she died?” Jodi asks, a little suddenly, and now it’s Kent’s turn to hiss across the table, “I just mean, Kent got leave every six months up until the last few years of the war. Was that… an option for you?”

Safiya knows the answer to this question,  nine years of never ending combat is evidence enough. But she hesitates, because they’re all looking at her like she’ll give them some kind of comfort. Like they’re all silently praying that the government had shown her some kind of kindness.

Kent knows the answer too, she realizes, when he answers for her, “Mages don’t get leave.”

“We get leave when we’re dead,” Safiya jokes on a knee-jerk reaction. It’s what she’d been told her first real night in the barracks, and a joke that had been tossed between mages the few times they were allowed to get together. “Or when the other guys are dead.” She chuckles thinly, Kent laughing with her.

To his credit, the dark haired guy next to her also chuckles, a thin smile on his face when she glances at him.

Fuck, that was kinda funny, His voice rings through her mental shields, and Safiya blinks, staring at him for another second, before turning her attention back towards her plate. She’d forgotten all about the occasional errant thought that people could broadcast without even meaning to. 

Nobody in any of her squadrons had had much to broadcast. It hadn’t been an issue for years. 

But he’s just reminded her.

“Morbid,” He tells her through a quiet chuckle, Sam leaning around him to beam a wide smile at her.

“Got any more jokes?” The blonde asks her, even as Jodi scolds him for it.

“No.”

“Oh.”

Jodi clears her throat, and Safiya meets the woman’s gaze trying to look at least a little apologetic. Her oldest son and his friend offering quiet sorrys.

“That’s too bad,” Jodi tells her, reaching across the table to try and touch her hands, Safiya jerking her hands away and folding them in her lap, “I remember when Naomi moved back in with her father after she got sick. They both loved you so much, they used to tell us all kinds of stories about you. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

Sam nods, quickly swallowing down a bite of his food as Safiya’s appetite all but leaves her. 

“Oh,” Safiya manages to choke out, “I’d had no idea.”

“Jodi,” Kent mutters lowly, ducking his head to speak into his wife’s ear. Probably to tell her the one rule most soldiers have beaten into them during the war. Don’t think about what you’re missing out on back at home. 

“Oh, er, sorry, Safiya,” Jodi stutters out, getting to her feet and turning so fast the candlestick falls over, “Let me just get us some dessert! I made a pink cake!”

Not that Safiya has the capacity to care when the woman’s just knocked a lit candle over into a pile of napkins that’s rapidly catching fire.

“Shit,” Sebastian curses, leaping away from the table, Sam and Kent ushering Vincent away as Safiya launches to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor. Jodi shrieks, dropping the cake onto the counter before she snatches Vincent by the shoulders.

“Just- I got it,” Safiya says, as Sam dives for the cabinet beneath the sink in search of the little emergency fire extinguisher. She stretches a hand over the small fire on the table, and the flames go leaping into her hand, disappearing entirely, and leaving her feeling uncomfortably warm.

“Oh my, Yoba,” Jodi gasps out, a hand to her chest, the other wrapped tightly around Vincent, “I’m so sorry- I hadn’t even-”

Safiya nods along, “It’s— It’s fine,” She says, and her skin is crawling with heat, “Thank you, so much, for the meal,” Safiya continues, briefly bowing her head before heading towards the door, grabbing her coat from the rack by the front door and ducking out. She darts away from the house and towards the river, crouching on the riverbank and shoving a hand into the still cold water.

With the other hand, she fishes a cigarette from her coat pocket, holds it between her lips, and lights it up with the smallest flame she can produce on her fingertip. Then, she lets lose a small torrent of flames in the river, steam billowing up into her face until her body has cooled again and it doesn’t feel like her blood is fucking lava.

“That’s a neat trick,” A voice remarks from behind her, her whole body going tense as she fights the urge to turn and attack. 

She only hums, rocking back to sit on the river bank, her legs curled up to her chest and her toes in the muddy bank. Wait- shit, her shoes.

“You forgot these,” Another voice chimes, Kent’s oldest son, and he crouches next to her on the river bank to pass her shoes back to her, “I’m Sam, by the way,” He supplies as she takes her shoes back.

“Thanks,” Safiya mutters, smoke billowing from her nose, “I’m Safiya.”

“We know that,” Sam’s dark haired friend reminds, taking up the spot on her other side as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his own coat pocket.

“Mm,” She hums, if only a little sardonically, fighting the urge to roll her eyes as she takes another long drag of her cigarette, “Right.”

Sam, to his credit, rolls his eyes and chuckles for her, “The ray of sunshine there is Sebastian,” He tells her, Sebastian flipping him off as he searches his pockets for his lighter.

“Here,” Safiya says, holding one flaming finger up towards Sebastian, “Might as well put the party trick to use, huh?”

If he hesitates, she doesn’t see, can only feel the press of the cigarette to her finger for a moment before he withdraws. She lets her hand fall back down into her lap, taking another drag of her cigarette just as a plume of smoke goes into the air next to her.

“So, out of all the places you could live,” Sebastian begins, smoke furling from his lips when she turns just enough to look at him, “You chose Pelican Town?”

“C’mon, man,” Sam whines, reaching for Safiya’s shoulder before pausing and letting it fall back to his side, “It’s not all that bad.”

“It is,” Sebastian argues, cigarette dangling from his lips as he glares at his friend, “This is a dead end town and you know it. There’s nothing here.”

Safiya stares at him for a moment, Sam apologizing softly behind her, telling her it’s really not that bad. But their minds are wide open, their thoughts bouncing and sliding off her mental shields.

And no matter how good a person is at lying, it doesn’t matter if their thoughts can bounce around in her head without them even meaning to. 

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” She tells Sebastian, fixing her gaze on him just to see if he’ll squirm. He does, “And you’re right, there is nothing here.”

Except the farm and the memories of the only people who have ever loved you. Those are here. Her brain supplies, not even remotely helpfully. There was another, She reminds herself, watching on as Sam and Sebastian begin slinging insults at each other. Sam in animated hand motions and wild, broad sweeps of his arms, which Sebastian meets with a slow drawl and showy plumes of smoke. 

“Don’t listen to Seb,” Sam laughs, as he once again makes a half-baked movement to touch her that he quickly bails on with a briefly faltering smile, “He likes to pretend we have no fun here in the Valley.”

“We don’t,” Sebastian drawls lazily.

“Then why haven’t you moved, huh?” Sam counters, smiling like he’s won.

“Because he’s scared,” Safiya answers for Sebastian, “Scared he’ll fail and have to come back. Scared to leave everything he knows, too, “ The words just spill out of her, his thoughts still loud and clear against her mental shields.

“What the fuck?” Sebastian demands, as Sam gapes at her and begins to laugh hysterically — Oh my fucking Yoba, I knew it! Abi owes me so much money for this! — which is met with a sharp glare and a hissed, “You fucking bet on me?!”

Sam only howls with laughter, pulling his phone from his pocket to shoot off several texts in a row. “Sorry,” Safiya says, not sounding even a little apologetic, “But you should learn to keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“What the fuck do you mean, keep my thought to myself?” Sebastian demands, mocking her as he parrots her words back to her, “They’re my thoughts.”

“Very noisy thinker, you are,” Safiya remarks absently, as she reduces the butt of her cigarette to ash, letting the wind carry the tiny remnants away, “It’s a mage thing,” She elaborates when he opens his mouth again, “People tend to broadcast their thoughts, it’s particularly bad in people with anxiety. They never seem to shut up. And you–” She leers, index finger pointing to his head “Have an internal voice so damned loud you might as well have been standing outside my window with a boombox over your head in the middle of night.”

Sam snorts as Sebastian’s face goes beet red, and even though his face twists with anger, Safiya can hear his thoughts loud and clear.

What the fuck what the fuck whattheactualfuck, His mind says, She can’t be fucking serious. What else did she hear? Did she even fucking hear anything if it’s a mental thing? Oh no. Fuck, Sebastian, don’t think about anything else. Especially not the porn you’ve got queued up to watch tonight. 

When the rapid onslaught of brief thumbnails and two second clips porn starts is when she slams her shields closed so hard even Sebastian seems to flinch. Wincing and furrowing her brows when she tosses a stern, shut the fuck up, into his mind.

“I’m going home,” Sebastian announces, throwing his cigarette butt down into the mud and stomping it out, before flushing an even deeper shade of red when he picks it up to put into a little pocket ashtray he pulls from his jacket.

Oh, shit, Safiya thinks, Sam still laughing as he tries to dissuade Sebastian from leaving, I think I just fucked up.

“Oh, man,” Sam laughs, but he still frowns a little at the sight of his friends black clad back halfway across the town square, “Fuck– I haven’t seen Seb that embarassed since high school. Thanks for the laugh, Saf.”

Saf, I think I'm in love with you. Says the voice she can’t quite remember the sound of, but remembers the softness of the hands and lips attached to it.

There’s my Saf! Her grandfather had cheered, laughing even as she tossed himself into his arms whenever she and her mom came for a visit.

You’ll come home, Saf. I know you will. Because you’re my brave, beautiful girl. You’re my daughter, and you and I are nothing if not relentless, Her mother had told her, promised her, the day she’d been drafted. There was still birthday cake in the fridge, her candles blown out only a few days prior to the soldiers who’d come and knocked on their apartment door to take her away.

“Don’t call me that,” She snaps at Sam, guilt coiling in her belly as she stands up, her jeans coated in mud and shoes in hand, “And tell your friend that I really am sorry. I hadn’t meant to embarrass him.”

“Right,” Sam nods, shooting to his feet. Safiya curses him to hell and back for the way she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye, for the way he looms, not because he means to, but because he’s just that tall, “No problem, Safiya. And, look, Seb’s just a private dude in general,” He remarks, a hand on the back of his neck, “But he’ll get over it in like, a week, when he has his next hook-up out in Zuzu.”

She hums, looking away from him and towards Cindersap, where she can see the very top of Magnus’ tower over the treetops, “Right. Well, either way, I am sorry.”

“You don’t sound all that sorry.”

“I’m not sorry that he was basically shouting into mind. I am sorry for embarrassing him. Sort of.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam sucks in a breath then, and it’s really a wonder he’d only broadcasted a few thoughts into her mind during the night, because he seems anxious. Or, at least his energy seems anxious. “Look, pretty much everyone in town goes down to the saloon Friday evenings. If you really wanna apologize to Seb, you can find him there.”

Safiya nods, huffing through her nose and shuffling her feet in the mud, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

taglist: @sheelyp @ketsuekiakane

if you would like to be added to the taglist just let me know <3

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xxxix // The Midnight Talk

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

A change in the light wakes Conrad up. Slowly, at first, until his tired eyes manage to focus on the texture of the painted wall. It’s a softer, warmer light than the LEDs in the ceiling. Maybe Davin turned on the little desk lamp.

He’s comfortable and warm under the duvet, but Conrad knows the sooner he can swallow the pills, the sooner he can go back to sleep. So he lets out a low groan against the haze in his body, the way his senses blend together into a blurry, washed out image. Fighting that feeling of ethereal calm takes effort, but he manages to push himself up to sitting, and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand while the other keeps balance. Shudders slightly in the cold air.

When he finally looks up, he freezes in place, suppressing a sharp inhale. Because the man across from him is not Davin.

It’s Renee.

He’s sitting in the desk chair with one ankle resting across his knee, hands clamped tight over his shin, foot tapping an irregular rhythm in the air. Faint sweat stains mark the neck and chest of his t-shirt. Tiny flakes of dried blood dot the skin above his upper lip, as if he didn’t quite manage to clean up after a nosebleed. There’s something hungry in the way he takes in Conrad’s reaction to seeing him, something unnatural about the intensity of his stare. His eyes are too wide. His breathing is too quick. “I won’t lie to you,” he mutters seriously. “I am off my fucking shit right now.”

And his demeanor cracks, bleeds into a crooked smile. Traces of laughter are expelled from his nose, like he’s trying to hold it in.

Conrad lets out a bewildered string of syllables before he finally manages to stutter out an uncertain sentence. “What t-time is it?”

“Nighttime, dumbass.” Renee snickers. He leans back, kicks out his legs, resting his feet against the edge of the bed, one foot to either side of where Conrad is huddled. “What, you got places to be or something?” Laughs a little. “Where are you gonna go this time? Hm?”

Conrad’s stomach sinks. He shrinks back fully against the cold wall, like a cornered animal, as the first threads of fear start to creep up his spine. “What, what do you want?”

“I just wanna chat, dude, I’m in a talking mood. It’s been a while, no?” Hands folded across his abdomen, Renee taps his thumbs together. He makes continual little adjustments to how he’s sitting, like he’s bursting with energy, but has no real way to release it. Rocks slightly with the backrest, scratches at his arms, jaw working. “We used to have fun, you know? Where’d that go, hm?”

Conrad swallows, dumbfounded. Renee is always unpredictable, but this feels dangerous in a different way. Like a more severe loss of control, something you can’t begin to approach without the risk of tipping the scales completely. Is he supposed to say something? His eyes flicker to the door.

Renee instantly follows his gaze, then lets out a chuckle. “Mhm,” he hums. And then something happens - his eyes trail out over the black nothingness beyond the window, his expression becomes slack for a moment, maybe ten seconds, as the constant fiddling fades to a halt - before his gaze snaps right back to Conrad, and he starts rocking in his seat again. “I like when you’re scared, you know,” he says, smiling. “It suits you.” Sniffs. “Davin told me about the little lockpick you made. Bet you felt real clever about it, didn’t you? I bet you thought you were real fucking clever.”

He stands up suddenly, chair scooting across the floor, cocks his head to the side. Conrad flinches and leans further back against the wall. Something about the man’s eyes is alarming, not normal - the way he’s barely blinking, the dark voids of his pupils. His teeth glisten in the low light.

“How’s that workin’ out for you, huh? Do you still think you’re smart? You’re a fucking cripple now, aren’t ya?” And he lets out another low laugh, leaning down, hands against his knees, to look at Conrad eye to eye. “Life catches up to you, eh? Always fuckin’ does.”

In the cold rush of his building fear, hands clutched tight in the fabric of the duvet, Conrad returns Renee’s stare with wide eyes, because he’s pretty sure the man will snap if he doesn’t.

Renee lets out a snort, shaking his head slightly. “You’re such a fucking pussy, you know that? Spineless fucking… choir boy.” His smile veers off into a sneer, a crease of disgust. “I know who I am. That’s what you don’t seem to get. You can’t get it through your thick skull. I thought you were naïve at first, but you’re just goddamn stupid. I’m the guy who can do whatever the fuck he wants.” The last sentence is hissed through gritted teeth, eyes burning, breathing somewhat labored. He hammers his index finger at his own chest. “I’m the guy who fucking made you.”

Conrad grits his teeth. He silently counts to three and takes a quick, deep breath. “Dav—”

His shout is cut short as Renee’s fist connects to the side of his mouth, upper lip splitting on his own teeth, and the back of his head thunks hard off the wall. Dazed, Conrad ignores the instinct to stop and collect himself, just pushes off the wall with his hands, thigh searing in pain as he tries to gather his feet under himself and dart past Renee –

An arm wraps around his neck and pulls him back down, choking out the cry on his tongue. Conrad’s back hits the bed, soon followed by the weight of Renee’s upper body, centered Conrad’s chest, and a hand clamps so tight over his mouth, his head is pressed into the mattress. Conrad digs his heels in to try to twist his body free, pushing Renee with both hands, clawing, balling his hands into fists and hitting whatever he can as hard as he can, but none of it seems to faze Renee. He just shifts the weight pinning Conrad down incrementally, until he’s almost lying directly on top of him. The nauseating heat of his body, the weight. At one point, his knee digs into Conrad’s thigh, and the bandages there shift, and it feels like something tears. A cry, partly out of pain, partly out of panic, is muffled against a palm.

“Shut up,” Renee growls. There’s three red scratch marks on his cheekbone, another along his jaw, two of them bleeding enough for it to start rolling down his face. Once he finally manages to get in a position where he can straddle Conrad, he coils a hand around his throat, closing his airway. His other hand leaves Conrad’s mouth to join the chokehold. Wild eyes burning with contempt, excitement, teeth bared in a grin. “I’m a god to you. Do you understand that? I’m fucking divine, bitch.” And he lets out a high whistle through his teeth, leaning the full weight on his upper body onto his hands.

The pain in Conrad’s throat skyrockets as his Adam’s apple is forced down on his windpipe. His fingers claw desperately at Renee’s arms, legs kicking uselessly against the mattress, until his feet tangled in the duvet. His heart drums against the inside of his skull, he can feel the way the blood pools in his face, mouth open. The spasms of his diaphragm as his chest tries and fails to expand. Renee’s figure, looming above him, is clouded by a mess of sparks that begin to dart across his vision.

“Calm down. Do you want to breathe? Look at me, asshole. Do you want to breathe?”

Body convulsing, Conrad fumbles for Renee’s wrists, forcing his eyes to focus on the blurring silhouette of Renee’s face. He never manages to nod, but the pressure on his throat eases slightly, allowing him to draw in a fraction of a breath, before it returns, just as unforgiving as before.

“See? I can do whatever I want,” Renee says breathlessly. Laughs, sticking his tongue out between his teeth. “You can talk shit, but I can kill you if I fucking feel like it. Stupid bitch. I can do anything.”

The edges of Conrad’s vision are beginning to darken, a numbness spreading in his limbs, a prickling sensation in his face, when the pressure suddenly stops altogether.

As he gasps for air, he’s vaguely aware that Renee has grabbed both of his wrists, pinning one arm into the mattress next to his head, but raising the other toward himself. Conrad is so busy heaving for breath, trying to collect the strength to struggle again, he barely realizes what Renee is doing before the man’s teeth sink into his forearm.

Conrad lets out a wordless shout, back arching against new pain. There’s zero inhibition in the bite, he can feel the skin breaking, the relentless force as flesh is pried apart, the way sinew seems to get pushed out of the way, the sharp pinpricks of disbanding tissue. “Stop!” he screams. “Stop! Please stop, please stop—”

But his feeble attempts to pry his arm free only seem to strengthen Renee’s resolve. His jaw sort of locks on Conrad’s arm, teeth steadily sinking deeper. The pressure brings with it a blinding, piercing pain, and a fear in the part of Conrad’s mind that is still capable of thought, that Renee might actually reach the bone, that he might actually bite all the way through and tear a large chunk out.

Beneath Conrad’s cries, a loud thunk fills the room, one that finally makes Renee pause, and the piercing pain in Conrad’s arm ceases, leaving him to gasp in its aftershocks.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?!”

Renee’s grin is stained red as he straightens up, rocking slightly. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Davin blinks. His hair is down, tangled from sleep. “Are you high?”

Renee giggles, looking back at Conrad. “Hell yeah,” he says, letting go of Conrad’s arm only to firmly pat his cheek. The blood dribbling out of his mouth, staining his chin, is beginning to extend its fingers down his neck. “We’re just chattin’.”

“He bit me,” Conrad pants, voice shaking. “H-he bit me. He bit me.”

The disbelief is painted on Davin’s face. For a moment, he just stands there staring, brow furrowed.

“You look pissed,” Renee says zestfully. He’s still breathing hard, as if he just exercised.

“Get out,” Davin says.

Renee snickers. Pats Conrad’s cheek again, a little harder this time. “He’s definitely pissed.”

“Out,” Davin repeats, pointing to the door for emphasis.

Renee rolls his eyes, but he does shift his weight then. As soon as he has swung his leg over the edge of the bed, Conrad scurries up, crawling backwards on the bed until his back hits the corner between the wall and the headboard, drawing his legs up in front of him and clutching his forearm tight. His blood stains the bedsheets, drops and smears scattered in different places, absorbed by the fabric. His arm is throbbing.

Renee’s nonchalant steps circle Davin in the middle of the room, until he starts walking backwards toward the door. “You guys are so fucking boring, you know? I’m just here to have fun.”

“Leave,” Davin says firmly.

Raising a brow, Renee throws both hands up in defeat. Spins around, chuckling to himself, grabbing hold of the doorframe.

Davin turns his attention back to Conrad just a fraction of a second too soon. He doesn’t see the way Renee freezes on the threshold, stopping with one foot still in the room, the other in the hallway, hand still clutching the frame.

“Show me what he did,” Davin says gently.

Conrad swallows, eyes flickering between Davin and Renee’s back. “H-he…”

Davin follows his gaze. Sneers in frustration. “I mean it, Renee, get the fuck out.”

But Renee doesn’t react, doesn’t even turn his head. Just stands there, swaying slightly with the rhythm of his own rapid breathing.

Davin hesitates. “Renee?” he says, and the edge of his voice is gone. He slowly walks over to him, puts a hand on his shoulder to turn him around. Renee follows the movement, feet automatically dragging back to keep his balance, but although his grasp on the doorframe is broken, his hand doesn’t drop; it just hovers in the air, unmoving. His expression is empty, mouth hanging slightly open, gaze unfocused.

“You alright? Renee…?” Brows furrowed, Davin waves a hand in front of the man’s face. Renee half-blinks, but it seems more like a reflex than any real sign of life. His gaze stays blank. Davin shakes Renee’s shoulder a little, then holds the back of his hand up against Renee’s forehead. It prompts no reaction, but Conrad sees the muscles in Davin’s jaw working. Eventually, he steps back and lets out a sigh, casting his head back. “… three in the fucking morning,” he mutters at the ceiling. Looks down at the watch on his wrist, then back to Renee, as if he’s waiting, counting the seconds.

Suddenly, Renee blinks, gives a minute shake of his head. Frowns at Davin. “What?”

“I’d like you to sit down,” Davin tells him, nodding at the desk chair.

Snorting, Renee throws his hands out. “You literally just told me to leave.”

“I changed my mind. Sit down.”

Renee rolls his eyes again. Trots back to the chair, hasn’t sat down for a second before his leg starts bouncing. He looks at Davin expectantly, one brow raised.

“Sit there while I get my things. Twenty seconds, alright? You don’t fucking touch him.”

Renee snickers. “Chill, dude. I’ll be nice, I swear.”

His eyes follow Davin as he leaves, and then he shakes his head, mindlessly picking at his jeans. “Fucking weirdo,” he grumbles. “Everybody’s so pissed all the time.” He wipes at his chin, and seems surprised when his hand comes away red. Spends a few moments drying his face in his t-shirt, gaze sort of mindlessly drifting, until it reaches Conrad, still huddled in the corner of the bed. “Show me,” he says then. “I wanna see it.”

Conrad nervously clutches his arm tighter to his chest. The pain has faded by now, but his arm is pulsing, and he still feels warm blood seeping through his fingers, making his skin sticky. He has yet to even look at it himself, but the last thing he wants is to let Renee revel in whatever damage he caused.

Renee smiles a little, but it fades just as quickly. Eyes wide. “Show me.” He’s rocking in his seat again, a tiny back and forth, which along with the bouncing leg betrays how much he’s struggling to contain his energy.

Davin comes back with his shoulder bag, and Conrad suppresses a sigh of relief as Renee’s attention snaps to him instead.

Renee stuffs his hands in his pockets, almost like an attempt to stop fidgeting. “What do you want me to do? Hm?”

Davin dumps the bag on the desk, starts filtering through its contents. “Just try to relax.”

Renee grimaces. “I’m not gonna just fucking sit here, dude. I’m vibrating, I’m high. If you’re not gonna fuckin’… give me the Leave-Conrad-Alone talk or whatever, I’d rather just leave, you know?”

Pulling out a syringe and a glass vial, Davin nods. “I’ll let you go in a bit,” he says. Pops the cap off the syringe and lets it fall on the table.

“What’s that?”

Davin shoots him a look. “Rabies shot for Conrad.”

Renee bursts out laughing at that, leaning forward in the chair, until he’s almost folded over completely, head between his knees. “Good one,” he chuckles. And then the smile fades, and he just stares at the floor for a minute, jaw working. “God, everybody in this house is so fuckin’ dead,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “You guys don’t get it. It’s killing me, you know? It’s boring as hell. You’re boring. I’m just tryna make a living, you know?” He looks up at Davin, sneering. “I don’t even know what the fuck you’re here for. You don’t give a shit. You’re just…” He trails off, gaze drifting off to the side. “… y-… you…” And his eyelids begin to flutter slightly, restless movements fading to an uncanny stillness. The only thing that remains is that labored breathing, the occasional twitch of his mouth, almost like a wince.

“Right,” Davin mutters. He pauses drawing liquid into the syringe to check his watch again.

Conrad swallows. “What, what’s wrong with him?”

“Seizure,” Davin says simply. “He’s overdosing.”

Somehow, the thought hadn’t even crossed Conrad’s mind. He looks at Renee’s limp form in the chair, the way his body sways somewhat, the way his head slowly, slowly rolls back, exposing a throat still smeared with Conrad’s blood. His eyelids didn’t flutter before, but they do now, small bursts in between an empty gaze levelled at the ceiling.

Conrad watches as Davin sets the vial down, pulls up the sleeve of Renee’s t-shirt and injects something into his shoulder. Renee doesn’t seem to be aware of it whatsoever. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He’s just absent.

Throwing the needle in a trash bin, Davin stands back and checks his watch again. “Come on, Vaughan,” he mutters under his breath.

 It takes a while longer than the last one, but Renee eventually blinks, straightening his head back up. Swallows, fishing a hand out of his pocket to scratch at his shoulder, right at the spot where Davin injected him. His knee starts bouncing again. “I forgot what I was thinking,” he says.

Davin snorts. “I bet.” He takes a deep breath before he turns to Conrad. “While that’s cooking… Come sit on the edge of the bed, yeah? You don’t have to get up, but I’d like to see it, alright?”

Conrad grits his teeth, eyes flickering to Renee. “Not when he’s in here.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not leaving for a while. C’mon, I can tell it’s bleeding. I’d like to get this over with.”

Renee snickers, resting his chin on his hand, a smug smile on his face. “Yeah, Connie. Show him.”

Davin looks on the verge of snapping something at Renee, but he composes himself. “If it’s any consolation,” he tells Conrad, “he probably won’t remember more than bits of pieces of this come tomorrow.”

Renee lets out a low chuckle. “Davin’s a liar. So there’s that.”

A knowing sort of smirk flashes over Davin’s face, just long enough for Conrad to catch it. So he takes a moment to collect himself, and then, still clutching his arm, uses his good leg to inch across the bed, wincing as the movement stirs the pain in his bad one. Maybe the pills are wearing off. Can adrenaline make that happen faster? He keeps the bad leg bent, crossed under the one he swings over the edge of the bed. Davin crouches down in front of him, and Conrad reluctantly holds out his arm, taking an anxious breath before he uncoils his hand from the wound.

He's not sure what he expected. His skin is smeared with blood, and the edges are hard to make out, but it looks like a bite mark. Two half-circles, fading before they meet. Faint indentations of molars which didn’t quite pierce the skin, but left enough of an impression to still be visible. As Davin carefully pulls the skin apart with two fingers, the wound gapes, revealing the depth of it – deep enough to need stitches, Conrad can tell already. The other side is just as bad.

Renee lets out a whistle, which breaks into laughter. “Damn. I can’t believe I did that.”

Conrad clears his throat, avoids looking in Renee’s direction. “I think something happened with, with my leg, too,” he says uncertainly. “I’m not sure, it just felt like it.”

Davin nods his understanding. “We’ll check that, too.” And he gets up to grab his supplies, throwing them on the bed next to Conrad. Pulls on a pair of disposable gloves before he crouches back down. “You know the drill by now,” he says softly.

Conrad doesn’t answer that.

He sits in pensive silence, just watching as Davin cleans his arm, feels his skin break out in goosebumps at the coldness of the saline solution. When Davin pulls apart a packet containing a syringe, he looks away. He knows where the lidocaine goes, he doesn’t want to see it.

The tight sting of the first injection makes him lock up his jaw, although he manages to keep his face neutral. The second one isn’t so bad either. But at the third one, Conrad feels the muscles in his back seize up, and he draws in a sharp breath through his nose, curling both hands into fists. Against his better judgement, he glances at Renee. But the man isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s slumped a little in the chair, staring at the ceiling, leg still bouncing a small rhythm on the floor. Even still, Conrad looks away again, turns his head. Silently thankful for the fact that although he’s in pain, at least that pain isn’t being exploited.

The lidocaine is over relatively quickly. Conrad knew it would be. When Davin starts the actual stitches themselves, there’s no pain. Just that strange, tactile feeling of the needle poking through, of the thread being pulled together. The warmth of Davin’s hands through the gloves.

Two minutes have passed, maybe three, when Renee’s low groan resonates in the room. “Hah, fuck.” He’s still slumped in the chair, but his chest has fallen a bit, hands slack over the armrests. No fidgeting, no restlessness. He just stares at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, breathing slow and even. “Fuck,” he says again, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Davin pauses what he’s doing, raises a brow. “You alright?”

Renee’s gaze slowly drifts down to meet the other’s. Even the way he blinks seems to lag somewhat. “Mh,” he lets out.

Smirking, Davin nods. “It’s late. Maybe it’s time to go to bed, hm?”

“Yeah,” Renee concedes. Doesn’t move, just keeps looking, in a way that doesn’t really suggest he’s paying much attention to anything.

“Do you need a hand getting there?” Davin asks.

Renee frowns a little. “Where?”

“Your bedroom.”

“Oh…” Renee sniffs, swallowing. “Nah, ’m good,” he says. Slowly, very slowly, he manages to pull his legs under him, pushing off the armrests with both hands. He staggers slightly for the first step, but then seems to catch himself – until he bumps his thigh into the corner of the desk, almost knocking over Davin’s shoulder bag in an attempt to steady himself. “Shit…” And then he trots along, feet dragging on the floor as he walks past the threshold.

Once Renee has left, Davin turns back to Conrad. He looks on the verge of saying something, but it falters. Instead he just lets out a long sigh.

“Just get it, get it over with,” Conrad mutters.

Davin smirks. “Exactly.”

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[fablesuntold]

@musingmemories sent: "This is going to sting, but we have to clean this." — From Nancy Wheeler to Steve Harrington ✨

Flashes of carmine lightening struck above the clouds, illuminating his surroundings in sinister flickers of vermilion and damson. Shrill, ear piercing screeches followed soon after from within the confines of the thick mist blanketing both ground and sky alike, assisted by what sounded to be the beating of wings circling him from every direction. Steve knew exactly where he was, and yet.. it felt surreal to be standing slack jawed in the heart of the Upside Down.

It all happened so quickly. What had started out as a simple plan to scour the vicinity of Lover’s Lake for a new potential gate had turned disastrous the second Steve made the brazen mistake decision to dive down to the bottom of the waterbed alone.. only to be dragged through the very gate they’d been in search of, resulting in his present predicament. Still disorientated from the suddenness in which he’d been dragged under, Steve barely had any time to adjust or gather his bearings before they were swarming him in droves. What looked to be massive, monstrous bats. The last thing he saw before ending up flat on his backside was the swooping of numerous shadow figures.. and then came the pain. Fangs and claws digging deep into the exposed skin of his abdomen, wings and tail whipping at his arms and legs.. Steve didn’t think he’d ever felt pain quite like it before. And while he may have stood a fair chance if he’d been able to push himself back to his feet, it became impossible the second one of them snagged its sharpened tail around his neck and began to squeeze until Steve swore his windpipe was about to collapse in on itself.

Helpless. That’s what he was. A sitting duck unable to do anything but suffer through the agony of their vicious attack until death would finally claim him.. or so that’s what he thought until three unlikely saviours sprang into action. First was Nancy, followed closely by Robin.. and then Eddie. All of whom had risked their lives to save him by quite literally following him into the depths of hell.

The time between fighting the Demobats and running for their lives was a complete blur to him, Steve being hauled to his feet without a say and marched right out of the line of fire into a nearby cave where he assumed they’d be seeking refuge until the bats eventually dispersed. Just as well too, because honestly? He didn’t know how much longer he could stay upright now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off.. apparently not long at all given how his body practically collapsed against the jaded rocks. Oh, he was really starting to feel it now. Out of all the beatings he’d suffered throughout the years? This sure took the cake. It was the most pain he’d ever been in. Not even Billy’s fists off fury came close, or Jonathan’s for that matter.. nor the thuggish soldiers that had jumped him back at Starcourt.

Was this really how he was going to die after everything..?

‘This is going to sting, but we have to clean this.’ The stern, authoritative tone of Nancy Wheeler was what suddenly snapped his heavy eyelids open once more, tired chestnut orbs lethargically seeking out her face. A beautiful sight. Possibly the last thing he’d ever see.

“Sting? You really need to work on your bedside manner, Nance. Could’ve at least lied and said I won’t feel a thing.” Hissed out through gritted teeth which were clenched so hard they may very well break, Steve finally braved risking a glance down at the broken skin.. only to almost throw up upon seeing the extent of the damage. Way deeper than he expected. “I’m surprised they never chewed right through.” By the looks of things.. they almost had. “I think bats have jumped to the top of the list for my most disliked animals.. after rats. Guess they kinda go hand in hand though since they rhyme.” A humourless chuckle escaped him, one that was silenced when a pained grunt took its place. Evidently, deliria was starting to set in quick and fast, and Steve didn’t know whether it was from the blood loss or if he really had contracted rabies like Robin had been faffing about minutes ago.

Was rabies even a thing in the Upside Down..? Guess they’d soon find out, huh?

Shuddering at the thought— or perhaps it was the start of a fever— Steve curled in on himself in hopes to somehow counter the searing hot pain coursing through his body. “You.. you should go find a way back with Robin and Eddie. I’ll catch up to you.. just need to close my eyes for a minute..” Murmured between shaky breaths. Excellent timing, given the black dots that came dancing across the edges of his vision and forcing his eyes to close to shut them out. The last thing he wanted was for Nancy to suffer the same fate as him.

[aurorawritesromance]

WHAT REMAINS UNSPOKEN [CH6]

ALL CHAPTERS HERE.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ TICK-TOCK // ELIAS  ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The second cup of coffee tastes worse than the first.

It’s burnt. Slightly sour. The kind of office brew that’s been left on the warmer too long and now tastes faintly of metal and regret. I sip it anyway.

The precinct is still half-dark. Early enough that the streetlamps outside are just starting to flicker off, but not fast enough to pretend it’s morning. Just me and the hum of the overhead fluorescents, a distant copier somewhere warming up like it’s trying to remember how to exist. The clock on the far wall ticks louder when the building’s this empty.

I sit at my desk, shoulders stiff, trying to make sense of the lines I’ve already scribbled into my notebook. Nothing concrete. Just words I keep circling. Spiral. Eye? Ruth Quinn.

Markus.

His name creeps in like a parasite, uninvited, and too damn stubborn to shake. I’m not jealous or at least I keep telling myself that, like if I say it enough times it’ll be true. This isn’t about wanting something that’s not mine. I've met him at a couple of office parties: there’s a slickness to him, a well-practiced smile. The polite way he says Dalia’s name, soft like it’s breakable. The casual possessiveness tucked behind every word.

I stretch my legs under the desk and roll my neck, cracking something near the base of my skull. Markus's voice is still ringing in my ears from the call last night. Not the words—those were forgettable. You didn’t come home. I stopped by the station. Innocent enough. On paper, at least.

The tone was off, like he was trying to sound like a concerned husband, but not actually concerned, like he was reciting what concern should sound like. Polished, practiced. Performed. I’ve spent enough time in interrogation rooms with Dalia playing good cop, bad cop to know the difference. I'm surprised she doesn't notice.

I’m not an idiot. I know the line, and I know I haven’t crossed it. But the way he says her name—low, possessive, too soft—makes something under my skin itch.

I think about her in the motel bed. Lying next to me, curled toward me, her breath feathering the cold air between us. The motel comforter pulled halfway up her back, one shoulder bare, dotted with the faintest freckle I hadn’t known was there. I remember the slope of it. Her light brown hair had come loose in places, a few strands pressed against her cheek. In the dull yellow light, she didn’t look like someone who spent her days chasing the worst the world had to offer. She looked… softer. I’d never seen her like that. Probably never will again.

I could’ve reached for her. Just an inch, just to let her know she wasn’t alone in it. Whatever “it” even was.

I slam my coffee cup on the desk just as the door swings open.

Dalia walks in like she didn’t get caught trespassing in a government institution—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, steps that don’t apologize for taking up space.

But it’s the details that undo me. Black slacks, the tailored kind that hang just right over her boots, worn at the soles from too many crime scenes. A dark green blouse buttoned to the collar, sleeves rolled halfway up like she’s already preparing to dig into something ugly. Her hair’s pulled back into a loose braid today, but strands have escaped, curling around her jaw, messy in a way she would hate if she saw it. I want to fix it for her—tuck them back, drag my knuckles against her cheek like it’s an accident.

And that, more than anything, is the problem.

Her eyes scan the room once before landing on me. I give her a nod. She doesn’t return it.

Fine. I'm still furious over her little stunt anyway.

She drops her bag at her desk, opens a drawer, doesn’t say a word. There’s a thousand things I want to ask. What she was thinking. Why she didn’t tell me. What the hell she thought she’d find buried in those archives. We both know what this morning is. It’s fallout.

She turns towards me, eyes suddenly intense and I can tell she is about to say something when the door at the far end creaks open.

Captain Everett.

“Rowe. Wexler.” His voice cuts across the bullpen. “My office. Now.”

None of the very few people scattered across the office look up. Dalia, eyes still trained on me, turns quick and quiet. I follow, the space between us tight and loaded. We move in step, like we always do, even when we’re on opposite sides of something we haven’t named.

Captain Everett’s office smells like old coffee and tired authority. The blinds are drawn, but slats of the early morning sunlight still manage to cut across the space like prison bars. Every surface is covered in controlled chaos—case files stacked like barricades, a whiteboard ghosted with marker lines that never fully erased, half a sandwich wrapped in a napkin near his mousepad, untouched. I stand beside Dalia, arms loose at my sides, fingers twitching once before I still them. She says nothing either. She knows the game—don’t speak until spoken to, don’t give him more fire than he’s already stoked.

Everett finally lifts his head. He is in his early fifties, balding. Bit of a podgy man, hasn't done field work for the past ten years and rumour has it even when he did, he was shit at it. His eyes land on Dalia first, then on me. He leans back in his chair like it pains him to sit upright. The leather creaks beneath him.

“What the hell were you two thinking?”

No preamble or fake pleasantries, he goes for the throat. I open my mouth, but Dalia beats me to it.

“Elias didn’t know,” she says, voice steady. “I acted alone.”

Everett snorts and it's not from amusement. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m telling you how it happened.”

I want to defend her. Want to tell him she only broke protocol because the place was trying to hide something, that there was no time. But there’s no oxygen for that kind of nuance here. There are rules in place, rules we have to follow. Everett taps the edge of his desk with the back of his pen. The sound is maddening. “Do you know who called me this morning, Wexler?”

I don’t answer. It’s rhetorical.

“The head of admin from Whitmoor,” he growls. “Told me one of my detectives impersonated federal clearance to access a private psychiatric archive. Just a fucking badge and a damn good poker face.”

His gaze cuts to Dalia like a scalpel. “That sound about right?”

She doesn’t look away. “More or less.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He throws the pen down like it insulted him. It bounces once, rolls, and drops to the floor with a dull click. No one moves to pick it up.

“This case is already radioactive,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. I feel Dalia’s tension beside me. It’s not visible, not exactly, but I’ve worked beside her too long not to sense it. She’s bracing for the impact. “You think this department can afford your stunts right now? You think Internal Affairs isn’t watching every move we make after that farmhouse scene?”

Dalia’s lips part, but Everett barrels on. “One more stunt like this, and the case gets reassigned.”

I lift my head. “To who?”

“Major Crimes Task Force.”

I exhale sharply.

“They’ll close it in a week. Two, if they’re feeling theatrical. They’ll slap a motive on it, bury the inconsistencies, and spin the story into something the public can swallow without choking. No nuance, loose ends. And no answers.” Everett continues. He's right and we both know it. It hits harder than I expect. We’ve seen what happens when Task Force steps in—evidence vanishes, narrative gets rewritten, nuance gets paved over for the sake of closure. They’re not bad at what they do and they definitely don’t care who they flatten to do it.

“You’ve got two weeks,” Everett says, voice low now. “I don’t care what theories you’re chasing, give me something that matters. Something I can show upstairs that justifies keeping you both on it. Otherwise, it’s out of your hands.”

No one speaks. Everett leans forward again, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled like he’s praying for us to screw this up. “And Rowe?”

Dalia meets his eyes.

“You pull a stunt like that again, I don’t care what your record looks like. You’re off my floor. Clear?”

“Clear,” she replies, calm as a lake before the lightning hits.

“Get out of my office.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

We sit in the records room with a thousand bureaucratic ghosts crammed into metal cabinets, quietly molding in the corners.

No one talks at first. The fluorescent light's hum sets my teeth on edge. I’m halfway through organizing case notes when she reaches into her jeans pocket and slides something across the table. I unfold it carefully. It’s cheap printer paper, slightly crinkled at the corners. No handwriting—just a short phrase, barely visible like it had been scanned and then printed by a machine running out of toner.

THE VESSEL SUFFERS FOR OUR SALVATION.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask, but I already know.

“The discharge box,” she says quietly. Whitmoor. She’s not looking at me—just down, like the paper might turn into something else if she blinks. I watch her for a moment longer than I should. Then I refocus.

What an odd phrase.

My pulse jumps. I press two fingers into the edge of the table, grounding myself. I’ve read that phrase before. Some religious group phrase?

"Seems like it's from a pamphlet type of thing."

She nods once. "I have done some digging at home."

After dinner. With Markus. "Yeah?"

She flips through a binder with fast fingers, pages whispering past. Tucked inside a plastic sleeve, she pulls out a page half-crumpled from water damage, handing it to me.

The cover reads: HEAR THE CALL.

With the same phrase stamped beneath an image of a figure kneeling inside a ring of light.

Dalia leans forward. “There’s an address on the back.”

I turn it. Ridgepath community center. February of last year. Not long ago. Close enough to still be warm.

She pulls her phone and snaps a photo of the pamphlet without comment. I can feel the questions building behind her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything yet. She’s doing that thing again—holding tension so tight it makes her still. And I can’t stand it anymore.

“You should’ve told me,” I say quietly.

She looks at me like I just accused her of murder. “About what?”

“About the risk you took. You could’ve been arrested, Dalia. You could’ve gotten me suspended by proximity.”

“I wasn’t thinking about protocol.”

“That much is obvious.”

My voice is sharper than I want it to be. I pull back, sliding a hand down my face. I'm not really angry, just wound tight. She exhales through her nose, the sound brittle. Then, her hand moves—just slightly—toward her hip, where the holster rests like a promise she never breaks. Her fingers tap once against her belt, then go still.

“I didn’t tell you,” she says finally, “because it wasn’t just about Ruth.”

I wait.

“My daughter,” she says. “Wren. She disappeared six years ago.”

It punches the air from my chest.

“She was six years old,” Dalia continues, voice barely a whisper. “We were in the yard. I stepped inside for ten minutes to get water. When I came back, she was gone. No noise. No struggle. Just… vanished.”

There’s no tremor in her voice. No tears, just pure iron. That’s how you survive this job—you forge yourself into something that won’t rust when the grief hits.

I can’t speak. Not yet.

“Markus fell apart,” she says.

Don't give a fuck about Markus.

I reel it back, balling my hands into a fist. All the tension from the case is unravelling me, my feelings threatening to burst out of me. I need to be better.

“Started blaming everything on the job. On me. I took every case I could get. Burned through assignments like they’d give me something to chase. Something to find.”

She turns the paper over again like maybe the phrase will say something different this time.

“I know Ruth’s not Wren,” she continues. “I know that. But something about her case… Set me off."

She finally looks at me. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s me. But I need this, Elias. I need to believe we can find Ruth.”

I want to reach across the table. Not to fix anything, but to remind her she’s not alone in this. That she doesn’t have to carry the whole weight of Ruth, and Wren, and the woman in the farmhouse with the stitched-on hands. That someone is here, sitting in the wreckage beside her, willing to help hold the roof up even if it all comes crashing down anyway.

CHAPTER 7 >>

[ltcommanderandroid]

This entire day has been just strange! And that's saying something from a man whose entire life is strange these days. These past few years up here in the stars.

For a few moments, while Data moves and talks and tries to help Mccoy help him, the doctor only gapes at him, jaw slightly slack. After another second, he scowls--

"Will you just lie there and button up!? You may be made of tin metal, but you're still not 100% functional, as you say. You need rest."

Those blue eyes flicker to the pad, and the concoction the man has come up with. This...should be doable.

Mccoy sighs.

Then--

"Wait, how did you know my name? You've barely been awake ten minutes!"

"I do not require rest... I do require my nutrient suspension."

However, it was beginning to seem as though he would be stuck in this bed until explanations were made and, as such a stationary position would inhibit completing his mission, it seemed now was 'as good a time as any'.

He sighed, "I know your name for two reasons. The first is that the missions of this ship and her crew were required reading during my time at the academy. The second is that we have met before or, more accurately and from your point of view, we will meet... and you will mistake me for a Vulcan, which is inaccurate. I am neither a Vulcan, nor composed of tin (though the latter is closer to being accurate). I am an android, which should be proof enough that I do not come from this time period."

Data had held off on the entire explanation until a nurse had passed them by and gone into an adjoining room but, nonetheless, he now lowered his voice another two levels, "I have come to warn you, to warn all of you. This ship, her crew, and the Federation are at grave risk."