#it's older but i still wanted to tag it for this month

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Ok, Harry clearly has a lot of money from working for the Harrigans. So can I make a request for reader as his sugar baby? Like she's his side chick, he tries to be stoic and cold about it (it's a transaction after all, right?) but she really has a hold on him to the point that she ends up controlling him in a way? Both materially and sexually (yes, I'm kinda asking for a bit of femdom tbh lol)

“Sugary Sweet”

Harry Da Souza x f!Reader

Harry’s Masterlist Join the tag list

Summary: Being a sugar baby is all perks when you get to fuck a hot man and have him giving you all the expensive gifts you want.

WC: 3.8k

Warnings/Tags: smut, minors DNI, undisclosed age gap, sugar daddy dynamics, oral (m!receiving), grinding, unprotected piv, creampie, cheating, bit of orgasm denial, finger licking, sub!Harry like he’s straight up BEGGING and I’m living for it.

“I need a new phone.”

Those were the first words out of your mouth the moment Harry stepped into your apartment—the one he paid for, obviously.

He looked wrecked. You saw it instantly, in the dark circles shadowing his eyes, in the heaviness dragging at his steps as he crossed the room and sank down beside you on the couch. He carried the kind of fatigue that didn’t just come from work, but from life itself, the kind that made him seem older than he was. But even then, he was still the most ridiculously attractive man you’d ever laid eyes on. And honestly, you’d still have fucked Harry if he didn’t have a single cent to his name, but the fact that he was well off? That just made everything more convenient.

You remembered the first time you told your friends about Harry. Showed them that picture you’d taken of him fast asleep on your chest, bragged about how good the sex was, how big he was, how he fucked like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else. They were jealous already, because scoring a man that good-looking plus him being good in bed? That was good enough. But the moment they saw you slide into a car worth more than they made in a year? Yep, that’s when they really started to hate you.

“Good evening to you too,” he replied flatly, scrubbing his hands over his tired face.

“Good evening, Harry,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, just a quick and sweet distraction. “I need a new phone.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, that sigh of his laced with exhaustion more than irritation. “What happened to the last one I got you?”

You gave a sheepish little smile, biting your lip. “Went out clubbing last night. Lost it. Pretty sure someone snatched it from my back pocket.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, not quite surprised. “Well, it’s not very smart to keep your phone in your back pocket when you’re packed in a club.”

“God, stop. You sound like my dad,” you teased, nudging your knee against his. “Come on, H.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, not angry, but tired and unconvinced. “And what’s wrong with your old phone, it had what, eight months of use?”

Harry loved this… relationship? If that was even the right word for it, it didn’t quite fit, maybe “relationship” was too sentimental for what the two of you had, but it sure as hell felt like something. He loved the ease of it. You’d joked once, calling him your “sugar daddy.”

“You get me cute stuff and I fuck you, but you’re like… hotter than a creepy old man, so it’s better,” you’d said with a wink, sprawled across his lap in nothing but your underwear. And fuck, did he love it. Harry was used to being in control in every other aspect of his life, he needed to be. Needed to have every move calculated, all the cards up his sleeve, but with you… it was different. He hadn’t known, not really, how much a part of him craved giving that control away until he met you.

So yeah. Maybe he was your sugar daddy. Maybe you were his sugar baby, just a side chick he kept tucked away in a penthouse apartment he paid for, hidden, just for him. Not part of his public life, but a secret he indulged in every night. Harry didn’t know how he ended up like this, he’d never had a thing for younger women, hell, he’d never even thought about having an affair. But you… from the moment he laid eyes on you, it was like gravity shifted, you pulled him in effortlessly, like a magnet, and now he was hooked and completely addicted, and no matter how wrong it was, he didn’t want to let you go.

“My old phone is soooo… old,” you pouted dramatically, draping yourself against him like a cat. “It’s slow, and the camera sucks. It’s basically a fossil.”

“Your old phone is the same phone as the one that just came out. You just let them brainwash you—” he started, shaking his head.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Oh Harry, please,” you cooed, drawing out the words in that voice he was weak for. “Just get me a new one. I can’t keep using this old thing.”

“You have such a hard life,” he replied dryly, though his mouth quirked slightly at the corner, teetering between mockery and fondness. His arm curled around your waist, fingertips resting just above the curve of your ass like a lazy claim.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Harry! Don’t downplay my struggle.”

“Oh, forgive me, love,” he said, eyes still closed, voice low with exhaustion and amusement. “Must be hard living in an apartment you don’t pay for, wearing clothes you didn’t buy, fucking a man who even pays for your Uber Eats.”

You grinned. “Exactly. So the least that man could do is get me the new iPhone. In pink. C’mon, H. You want me to keep sending you pics, don’t you? You like seeing your girl looking pretty.”

“That what I am now?” he asked, his voice low. “Your sponsor?”

You bit your lip, leaning in until your mouth was a breath away from his. Your voice dropped, all sweet seduction. “Oh please, H. How am I supposed to send you those cute little videos you like so much with a shitty camera?”

Harry’s breath hitched, just the slightest pause, but you caught it. You always caught it. That flicker in his eyes, the sharp exhale from his nose. You had him, and you both knew it. This was his favorite game, you’d ask for something expensive and shiny. He’d sigh, playing hard to get, muttering about how much you ask for, how spoiled and bratty you are. But it wasn’t about the money, it wasn’t because he couldn’t give it to you—he could, easily—but because he liked watching you beg, and then he’d give you everything you wanted.

Your hand slipped down, between his legs, fingers tracing over the hard line straining against his jeans. He was already hard for you.

“You know,” you whispered, lips brushing his jaw as your fingers teased his cock through the denim,“those little videos where I moan your name while I pretend my fingers are your cock?”

His head tipped back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. You smiled. Got him. “Maybe I should stop sending them until I have a better camera.”

“Fucking hell,” he growled, his voice was lower than usual. Your filthy words, your hand palming his cock through his jeans, the way your thumb circled the thick outline at the tip… it wasn’t helping. “Talking about your little videos… maybe you shouldn’t send them when I’m out working. Makes it near impossible to get through the day.”

It wasn’t just once or twice, there had been plenty of times Harry had to excuse himself, rush to his car, and jerk himself off like some desperate teenager, watching some filthy little video of you riding a toy with his name on your lips, or a picture of your soaked panties with a teasing caption. How the fuck was he supposed to sit next to Conrad Harrigan with a hard-on the size of a fucking bat?

“Oh, please. You love them.” You gave his cock a sharp squeeze, and felt the way he bucked into your palm. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he hissed through them. “Are you gonna get me a new phone or what?”

“Fuck— I don’t know, babe,” he exhaled hard. His hips twitched again with need. “You’re getting too greedy, don’t you think?”

The begging, that was always Harry’s weakness. His favorite part. You’d whimper, pout, make him think he was the one in control, when in truth, you had him wrapped around your little finger, you knew exactly how to play him, how to manipulate him, how to drag a “yes” out of his mouth with nothing but a pout and a roll of your hips.

Harry had realized just how much he loved this whole sugar daddy arrangement the first time he bought you that lingerie set, the kind of luxury brand you couldn’t have afforded on your own. He hadn’t even planned much that day, just saw it in a store window and thought of you, how it’d look against your skin, how it’d feel bunched around your waist when he fucked you from behind. But nothing prepared him for you that night, you’d tied his wrists to the headboard and climbed on top of him like you owned him. You’d used him for hours, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of him until he was shaking, overstimulated and screaming your name. And from that moment, he’d been completely gone for you. There was something about earning the right to fuck you by spoiling you, by buying whatever you wanted him to get you, that made his cock hard like a rock. He knew he could have you anyway, but knowking he worked hard to win that blowjob, to win the privilege of burying himself in your cunt... that was priceless

You climbed into his lap slowly, straddling his thick thighs and sinking down just enough to feel the heavy press of his cock straining under his jeans, nestled perfectly against your pussy.

“Pretty please, H…” you purred, voice syrupy sweet as you rocked against him. “You don’t want me running off to find another sugar daddy, do you? That’d be such a shame. Especially when you’ve got the best cock I’ve ever seen.” You emphasized the praise with a filthy grind, dragging your clothed pussy hard over his length.

“Don’t you even fucking dare,” Harry growled, his hands snapping to your ass, gripping it like he owned it, forcing you to keep grinding, pulling you tighter, deeper against him. “You know you’re only mine.”

He knew you were just teasing him and poking at that possessive part of him you’d come to know so well, knew that you had no intention of fucking anyone else or replace him, what you had with him was too good for either of you to throw away. But still, the idea of another man laying his hands on you, seeing what was his, hearing those pretty little moans you saved just for him? It didn’t just disgust him, it infuriated him, stirred a type of jealousy he’d never known before.

"Am I?" You teased him, and a little moan escaped your lips when your clit caught really good agaisnt his bulge. "Cause if you want me to keep being yours you can't neglect me like this."

"Me neglecting you? Who's gonna fuck you like this, babe? Who else is gonna get you everything you want?" He said. "Keep you purring like a kitten every fucking night?"

"You gonna get me a new phone, then?" You said, humping faster over him, enough to keep him on the edge, grunting and moaning, without giving him enough to tip him over.

"Fuck- yes babe. Tell-Tell me which one you want." He whispered agaisnt your mouth. "Get my card and go get it, whichever you want. You deserve it."

You moaned softly, part from the grind of your soaked pussy dragging over the thick bulge in his jeans, part from the sweet sound of his surrender. “You’re so good to me, Harry,” you purred.

With a quick shift, you slid down his body, never once breaking eye contact, until you were kneeling between his legs like a reward he’d earned. “You just bought yourself a really good fuck.”

You reached up, unzipping his pants with a teasing slowness, and his cock sprang free, hard, throbbing, and already heavily leaking pre-cum for you, the sight alone making your mouth water. You wrapped a hand around his shaft and leaned in, lips parting as you sucked his swollen tip into your mouth. The taste of the salty pre-cum hit your tongue, and Harry let out a ragged moan above you, his fingers immediately tangling in your hair, gripping tight like he was barely holding on.

Your lips slid further down his cock, inch by inch, until your nose brushed the soft curls at the base. You moaned around him, feeling your throat flexing and stretching around his length as you swallowed him deep.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped, hips bucking up into your mouth before he could stop himself. “Jesus, babe, where the fuck did you learn to suck cock like this?”

You popped off with a filthy wet sound, spit trailing from your lips to his shaft as you caught your breath, smirking like you had him right where you wanted him.

“I was thinking…” you licked another bead of pre-cum from his tip, “…I saw this necklace I liked. Gold, real dainty. Wouldn’t it look so pretty around my neck and over your forehead while I’m riding you.”

Harry let out a growl. “F-fuck. Fine. Get it. Just—Jesus, just put your mouth back on me, babe. Please.”

You smiled wickedly, tasting the victory, then swallowed him again without warning, making him grunt like he’d just been punched in the gut. You bobbed your head, taking him in deep, your tongue was working him just right, just the way you knew he liked, until his thighs tensed under your palms.

And then again, when you sensed he was getting close… you pulled away.

“I might need some new shoes too now that summer’s close.”

“Fuckin’—yes. Yes. Get whatever you want,” he groaned. “Just don’t stop. Please. Babe, come on… keep sucking.”

You chuckled, letting your tongue drag lazily up his shaft. “You’re so sweet to me, Harry. Makes me wanna be even sweeter to you…”

You spit on his cock, stroked it with your hand, then took him back in deeper than before, choking a little, eyes watering, gagging on it, but never once pulling back. He looked down at you like he was watching a miracle, his breath ragged and his chest heaving. You looked up back at him from between his thighs, your lips shiny with spit and pre-cum, and watched the way his chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon.

You licked your lips. “You gonna behave, H?”

He groaned like the answer hurt. “Yeah, babe. Whatever you say.”

“Good,” you purred, climbing up slowly onto his lap, straddling him again. You dragged the soaked crotch of your panties across his length, teasing him with how wet you already were. “Then let me ride you. Since you earned it.”

You lifted your skirt, dragged your soaked underwear to the side and grabbed his cock at the base, guiding him right to your entrance. “You gonna say thank you first?”

His head lolled back, chest rising like he couldn’t breathe. “Thank you, fuck, thank you babe—Thanks for allowing me to fuck you.”

You sank down on him slow, inch by inch, stretching yourself open on his cock, making him watch every second of it. He gasped, a strangled sound from the back of his throat, and you moaned loud and long, grinding your hips down once he was buried fully inside.

“Fuck,” you moaned. “You’re so fucking big, H. Always forget how good you stretch me.”

His hands were everywhere, on your ass, your hips, your waist, trying to ground himself while you pulsed around him, clenching just to make him twitch. You gave him no time to adjust before you started moving, hips rolling and grinding down like you wanted to milk him dry.

“There we go,” you whispered against his mouth. “Now tell me how good it feels.”

Harry’s voice was hoarse and so ruined even though you were barely starting. “Fucking—Jesus. You feel too good. So hot, so tight, babe, fuck!”

You rocked your hips with purpose, clenching around him on every drag up, letting him feel every pulse, every slick ripple of your cunt. “Better than your wife?”

“Yes,” he grunted shamelessly. “Fucking yes, babe. Nothing like this. Nothing like you.”

You smirked, keeping a steady pace that drove him insane. “Yeah? Feels good to fuck your side piece, doesn’t it?”

“Shit.”

You didn’t even care that he was a married man. Maybe that made you a terrible person in some people’s eyes, but you weren’t hurting anyone. Not really. His wife lived blissfully unaware, and you and Harry enjoyed yourselves in all the ways that mattered. You didn’t want anything more from him, you weren’t the kind of girl who dreamed about weddings, marriage and kids. That wasn’t you… you were good with a hard fuck, a new pair of earrings, maybe a designer bag that matched your heels. And Harry? He knew how to provide that for you. You liked him, sure, but what you had right now? It was perfect just like this.

“Bet Jan never fucks you like this.” You leaned in close, your voice filthy against his ear. “Bet you’ve gotta be all sweet and careful with her. Missionary. Lights off. Little kisses on the forehead while you have to play the good husband.”

You smiled, a little wicked and a little triumphant. You picked up your pace, bouncing slowly on his cock, your tits swaying in front of his face. His hands flew to your ass, trying to help, gripping it so tight it almost hurt.

“But with me?” you whispered, dragging your soaked pussy up his shaft before dropping back down with a slap, making him gasp. “You get to be rough. You get to fuck me like your dirty little whore. I get the real you, don’t I?”

“Fuck, yes, yes babe” he rasped, hips twitching up to meet you. “You let me be filthy, you let me say shit I could never—”

“That’s right,” you growled, grabbing him by the throat, not hard, just enough to make him struggle a little for air. “I’m the one you use. I’m the one you ruin.”

“Yes,” he breathed out, trembling. “Fuck yes. You are. You’re my filthy little whore… Jesus Christ, babe.”

“You like this cunt that much?” you teased, bouncing harder now, each slap of your ass on his thighs echoing through the room. “Wanna keep buying me phones and jewelry and pretty little outfits just so I’ll keep letting you use me?”

His mouth dropped open. “Yes—yes, fuck, please. I’ll get you whatever you want, babe. Just don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

“God, you’re so pathetic when I ride you like this,” you laughed softly, even as you moaned. “You’re so obsessed with me you can’t even think straight. Probably go home to her with my scent all over your cock.”

You rolled your hips in a deep, slow circle, and he let out a broken sound, like he might cry from how good it felt.

“You think about me when you’re in bed with her?” you whispered in his ear, your tongue flicking out to taste the sweat on his neck. “Having that boring vanilla sex?“

“Yes—fuck! I do, babe, I can’t help it—”

You bounced harder now, hands on his chest, fucking him like you wanted to milk him dry. He was a wreck, red-faced, eyes glassy, moaning like a sinner begging for forgiveness.

Ever since you’d started seeing Harry, you’d indulged in all kinds of things together, things he’d never even heard of or imagined himself doing before you came along. You were young, and so fucking horny, and that was a deadly combination.

You introduced him to toys he’d never seen before, made him use them on you, on himself, until it felt like his world had a new meaning. You let him be as rough as he wanted, encouraged it even, because you loved how he’d grow when you moaned his name into the pillow as he took you from behind. You tried positions only someone with your flexibility could pull off, grinning wickedly every time you bent in ways that had his eyes rolling back. You even let him fuck your ass when he was extra good, something he used to think he’d never get to do with someone like you. You’d forbid him from cumming some nights, riding him for hours until he was desperate, clenching around him and whispering filth in his ear while his balls ached and begged for mercy, and you’d deny him over and over again. And then there were the other nights, the opposite, when you wouldn’t stop until he was shaking, so wrung out and overstimulated he could barely form words, you’d ride orgasm after orgasm out of him, with your mouth or hand or cunt, until he was sobbing from how good it felt, how too much it was. Your sex life with Harry was anything but boring. It was intense and so addictive.

“She probably flinches when you grab her hair, huh?” You smirked and leaned down to whisper in his ear again. “Does she even let you fuck her face? Huh? Gets wet like I do if you smack her ass till it’s red? Cause I let you spit in my mouth and cum on my face and I thank you for it, H.”

“Fuck, babe,” he growled. “You’re the best. Please, please don’t stop”

“Beg for it then.” You smirked, slowing down, holding yourself still on his cock.

“Babe,” he gasped. “Please ride me. Please, fuck—I’ll do anything. I’ll get you the phone, the necklace, a fucking new car. Just move.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, slowly starting again, letting your pussy squeeze around him. “That’s more like it, Harry.”

“Oh yes—Oh fuck, please, babe, I’m so close… Gonna blow.”

“You better not cum until I say so,” you snapped, grabbing his chin to make him look at you. “You’re mine to fuck. And I tell you when you cum.”

Harry nodded fast. “Yes, yes, yours, all yours.”

Your pace got rougher, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene in the room, your thighs slapping against his. Your clit was dragging just right against the base of him, every grind pushing you closer, his cock twitching inside you like he was dying to let go.

You leaned down, letting your lips brush his. “I think I want a weekend away somewhere expensive. Somewhere you don’t take her because you’re too ‘busy with work’.”

“God, yes, we’ll go anywhere you want. Please, just keep riding me.”

You moaned loud, letting your orgasm start to build, letting him feel how close you were by the way you clenched around him, the way your moans turned higher, sweeter, meaner. His hands were fisting at his sides, and you could tell he was so close, just one squeeze away from falling apart.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say I’m your perfect little whore.”

“You are,” he groaned. “You’re my perfect little whore, fuck, please let me cum, please.”

“Uh-uh.” You tapped his cheek lightly, “beg a little more.” You lifted yourself off his cock, his slick length slipped free with a wet sound, and he let out a strangled, almost pained little whine. “You don’t get to cum that easy.”

“Are you serious?” he growled. “I’ve been good, fuck—said I’d get you the damn phone, didn’t I?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed sweetly while stroking his slick cock with featherlight touches. You let a string of spit drip down onto his shaft, rubbing it in with the palm of your hand, giving him just enough friction to keep him aching for more.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Please, put it inside again. I’ll do whatever you want, just… fuck, keep going. I need to cum so bad it fucking hurts.”

You climbed back into his lap and eased him back inside you slowly, watching the way his face crumpled in relief, like he could barely believe it. His hands grabbed your ass hard, guiding your rhythm, thrusting his hips up to meet every bounce, driving himself deeper into you with brutal force.

Harry sucked his fingers into his mouth with a pop, he dragged them down to your chest, closed them around your nipple, pinching it soft at first, testing their sensitivity today, then rougher when he heard the moan you couldn’t hold back. The his other hand drifted lower, grazing your stomach, brushing your navel, until it found your clit, so swollen and needy, and his fingers traced fast circles, smearing your wetness around the puffy nub.

His slick-covered fingers then traveled to your face, he didn’t ask you to open your mouth, didn’t ask for permission, he just shoved two fingers inside, knuckles deep. You whimpered but received the invasion with eagerness, your tongue exploring, licking the length of them slowly like a desperate little thing, your mouth sucking them as if it was his cock. You looked at him in the eye while still sucking, offering him your biggest innocent face, as if you weren’t riding his cock and sucking his fingers right now at the same time, and Harry growled like a wounded animal, he looked furious with lust.

You moaned around his fingers, letting yourself gag a little on them, covering them in your own spit. Strings of saliva clung between your lips and his fingers when he finally took them out, dragging along your tongue.

You let out a long, low moan, arching your back in pleasure, and then you finally said the words he was dying to hear. “Cum for me, H. Fill me up, now.”

Harry came with a shout, and you followed him right away, his cock was throbbing violently inside you, and you felt the hot spurts of cum coating your insides, his body trembling beneath yours as you kept grinding, slow and deep, milking every last drop from him.

You collapsed against him, laughing a little breathlessly as he clung to you like a man who’d just barely survived. You stayed seated on his lap, pussy still wrapped around his spent cock, feeling him twitch every time your walls fluttered around him, feeling how his cum slowly slid out of you, thick and still watm, edging down around his softening cock, dripping over the curve of his shaft, slicking his balls, soaking your thighs. Your hands ran up his chest, in slow and soothing movements, drawing little circles over his tattoos as you admired the absolute state of him.

“You should get one with my name,” you murmured, lazily tracing the ink on his chest with your finger.

Harry let out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

“What?” you teased. “I just gave you the best orgasm of your life. I think that earns me something permanent.”

He hummed. “Hmm… you deserve a lot of things.”

Your finger trailed lower, over his abs. “Speaking of which… didn’t you say something about getting me a new car?”

He let out a strangled little groan, giving you a weak glare. “You’re relentless.”

You grinned and kissed him again, slow and sweet this time, your lips brushing his lazily. “Be a good boy and spoil your girl.”

And god, with the way he nodded, weak and obedient, and so completely gone for you? You almost wanted to ride him again just to see how much more of him you could take.

Join the tag list here

A/N: I’m still not taking requests, but funnily enough, I had something with a sugar daddy dynamic sitting in my drafts from way back before I even got this request. And I just happened to feel like writing for Harry, so I went ahead and finished it.

Now hear me out, I didn’t plan for this to be more than one part, but I was watching this one episode of Ginny & Georgia and thought: WHAT IF, in a second part, reader made Harry believe she’s pregnant with his baby just for giggles??

I hope you enjoy this one, thank you so much for your constant support, your likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated🩷🩷

tags: @ducksareswagy @conrzd @xmrsbutlerx @potter-solomons @bhyunrosies @freyadronning @laufeysons @moonbeamott @mani-pedro @ohthisisanna @moonlightbored345 @faithhhhhsblog @sweetnspicychicken @marisolpusheen @youngadult9016 @alexxavicry @tr199yc0841n @serenity-1221 @feveredvisions @Ghostlover19 @frenchaurora

dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[wordwizards]

it's that time of the year where i post about the ocs from my secondary story before launching them back into the void for several months

[celiaelise]

Just saw some gifsets and stills of the new Fantastic 4 movie, and it looks sooooo creatively bereft istg 🤦🏻‍♀️

The most interesting thing about it is that it's a sixties period piece, but it feels like they're mostly just using that as an excuse to make more conservative choices.

I mean, I've always hated superhero comics movies, (not to brag but literally when the first avengers and capt America movies came out, I was like...🤨 do we need to be doing this? Like, as a society?) and I really don't think the Fantastic 4 is a strong enough concept to have the cultural longevity it's had, so, like, obviously I'm not the target audience here. But I feel movies such as this*, really speak to what a dire place we're in, culturally.

*full of (white-ish) people put on screen to be attractive before anything else, especially the women. seeming to promote "traditional values". Not making any effort to be subversive or original, not even via mediocre humor. Leaning into nostalgia and "weren't the aesthetics so good back then?" as a way to avoid coming up with new ideas or asking any hard questions.

I know you may be thinking, "Elise, you haven't even watched the trailer for yourself, let alone the actual movie; give it a chance!"

Well, the point of a trailer is to show what a movie is about and what it's going to be like! Even if the draw of your movie is that it's mysterious and you won't know much until you watch it, that's typically communicated somehow via the trailers. AND I'm familiar enough with tumblr to understand that the moments that get giffed or posted about are usually the ones that excite the fandom the most, so it's safe to assume that there wasn't some really cool or shocking reveal in the trailer that nobody happened to post about.

And what I saw being advertised in this trailer was conventionality, nostalgia, and a general concept of Commercial White Prettiness. With the caveat that, though the story has a historical setting, the women--mainly the one lone woman--have to be Pretty in a way that measures up to 2025 Instagram standards. Obviously being Pretty in a 1960s way wouldn't be sufficient.

(Also obviously I know Pedro Pascal is Latino. If you choose to focus on that over everything else, you are being successfully played by the Disney Corporation.)

[whirligiga]

Here's a picture of Pidge with her feets out that I never got around to posting

[sysig]

2024 Purge (Part 3)

A whole Three-Parter for 2024! Damned very completely took over my brain and I made so many many doodles about it haha <3 Also ft. Helix and SCII generally, and a few other cursory Damned-style things :)

Little mini ZEX walk cycle from his Kissing Strangers meme ♥ He’s so cute, wobbling around on these weird new legs, not used to using these stiff arms to assist him back up!

Floorplans!! Of the Vyer Estate, I unfortunately don't know the layout/room configuration of estates or mansions very well haha, so I kinda just guessed at what kind of structure the house would have - I could've looked up blueprints, but the foyer is such a strong image in my head that every other room kind of fell off around it lol - though I still oscillate between seeing the stairs in the frontmost room or to the sides, hmm

Many many speculations, including the outer spaces, yard out front and in back, what all is within their fencing, if its built on a slab or foundation, if there's a crawlspace or cellar or full basement, ahh, so many possibilities! You can see in the left full-view I mistakenly put Dex's room on the first floor lol, both his and Max's room are explicitly described as being upstairs, on a separate floor from the kitchen. Very important! But where is the master bedroom...? The two on the right are kind-of both of the same thing; the platform at the top of the foyer double stairs, and the room beneath it that leads outside to the back garden - I moved the dining room around here and there, it would be nice to open up the back doors and have a dinner party able to go in and out I think :)

Going a bit more granular, made some temps for Max's room specifically - he hangs out there a lot, it's important! Even pulled out my grid paper for this one haha, fun to have an actual floorplan kind of look with tile-spaced everything! Very Sims, quite fun. I do like the idea of him having a window seat, but he's also described as standing in front of his windows so that probably wouldn't be the Only type he'd have hmm

On the topic of the Sims, I ended up making the three mockups in the Sims 2 as well! I do like this one - I was especially surprised that Max was even able to get to the bed! I thought the dresser would be in the way but no, it’s all walkable :D Very pleased. Not fully satisfied with the placement of his en suite tho, would it encroach into his room itself, or be tucked into a wall...? I kind of like that idea of that :0

The double bay windows is maybe a bit much, but I mean. Idle rich lol. At one point he’s looking out the window and then backs Dex up against a wall, but Which wall hmmm, must align room layout with seduction attempts, very important

Switching entirely over, you might remember the card I posted of Stanley, and the small mention of having made a matching card for the Narrator... I may have made significantly more than just that lol, I can't help it!! The Damned structure is wonderfully made, it invites creative speculation and idea generation at a nearly alarming rate! I commend the game builders for their craft. So I made a bunch of the faces I'd want to see at the institute lol, I love duos the most-most, so picking a pair from several of my favourite pieces of media was just ahh! Yes!

Apaultheosis and Emma seemed like a particularly fun match :D Would that make Paul his "real" counterpart...? I mean, it says Matthew right there lol, but would he just act like Paul? Would be doubly weird if Paul-proper showed up while the Apotheosis was out swanning around haha, Apaultheosis really seems like the right level of "belongs in an institute" to have a lot of fun with :) And if it's my immune-Emma AU in particular, Emma's already used to having to be around a bunch of weirdos haha

The LAC boys!!! ♥ Making everyone's little background was a lot of fun too - yellow for the TSPs, blue splotches for the Hatchetfield duo, little devil trappings for these two :D Such fun! It was also very fun to write up everyone's little personalities in simple phrasing, really break them all down to their core characterizations haha. Helps with not pushing them too far one way or another too! Would they do any given thing because [trait]? S'fun!

Weird Duo, the Watchers pulled from And the Universe Shifts - the explorations of villains having to put up being on the same side as/having to get along with heroes really makes for an interesting examination of how they'd go about doing that! These two are still absolutely insufferable, but they're also trying to escape! It's interesting :0 Also casual headcanon of how the institute would deal with enby/trans characters, possibly something I've had a lot of thoughts about lol

Last fanduo from the first batch - all of these were made over the course of like, two days, if that lol, I was very excited about this idea - I genuinely love how anime/JRPG characters are usually given fake names also in Japanese, it's very fun :D I only did so halfway for Nova's since she's only ever had the one kind of anglicized personal name, no family name - could she also be a kid from Jersey? Such mysteries haha. She also probably wouldn't have her hair clips during the day unfortunately :P But I couldn't resist drawing them, she's not her without them! The Watchers get their masks, give my girl her barrettes!

Back to Helix, more short-haired Max! I do like this one but I also thought the pose was silly so I held off on it haha, he looks cute with short hair! <biased towards Max generally

Another one that was too silly to put anywhere haha, ZEX being attacked by an invisible Kayako - Teisel is very confused at your inexplicable reactions, Admiral!

Normally I wouldn't post my studies, partially because they're mostly for my own benefit, to better understand how to draw a character, and also because I am usually very ❤️💕💖💞💗 in my commentary lol, as evidenced. I was excited to see him!! Especially in the institute uniform!!! <3 I'd doodled him a couple times as such but Seeing it, ahh <3 <3 So cute, wonderful ♪♫

Max! Another half-study, frog mouthed boy <3 Goofy floofy lad, love him <3

And another! This time of him being teary-mad, gosh he's adorable no matter what he's up to

Hehe <3 A particularly silly one in reaction to Dexter having arm-pinned him on the floor - how different certain things look in hindsight, through the lense of a crush, hm?

Talanaaaa ♪ In actuality she removed her shirt, but how cute would it have been to tie it up at her side instead ahhh

Lovestruck Zelnick, totally listening, mmhm <3

The silliness continues! Was thinking about the little pink bits at the end of VUX tendrils and how I've sometimes seen them speculated as also being little tongues? I'm still not sure what I think about it! It is good and potentially creepy I think, but would they taste? Would they be as dexterous? Hmmm, thoughts thoughts

A dandelion for the sunshine Captain <3

There he is! The sunniest boy of them all! Sweetest sweet lad ♥ Love him :)

Speculating ZEX plushie stuff still - going over the construction of his uniform, possibly as part of his body, possibly as something to dress him in so he can be fitted into other clothes as well :0 I'm still considering the tail slot, but probably only for uniform-as-body - otherwise, laying his tunic overtop his tail would probably be the easiest all the way around. I do like VUX with short tails too tho, hmm, how to make it visible... On the right are a few more detail ideas :D Different eye styles, what would be embroidered vs. sewn together etc. - I considered felt medals and badges, but I really think embroidery would have the prettiest result! Even my notes say so haha, that and where to put weighted pellets in place of fluffy stuffing :)

Speaking of plush 👀 Ahem

An alternate Strawberry Blond panel, ZEX pulling him up fully to look at him hhh I love him <3

And also touching him a bit, what is this feeling DAX is feeling! ZEX has some ideas :3c Though when doesn't he lol

More DAX expressions! Angy and owie, they do tend to go hand-in-hand, poor lad got well-knocked around and he still ended up the least injured of the three!

Rando icons, I can't help myself ♪ This uniform has its hooks in me, is it the ominous smiley face's bright yellow on boring grey, the contrast, the sameness?? I just like it! Was a fun small and simple thing to pull together :)

I actually started this set somewhat early on, speculating what DAX's MU scene might be, but never ended up with anything solid - since he wasn't there initially, it's hard to think of what would be a fitting torture for him, apart from what Was there i.e. having to watch what ZEX went through :( That does seem like it'd leave some pretty massive mental scars on him - always always always unable to save him in the moments where it really counts! :'0 But it doesn't do anything to his Body, and that's supposed to be the point of MU! I do still like many things here, DAX's offer of self-sacrifice being rejected and him being powerless to do anything else

And the way I used hashmarks to imply his eyes going fuzzy with them both open and the stress - looks like a pause symbol haha

Also a big fan of the little corner doodle being so cute and wholesome, the two of them excitedly circling each other, excited to see each other! I love-loved that so much in their meeting <3 <3

Then there was that one time DAX and DAX met, that was fun :) If only ZEX had shown up, then what would DAX do! Self-defense in a way hehe, that's one way of getting on the same side haha

The raw doodle that eventually became Get Out of the Way! For as sad a way as it was to go out - failing to be protected, the last of his allies, not even able to wield his own weapon effectively - it does still remind me of a silly quote. Those dogs were indeed very nasty!

A temp doodle of Dexter holding both Max's clothes and ZEX's uniform after his "discharge" (;;) from the institute, the only things he has left to hold onto 💔 So very little left of him :(

I at one point asked smol who she’d put in the institute for funsies and she picked Maison Talo, and so I tossed Apaultheosis at him - they do both consider humans as prey! Just, a bit differently lol. Would the Apotheosis even be able to convert a Realtor by their lure? Where does the goo need to be to start to take effect, many questions

Stanley Icons <3 It's only fitting that my first choice for a card gets his own set of reactions! Icons like these are actually really fun to make - pulling around from my doodles, slapping a bit of colour overtop, edits to screenshots (Stanley's "Dead" reaction is probably my favourite of those, I'm sure y'all can guess which ending I pulled from lol) - and it all has me tempted to make a few more...

Back to Just-SCII! More Baby VUX!! 💖 They're so cute!!! Just little guys, adorable <3 Casual clothing and PJs and having to tie one's sash back on haha, all those complicated loops and knots :)

Also some muscle/arm shape speculations of how VUX armtips might change based on what they're doing, the roundedness of recoiling is very funny to me haha

Obviously had to make these two's versions in TS2 as well, the most fun <3 “What brings you in today, Mr. Vargas?” “That’s doctor.” “Oh, sure, right.”

More of the Doctor meme! Poor DAX haha, certainly sick with Something ♪

I think the lyric is “three times a day”? But what three times a day, that's the real question lol. ZEX has his own suggestions hmm :) I do like their hug in the first one hehe, so cute <3

Totally all better! Definitely nothing would make his symptoms flare up again!

Poor DAX <3

Digitized Dr. Doran! He really is so tiny haha, it was fun using Wander's colour scheme, mostly filled out already! The institute's dress code for staff is a mystery; presumably some of the therapists wear medical/professional clothes, but then there's Stein who still has the screw in his head - surely they'd allow jeans, right? Or is that where they draw the line lol. Look it's fine, he's meant to be the Approachable Therapist, he gets special allowances, totallyyy

All two Locked In doodles that didn't make the cut but also have nowhere else to go lol - there’s a few dozen concept sketches that haven’t been written into complete scenes yet that I'd love to post as their own sets! At some point!! Poor Oz is so put out, and Leah's big goofy grin, very silly hehe - that one's just meant to show off her outfit! It's winter, no bare legs here!

As a bonus to make up for those being the only two doodles, here’s Ozzy and Thrax in TS2 failing to get along lol. Oz! You're not good enough friends for that yet! Will they get there someday? :3c

VUX snuggles <3 Love the them so very much ♥

This is one I really want to digitize to get them a little more cosplay-accurate, but I'd been going back through some nostalgic AMVs and had the sudden realization that KuroFai, being one of my fairly early/influential ships on my heart, and now they...

Fai even loses an eye, I jfdlskafdlhfdf

Finishing out with my last set of cards, I had to make the two leads from SAOA, truly a masterwork in abridging <3 They're just such fun characters! And it's not like they're not already used to being trapped somewhere that constantly risks their lives :'0 I love them, I swear! Good things for them!

[thelovers-thedreamers-and-me]

the downside to being a sitcom neighbour sort of person is that when rough things happen and emotionally fuck u up a lil bit, it also sounds completely made up

[keeps-ache]

been telling my siblings 'you would NOT make it in vulcan academy' when they do smth goofy recently and nobody's been able to refute lol

[bandanad33]

The boys are back in town!

[lesenbyan]

The manic calculation of "I'm tired but if I sleep will I lose the mania? If I stay up all night with fatigue overpower it? Can I even go to bed? Do I need to listen to Lemon Drop 10000x?"

[spideyhexx]

I feel like the Plinths would ultimately be okay after his rise to power, but mostly cause he had the setup for becoming a gamemaker through Gaul's internship. If Coryo came back from twelve and went through college and was setup to inherit the Plinth's munition business, he'd get rid of the Plinths, but since he was going the politics route instead of the business route and they were already supporting, funding, and endorsing him, they'd be okay. (Unless people commented on him being taken care of by District borns cause of Capital bias, then he'd distance himself in the same way he distanced from Tigris, but I don't think he'd harm them at all.)

-🐭

yeah I agree! I don’t think he harmed them in any way, I think at most he just distanced/cut off with them once he was successful enough on his own because in the end he was using them, so ofc he’d be done with them once he’s gotten to a better place.

[crynburne]

old sctir doodles (that somewhat stood the test of time)

some have novel events spoilers so beware

[yanderedrabbles]

Christine - A Yandere Short Story

Based on Christine by Stephen King After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go. Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words Taglist: @mel-vaz

When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.

All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.

After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.

"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."

His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."

You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.

You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.

It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.

She was waiting for you.

Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.

She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.

You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.

Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.

But things were different now.

You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.

When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.

The seats were empty.

You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.

The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.

You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.

When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.

At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.

But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.

No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.

You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.

It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.

It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.

Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.

"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."

Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.

He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.

"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."

You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.

When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.

His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.

"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."

You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.

"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"

He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.

"He... he passed away a few moths ago."

He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.

"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."

You shrugged. "It's fine."

He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.

He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."

You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.

"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest."

He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."

He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?

"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."

If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.

But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.

You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.

"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."

You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."

It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.

You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.

"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."

The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.

"Christine?"

"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."

You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -

'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'

He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.

'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'

Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.

Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?

The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.

God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.

He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.

'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'

It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.

You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.

"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.

"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."

You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.

The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.

"How did you know about this place?"

He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."

Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.

He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.

"You know this place?" he asked.

If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."

He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."

"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."

He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.

"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."

You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."

He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."

It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.

When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.

"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."

"Sure thing sugar."

He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?

Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.

When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.

It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.

No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.

Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.

"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"You say something sugar?"

He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.

"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."

"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."

He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."

"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."

See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?

He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.

"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.

You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?

"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.

You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.

You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.

He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.

"She's all yours." And thank God for that.

Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.

You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...

You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.

"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.

Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.

He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.

Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.

Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.

Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.

And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.

'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'

Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.

He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.

"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."

He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.

You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."

He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."

You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.

He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.

You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.

He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"

It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.

'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'

You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.

Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.

'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'

The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.

"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."

You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.

"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."

You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-

"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"

YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.

"I'll bring you home early, promise."

"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."

Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.

'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'

He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.

That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.

You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?

Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.

Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.

Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.

Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.

You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.

Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.

"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.

You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."

Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'

He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.

Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.

Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.

'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'

How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?

He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...

He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.

He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.

'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'

He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.

You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.

"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"

He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.

"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?

"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."

He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."

He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.

You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.

"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."

"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."

He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."

"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."

"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.

"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."

He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.

"So how's Christine treating you?"

"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."

"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.

It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.

"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."

You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?

He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."

You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.

He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.

He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.

"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.

"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."

He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.

"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"

You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.

"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."

You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.

"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"

'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.

And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"

He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.

"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.

He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.

Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.

"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."

He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.

He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.

All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.

He wanted to dream about you again.

There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.

He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.

He was right. He did dream of you.

You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.

You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?

He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.

He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.

He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.

Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.

"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"

He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."

"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"

He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."

He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."

"I don't want a fence."

He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."

You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"

He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"

That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.

"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."

It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.

"I haven't seen this one before. New?"

You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."

"It's cute. But..."

You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"

He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."

He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.

He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.

Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.

It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.

He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.

He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.

He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.

'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'

Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.

Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.

In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.

If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.

"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.

Not tonight though.

He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.

'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.

'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'

A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.

He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.

'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'

When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.

He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.

He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.

Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.

On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.

He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.

'Mine. Forever and always.'

He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.

He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.

Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.

Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.

It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.

Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.

He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.

He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.

He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.

He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.

He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.

The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?

"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.

There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.

He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.

And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.

But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.

Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.

"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.

The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.

It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?

'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'

The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?

It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.

He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.

Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.

He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.

"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"

The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."

Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.

"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"

"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."

The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.

The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.

You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.

You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.

Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.

The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.

You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.

You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.

It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.

"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."

Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.

"I got something to ask you, baby."

You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.

"Yes?"

He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

"And you ain't going to leave me?"

"Never."

He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.

"Will you marry me?"

You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.

"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."

"I..."

"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."

"I...can't."

You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.

"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."

He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...

"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."

He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.

"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"

"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"

"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"

You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.

His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.

"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"

You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.

"Please just -"

"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"

He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.

"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."

You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.

"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"

Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.

Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.

You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.

Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.

How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?

Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.

White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.

You stabbed him.

You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.

He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.

You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.

But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.

You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.

You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.

You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.

He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.

You kicked the door shut.

It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.

The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.

You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.

When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.

You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.

You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.

At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.

And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.

If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.

Guy like him had it coming.

When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.

Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.

He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.

Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.

Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.

When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.

"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."

The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.

Almost like a...Mustang.

His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.

He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.

A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.

He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.

The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.

Screech.

The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.

"Fuck!"

Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.

Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.

But the car didn't have a driver.

He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.

Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.

He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.

The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.

He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.

He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.

Where?! Where was she?!

Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.

The airbags came on, blinding him.

Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.

An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.

Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.

For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.

Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.

She revved.

Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.

He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.

His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.

He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.

The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.

Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.

But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.

Kind of like in the cemetery.

No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.

He was looking at a dead man.

The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.

Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.

There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.

"You know why I'm here?"

Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.

Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.

"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"

The dead man laughed.

"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.

That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.

He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.

"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"

Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.

"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."

The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.

His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.

Colt fainted.

The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?" 

[pluage-docters-go-brrrrrr]

I hate it when my period starts during like the middle of the week and then have to spend the weekend at my dad's house unprepared because I didn't pack tampons and my dad lives with dudes so they have 0 feminine hygiene products. It used to be no problem it just sucked a lot. Now I have to pack. I'm too lazy for that!

[cherrysinner]

─── SHOW-OFF ♡

♡ pairing: ex-husband!rafe x red rose!reader

♡ summary: your ex-husband outshines your current husband at your birthday party.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff, smut, unprotected piv, cheating, car sex, reader having an asshole husband. MDNI! wc: 1.5k

♡ author's note: another 5k fic!! it’s been a while since i wrote them… oops!

RAFE MASTERLIST ♡ 5K MASTERLIST

"awww, thank you!" you exclaimed when your husband handed you the glimmering silver bracelet. even though every piece of jewelry you owned was golden, you couldn't fault will too much; he was a busy man, it was understandable that he wouldn't spend his time paying attention to something as silly as what your jewelry looked like.

theo looked over the necklace with a critical eye, narrowing the blue eyes he got from your ex-husband, his little nose turnt up at the velvet box, "that looks cheap." the little boy stated, his arms crossed. "what?" your husband scoffed as if the young boy had personally offended him, "you're a kid, you don't know about things like this, theo." one tug on the sleeve of your blouse and your attention was back on your son, the little boy clad in a button-up shirt, looking so much like his father.

"theo." you let out a quiet sigh, looking around at the crowd around you, your birthday party in full swing, not wanting to make a scene. you brought a hand to rest on top of theo's head, stroking his hair. " that's not a kind thing to say."

"daddy would've gotten you a better gift." the little boy grumbled, haughtily looking between his stepfather and the gift he'd just given to you; you couldn't help the way your lips twitched up slightly; the older he got, theo started reminding more and more of his father, and it seemed that included having expensive taste.

"i love it." you smile, taking will's hand into yours, a cocky smile taking over his offended expression, "i'm glad you do, baby."

you'd been socializing with your guests, thanking them for coming and accepting 'happy birthday's, until the bustle of the party was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, your brows raising in surprise, only for your young son to make his way to the front door, exclaiming "i'll get it, i'll get it!" over and over again while you went to will, your dear husband sporting surprised look on his face, not too different from the one on yours.

you felt your breath get stuck in your throat when the man who gave your son his steely, blue eyes was standing next to him, a smile on his face as he held up a present.

“happy birthday.”

you hadn't seen rafe since your... slip-up a month ago; whenever you were supposed to take theo to his father, you'd asked the girl who occasionally babysat for you. now, here he was, standing right in front of you, and you couldn't stop thinking of his limbs tangled with yours on the bed you shared with your husband, of his lips all over your body, of him inside of you—

"rafe." you mutter weakly, "what... what are you doing here?" "oh." rafe's hand went to scratch the back of his head, the man's golden wedding band still on his ring finger, whereas you now wore a ring given to you by another, "i guess... i guess theo was lying when he told me you'd asked him to invite me, huh?"

"yes, he was." will said with a cold, defensive voice, his hand possessively tugging you into his side, "you should probably leave."

"rafe, can i talk to you?" you detached yourself from will's grip, turning to him with an apologetic look, "this'll just take a minute." you mumbled, before going over to rafe and wrapping your hand around his wrist, pulling him into the other room as onlookers exchanged curious, conspiratorial looks.

"why are you here?" you ask once you've tugged rafe into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind you. "i told you, theo told me-" "oh, i know you didn't believe a word he said. he's not that good of a liar." you crossed your arms in front of your chest. rafe sighed, bringing his calloused hand to trail the soft skin of your arm, goosebumps appearing on your skin in the wake of his touch.

"you keep avoiding me." rafe mumbled almost pleadingly, "we slept together and now you pretend i don't exist." "that-" you gritted your teeth, looking away from him, "that was a mistake. that should've never happened, and it's never gonna happen again."

rafe let out a low chuckle, pressing close to you, "you don't really believe that, do you? 'cause if you did... you wouldn't be avoiding me. but you are, because you're afraid that when we're alone..."

rafe brought his lips close to your ears, his words turning into a husky whisper, "you're gonna end up in bed with me again. and again. and again."

rafe pressed his lips on your cheeks for an almost chaste kiss before pulling back, yet you could still feel his heat surrounding you. he took your hand, pressing a gift box on the palm of your hand.

"if you're so sure that nothing's ever gonna happen between us again, you should come see me tonight." rafe tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a fond, challenging smile on his lips "how about you wear that red set you know i love, hm? i'll park across the street at 12."

you felt your cheeks warm up even as rafe pulled away and walked out of the kitchen. you opened the gift box, revealing a golden locket. when you opened it, you felt your heart squeeze in your chest. it was a picture of you, rafe, and baby theo, taken while you and rafe were still married.

how did he manage to get your to heart to flutter no matter what he did?

you leaned on the doorway, clad in your silky pink nightgown, listening to the soft snores your husband let out. you rubbed your calf with the back of your foot, massaging moisturizer onto your hands, your brows stuck in a furrow, deep in thought. you could get into bed, snuggle up to your husband, go to sleep…

you looked to the alarm clock on your bedside table. five minutes past midnight. five minutes after twelve. you looked to your dressing table, at the golden locket, your mind drifting to the way rafe had looked at you, the way he smiled at you…

you shouldn't. you should go to bed. next to the husband who loves you. you shouldn't put on the locket your former husband gave you. you shouldn't pull on the robe that matched your nightgown and rush downstairs and put your shoes on.

and you most definitely shouldn't rush outside and make your way to the range rover you knew belonged to rafe. but before you could even question the commands your heart were giving you, your body had decided to dismiss the advice your brain was trying to give you, and you found yourself straddling rafe in the backseat of his truck, the car filling with the sounds of your heavy breathing mixing in with his, rushed hands working to undress one another, until you finally felt the head of rafe's cock being pressed against your clit, the sweet friction causing pleasure to pool in your lower stomach.

your hand found his when rafe positioned his cock at your entrance, fingers intertwining the moment you let yourself sink down on his cock, a loud moan leaving your lips.

thunder roared outside of the car but the sounds of rafe's lips on yours was somehow louder, "i knew you wouldn't be able to resist..." rafe breathed out, a whine leaving your lips as he moved you up and down on his cock, your walls practically molding themselves into the shape of his cock. "fuck, always feel so good..." rafe whispered, "like you're made for me..."

you continued riding him, chasing the pleasure that only rafe managed to give you, enjoying the feelings only he managed to tease out of you. "god, rafe..." you let out breathlessly.

"come on, baby..." rafe's hand slid down to your clit, drawing patterns on the throbbing bud with his thumb, "tell me you're only made for me... tell me you want me and no one else..."

rafe's thrusts grew more intense, more purposeful the longer you were quiet for, his cock kissing your cervix as if it would draw those words out of you, until finally he stilled his hips inside of you and paused the movements of his finger, a loud whine leaving your lips. "tell me..." he mumbled against your swollen lips, "tell me, or i'm not gonna keep going..."

"i'm made just for you..." you brought your lips to his for a gentle peck, "i don't want anyone else but you..." "yeah, you're all mine..." rafe mumbled against your lips, his hips starting to thrust up into you all over again.

and thirty minutes later, when you slipped into the bed you shared with your clueless, sleeping husband, looking to the man with rafe's cum still inside of you after he'd fucked it up into you, whispering about how it was proof you're all his, you couldn't help but think that the words were true.

TAGLIST: @raahosh @nemesyaaa @purpleplumpudding @littlelamy @dollyfiles @esotericcangel @mattyskies @bakugouswaif @nonietosay @my-name-is-baby @tinythebunni @fratbrochrisgf @ariieeesworld @silkylovey @izumis-salty-penis @flow33didontsmoke @cameronsbabydoll @love-ella333 @haylorbestie @k4yr14 @harringtonsbowgirl @lacelottie @st8rkey @lunaleah @cicicavill7 @lillied31 @doremimosasol @lerclec @deeninadream @digitaldiary111 @constantsadness

click here to join the taglist! 💌

[rickybobbydan]

Soft Launch Lando

Lando Norris x Sainz!YoungerSister reader

Summary: You've been dating Lando for a few months on the down low. No one, including the media, the fans, and especially not your older brother, Carlos, has caught on. But Lando gets into a silly, goofy mood and decided soft launching during summer break is a good idea. Will chaos ensure?

Tags: Fluff, SMAU, use of y/n

A/N: So this is my first SMAU, so it's probably a little rough. I wanted to try something new for a Lando fic

Masterlist ❤️

lando

Liked by lnfour, carlossainz55, and 23,767 others

lando: stepped into somehing good 🧡🤍

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lnfour: 👀

carlossainz55: Do you have something to share with the groupchat?

user1: OMGGGG A SOFTLAUNCH???

user 2: That doesn't look like Oscar's foot 🤭

oscarpiastri: Thankfully it's not lando: you wish it was you 👀

user 3: no more lando no-rizz lmaooo 😗

It starts with a post.

Not a selfie. Not a tagged photo. Just a picture of your shoes touching—white sneakers, sole to sole, perfectly aligned like puzzle pieces. The lighting is cozy, casual. Nothing dramatic. But it’s intimate in the way that says: this isn’t just anyone.

The caption?

“Stepped into something good.” 🧡🤍

No tag. No name. Just implication.

And now… chaos.

You’re lying face down on the bed, trying to muffle your laughter into the hotel pillow, while Lando—fresh from the shower, towel slung dangerously low—is checking his phone with a grin like he’s just cured world hunger.

“Lando,” you groan. “You soft-launched me with my own shoes.”

He shrugs, clearly very proud of himself. “They’re good shoes. Sentimental.”

You peek at the screen. “Carlos commented. You’re dead.”

Lando reads the message aloud with a smirk:

“Do you have something to share with the group chat?”

“See?” he says, tossing the phone on the bed. “Could’ve been worse. He’s chill.”

Your phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not yours that vibrates.

It’s his.

Lando glances at the screen, and the color visibly drains from his face.

Incoming Call: Carlos Sainz

Your eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“Nope,” Lando says immediately, scrambling backward on the bed like the call might physically burn him. “No, no, no.”

“You have to answer,” you say, already laughing. “You posted it.”

“I was being romantic!” he hisses, clutching a pillow to his chest like it’s armor. “I didn’t think he’d be on Instagram within thirty seconds.”

Your phone pings again.

Carlos: Tell Lando to pick up.

Lando flinches. “He’s texting you too? How would he even know it was you?”

“Oh, he’s serious. He knows those shoes, Lando.”

The phone keeps buzzing.

“Answer it,” you tease. “Maybe he just wants to talk.”

“He never just wants to talk,” Lando mutters, reluctantly swiping to accept the call. He puts it on speaker.

“Hola,” he says, with the shakiness of a man who has made terrible choices.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Carlos’s voice comes through, low and threatening in that very older-brother-who-lifts-weights-for-fun way:

“Tell me that picture wasn’t what I think it was.”

Lando opens his mouth. Closes it.

You’re barely holding it together.

“Technically,” Lando says carefully, “it was just a pair of shoes.”

Another pause.

“You’re unbelievable,” Carlos mutters. “Shoes? Really? That’s how you announce it? On Instagram? Without telling me?”

Lando sits up straighter. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t announce anything. I soft launched. That’s different.”

You bury your face in the sheets, wheezing.

“I swear to God, Lando—”

“Carlos, wait!” Lando blurts. “I swear I was going to tell you, properly. Like, with dinner! And a handshake! And maybe a presentation with charts!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“That’s fair,” Lando mumbles.

You finally sit up, still grinning. “Hey, Carlos?”

He softens just slightly at the sound of your voice. “Are you okay?”

You glance at Lando, now pink in the face, and beam. “Yeah. I’m happy.”

There’s a long pause. Then Carlos sighs.

“Fine. But if you hurt her—”

“I won’t!” Lando says, already tripping over himself. “I’d rather crash the car into a wall. Like, a big wall. A solid one.”

Carlos groans. “God help me.”

Then the line goes dead.

Lando exhales like he just survived a hostage negotiation.

“That went amazing,” he says, lying flat on his back.

You raise an eyebrow. “That was terrifying.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But also? Kinda worth it.”

You curl up beside him, both of you staring at the ceiling, soft smiles shared in the quiet.

“…You’re still posting that Uno picture later, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you laugh at Lando.

LittleSainz

Liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, iamrebeccad, and 63,543 others

LittleSainz: Should I absoluely destroy him? ❤️

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oscarpiastri: Absolutely

carlossainz55: Yes.

user3: First Lando and now, y/n?? What is going on? Is it soft launch season???

user4: my money's on lando and y/n soft lanching each other 😗

user5: nurse, she got out again

Lando squints at his cards like they’re a complex F1 telemetry readout. You’re trying not to laugh, legs curled beneath you on the couch, phone still warm from where you just posted the photo to your story.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you tease, hiding your grin behind your cards.

“I just don’t trust you,” he mutters, side-eyeing the two wilds you’ve already dropped. “You play UNO like it’s personal.”

“Because it is personal,” you reply, slapping a red +2 onto the pile with a little too much satisfaction.

Lando groans, flopping backward against the cushions. “See?! That’s exactly what I mean. Aggressive. Violent.”

“Strategic,” you correct, drawing another card.

His phone pings. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.

He reaches for it with a suspicious frown, unlocks it, then pauses mid-scroll.

“Babe,” he says slowly, “what did you post.”

You smile sweetly. “Nothing incriminating.”

“'Should I absolutely destroy him?'” he reads aloud. “With a photo of me? In a towel? Playing UNO??”

“It was a soft launch callback. The fans love it.”

As if on cue, his phone lights up with a message from Carlos:

Carlos: Uno? Really? This is what you two are now? Domestic chaos?

Another from Oscar:

Oscar: If she wins, you’re never living it down.

Lando stares at you, eyes narrowing. “You coordinated this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, laying down your next card. “Blue skip.”

“You traitor.”

He lunges for your phone and you yelp, scrambling to hold it above your head as he dives after you, the deck scattering between you both. You’re breathless with laughter, his curls tickling your neck as he tries to swipe your phone and you wriggle out of reach.

Eventually he pins you down, arms caging you, smile wide and breathless.

“You’re evil,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.

“And you love me,” you reply.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

You stop squirming.

His smile softens. “We’re good at this,” he adds quietly.

“Soft launching?”

“No,” he says, leaning in to kiss you. “Loving each other.”

And for once, the comments go quiet in your head.

You forget the cards. The chaos. Even Carlos.

Because you’ve already won.

LittleSainz

Liked by lando, carlossainz55, lnfour, iamrebeccad, and 67,456 others

LittleSainz: Forever my favorite person 🧡 tagged: lando

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lando: my forever and always 🧡

LittleSainz: Love you ❤️

carlossainz55: I think I'm going to be sick

LittleSainz: Hater 👎🏻

user4: I've been vindicated 😤

user5: okay maybe you weren't delulu

user6: Carlando lives on, but like in a different font 🥹

oscarpiastri: She's way out of your league

lando: do you enjoy being a hater????

oscarpiastri: yes ❤️

You’re curled up on the couch in one of Lando’s hoodies, legs tucked beneath you, phone buzzing on the coffee table with constant notifications. You should probably turn it off. Or at least mute Instagram. But something about the chaos is... kind of sweet.

People know now.

And they like you. Or at least, they like you together.

Lando walks into the living room holding two mugs of tea, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a soft smile and no shirt, just gray sweats and his usual sleepy charm.

He sets your mug down in front of you, then leans in to kiss your forehead.

“Still reading comments?” he murmurs against your skin.

You hum. “Oscar called you a troll.”

“Yeah, well. He’s just mad because I have better hair.”

You laugh, and he plops down beside you, pulling you into his lap without asking. His arms loop around your waist as he presses his face into the crook of your neck like it’s his safest place.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“More than okay.”

He exhales, fingers drawing idle shapes on your thigh.

“I thought it’d feel scarier,” you admit, playing with the edge of his sleeve. “Being known as someone other than Carlos's sister.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You don’t have to be anyone you’re not. I’m not sharing you with the world. I’m just... letting them know who has my heart.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re kind of good at this,” you whisper.

“At what?”

“Being mine.”

His smile turns lopsided. “Practice. Lots of it. Years of yearning, tragic pining, a few near-death moments, a very scary older brother who happens to be one of my best friends.”

You laugh again, burying your face in his shoulder. “Carlos literally commented ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’”

“And then liked the post. Passive aggressive and supportive. King behavior.”

“God, we’re insufferable.”

“Yup. Public menace couple. No going back now.”

He tilts your chin up, brushing a soft kiss against your lips. It’s not rushed or showy or dramatic, just...real. Warm. Certain.

And when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

“I’m proud of us,” he says quietly.

You smile. “Me too.”

The world can watch. Comment. Screenshot. The whole circus.

But here, in this room, with his hand on your knee and your head on his chest, everything is quiet. Whole.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream , @cryingtoteenwolf , @roderickstrong , @likeformula1 , @maddyw-223

[pyronovas]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.” 

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks. 

Figure them out. 

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid. 

They’ve never called you a kid before. 

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment. 

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure. 

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin��� you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.” 

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with. 

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore. 

-

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit. 

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way. 

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet. 

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings. 

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly. 

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to. 

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards. 

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

-

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds. 

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him. 

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept. 

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you. 

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it. 

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again. 

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react. 

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded. 

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes. 

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth. 

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit. 

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape. 

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

-

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece. 

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit. 

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment. 

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least. 

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies. 

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin. 

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall. 

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness. 

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull. 

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act. 

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again. 

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push. 

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either. 

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract. 

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart. 

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune