#notes: and see about publishing on ao3

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

[plutotheplum]

Felt Good About You

akaashi keiji x fem!reader

summary: delivering a revised manuscript to your editor turns into something more.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, post-time skip, oral sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, handjob, p in v

wc: 4.8k

a/n: i'm afraid i have the fattest crush on akaashi

also on ao3!

“The romance isn’t working.”

You groan when your editor pushes your manuscript for this week’s chapter towards you. You didn’t need any more bumps in the road, not when you were already running behind on deadlines, with the publishing company breathing down your neck to get the next volume out.

“The romance is fine, Akaashi” you mumble, flicking through the pages of the manuscript to skim through his notes.

“If it was fine, I wouldn’t be here,” he replies dryly.

Akaashi was as blunt as ever. Most of the time you appreciated his honesty, he was the reason for such success with your manga after all, but sometimes he managed to get on your nerves.

“It’s an unnecessary subplot,” he continues, flipping through a couple of pages to show you a few of the panels you had drawn, “there’s just no plausible progression between the two, no chemistry.”

You glare at him. He was really starting to get on your nerves. Akaashi rolls his eyes when he sees your glare, reaching out to flick your forehead.

“You’re already behind on the scheduled publishing date,” he reminds you, crossing his arms over his chest, “and I get the short end of the stick because I’m your editor.”

“The higher-ups love you,” you retort.

You stare pointedly at the small stash of awards that were tucked onto a shelf in his office, the small trophies and plaques a clear display of the company’s commendation for his work. 

“Not enough to let me work in the literature department,” he mutters bitterly.

“I’m right here!” you protest, an exasperated expression spreading across your face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Akaashi murmurs. 

He taps your manuscript a few more times before giving you a stern look.

“Get me the revised version by tonight, otherwise you’ll miss out on this week’s issue.”

You curse him under your breath, giving him one final glare as you gather the pages of your manuscript into your hands. You had come into his office thinking he’d been fine with the story, but now you had somehow ended up with more work than before, and an even tighter deadline.

- 

A few hours later, you end up finding yourself outside Akaashi’s apartment. Guilt had won out in the end, and you figured that it wasn’t fair to let him take the blame for your tardiness. Revised manuscript clutched against your chest, you ring his doorbell.

You can feel your throat dry when he opens up the door. His hair is damp, towel slung around the back of his neck. He’s wearing an old volleyball shirt with sweatpants, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to him looking so domestic. 

Akaashi stares at you blankly, clearly not expecting you. Usually you would’ve just emailed the revised manuscript over to him, not show up outside his door.

“I felt guilty,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing at the awkwardness in the air, “and- and I ordered gyoza so it should be here in a few minutes.”

“Right,” he says after a moment, “you didn’t have to.”

You stare at each other for a moment longer until he sighs, opening the door wider to let you in.

“You’re just as bad as Bokuto,” he informs you.

The mention of the pro-volleyball player makes a smile spread across your face. You had met Akaashi’s volleyball friends a few times when they had enlisted your help in throwing Akaashi a surprise birthday party - which had maybe ended up in a disaster - as well as when you had wound up to a few of their games.

“He’s a sweet guy,” you reply, handing him your manuscript.

Akaashi only hums in response, walking over to his desk. He hangs his towel on the back of his chair before sitting down. You watch as he slips his glasses on, examining the pages of your now edited work.

“I thought you’d try and fight me about the romance,” he murmurs, his pen making a few adjustments here and there. 

“Figured it wasn’t worth it,” you sigh, slumping on the couch in his living room, “you were right, as always.”

He peers over at you, his eyes narrowing as he watches the sulky look on your face. Despite your random bouts of laziness, even Akaashi had to agree that you were a good mangaka whose popularity had built up a loyal reader base. 

“Look,” Akaashi says, setting his pen down, “if you’re that hung up about cutting those scenes, start drafting it now.”

Your gaze shoots up to meet his eyes.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyeing him suspiciously. 

Akaashi was dedicated, sure, but he wasn’t exactly one to take on extra work. Sometimes  you felt as though he would’ve been right at home in the literature department, editing novels instead of volumes of manga. It was like he worked with you out of obligation, not enjoyment, despite the friendship you had built up over the years.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his glasses up a bit further to sit better on the slope of his nose, “I’m serious.”

You don’t get to dwell any longer on your editor’s change in mind, the sound of the doorbell piercing through your conversation. Akaashi waves you away when you move towards the door, grabbing the delivered containers of gyoza himself. 

He sits down beside you on the couch, handing you one container whilst he takes the other. For some reason, you’re feeling more on edge than usual. The brush of his arm against yours has heat rising to your cheeks, body growing taut with the way your stomach is swirling with nervousness.

It was no secret that Akaashi was one of the most handsome men in the office, and you had maybe developed a tiny crush on the man, which was now inflating into something that was not so tiny, and much, much harder to control the more time you spent with him. 

“You okay?” Akaashi asks, peering over you.

You don’t trust yourself enough to reply which is why you stuff a gyoza into your mouth and nod rapidly.

Silence lapses over you both as you eat, but you can feel his eyes boring into the side of your head. You pretend not to notice, trying to engross yourself in the taste of the gyoza and the tang of soy sauce.

Akaashi slouches slightly, his body relaxing as time passes. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, his thighs spreading as he gets more comfortable.

“Instead of adding romance as a subplot, why don’t you make it into another story altogether?”

You blink over at him, surprised. 

“I don’t have time to write another manga,” you say, shaking your head, “I’d have to find another publisher if I wanted to write something that was purely romance.”

“Shonen manga in the romance genre exist,” he replies, running his hand through his hair, “or you could just self-publish.”

You’d been hoping to avoid the topic of self-publishing. Sure, you knew of it, participated in it even. It’d been used as a creative outlet, to get out some ideas that you couldn’t work on when your success as a mangaka had grown. Besides, it wasn’t like you could tell Akaashi that you had drawn up stories that were, well, inappropriate. 

“But that would be too much work,” you sigh, trying to stop his train of thought.

Akaashi stares at you thoughtfully. The more you spend time with him, the more you begin to regret your choice to come here. Emailing the manuscript to him would’ve been the smarter choice, but you just had to feel sorry for the guy.

“I did read one the other day that had a similar art style to yours.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can feel your composure slipping. There was no way he could know that you self-published stories that were practically panel after panel of porn. Maybe he enjoyed it? One thought leads to another and you find yourself imagining Akaashi with his hand wrapped around his cock, his head tipped back as he strokes himself.

“What was it about?” you manage to grit out, trying to see through the haze of your indecent thoughts.

“About a couple,” he says simply, “they ended up fucking.”

You can feel the hope swirling in your mind fade. Akaashi definitely knew. 

“Didn’t know you read that sort of thing.”

“I’m a man, aren’t I? Sometimes porn just doesn’t cut it. The story was pretty great too.”

He thought the story was great? You can’t help yourself from perking up, the compliment making you feel warm. 

“I just find it so strange,” he murmurs, leaning closer to you.

You swallow harshly, mustering up a smile with your trembling lips, “why’s that?”

“The author’s note,” Akaashi says, “the little bunny avatar was the same as yours.”

So, you had messed up. You spy the front door from the corner of your eyes. If you walked, you’d get there in about ten steps, but if you ran, you’d get there in about three - maybe two - strides. Sure, you wouldn’t ever be able to face Akaashi again, but you think you’d be fine with it. Report filed to the higher ups stating creative differences and you’d be able to find a new editor, no problem.

“It’s all probably just a coincidence,” you say nonchalantly, “plenty of people like bunnies.”

“Some of the dialogue was similar to yours, distinct writing and all that.”

You grit your teeth. The man didn’t know when to let go.

“Like I said, coincidence.”

“Right,” he says, nodding along, “a coincidence. Was it also a coincidence that the couple that had sex was a mangaka and her editor?”

You scramble to your feet when he says that. Letting out an awkward laugh, your cheeks heated with embarrassment, you decide that this is the best time to take your leave.

“Have- have a good night!” you say, voice pitching.

Determination has Akaashi’s eyes gleaming and now you’re bolting, feet nearly tripping over each other as you dart towards his apartment door. It seems as though fate isn’t in your favor tonight, Akaashi’s hand curling around your wrist as he catches onto you before you can open the door. You squeak when he slams his hand against the wall, right next to your head as he pushes you up against the door.

“Classic scene,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your meek expression, “you always use it.”

“Fuck off, Akaashi!” you snap, pushing at his chest.

It’s a struggle, but you reach back behind you, hand grabbing blindly for the door handle. He doesn’t let you reach it, catching your wrist and pinning it against the door.

“You sure?” Akaashi asks, his eyes darkened, “or maybe you want me to fuck you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, mouth opening before closing again. There’s nothing left in you, no retorts, no words to get yourself out of this situation. He lets out a sigh when he feels your body relax, his hand on your wrist loosening as he lets go. You stare up at him, biting your lip nervously.

“You should’ve said something,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

“And embarrass myself?” you mutter, picking at the wool of your sweater.

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, his hand smoothing up your hip and settling on your waist. Your eyes widen, arousal shooting through your body as he presses himself closer, his other hand finding your waist. Akaashi squeezes gently and you bite back a whine, eyes drooping slightly as he just squeezes and pets at your sides.

“It was good,” he says hoarsely, “the story, the details, the sex… came to it a couple of times.”

“You- you liked it?” you whisper, voice airy.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, his eyes meeting yours, “liked it… like you.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses your cheek, your heart thudding in your chest. You never dreamt it’d come down to this, but you find yourself grateful for Akaashi’s observational nature.

He takes his glasses off, placing them into his pocket. Akaashi’s lips drag across your cheek, pressing soft kisses against your skin. He kisses the corner of your mouth, lips brushing against yours gently. 

“Kiss me, Akaashi” you whisper, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yeah,” Akaashi says softly, “yeah, I’ll kiss you, baby.”

A contented sigh escapes you as he slots his lips over yours, kissing you gently. The heat between you begins to grow, his hands slipping under your sweater to feel your bare skin. You gasp into his mouth, his hands surprisingly warm.

Akaashi smiles against your lips, his hand running up your back as his kisses turn hungrier, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. You let him lick into your mouth, tugging at his hair desperately. Rocking up onto the tips of your toes, you deepen the kiss, pulling him impossibly closer. 

He wraps his arms around your waist, groaning when your nails scratch his scalp fleetingly. You bite your kiss-swollen lip as he drags his lips down your neck, landing heated kisses to your skin.

Akaashi kisses the pulse of your throat, his lips finding their way back to yours. Soft pants fill the air, his smile hazy as he peers down at you. You smile back, head tilting to the side to let him kiss your cheek again.

“You’re such a dork,” he whispers, his eyes twinkling.

“Shut up,” you whine, pushing at his chest.

He grins, his hands grasping yours. Akaashi pulls you away from the door, his arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs as he picks you up. You laugh, legs wrapping around his waist, lips pressing against his as he carries you to his bed.

Akaashi lays you down on his bed and you watch with half-lidded eyes as he pulls his shirt off. He might not have played as competitively like he did in highschool, but you had been there when he had played with his friends. It’d been entrancing to watch the way he had set the ball for his friends, the ball curving through the air cleanly for the spiker to hit.

“‘s not fair how good you look,” you grumble, pouting.

He rolls his eyes, crawling onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

“You look pretty good yourself,” Akaashi says, his fingers playing with the hem of your sweater.

You lift your arms for him, letting him pull it off of you. His gaze fixes on the swell of your breasts and you flush, looking away.

“You’re shy now?” He murmurs, a soft laugh escaping him as he kisses your jaw.

“You’re such a jerk,” you huff out.

Akaashi smiles and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to be truly angry with him. He’s patient more than anything, caring and always honest. You’ve never met a man like him, never met someone who could quell your worries the way he could. It makes you want to never let go.

His body settles between your thighs, his nimble fingers pulling your bra free. Your nipples pebble in the cold air and Akaashi leans forward, his hot, wet mouth enveloping a hard bud into his mouth.

You whine brokenly, back arching slightly as he sucks your nipple, tongue swirling around the bud. He groans as you run your fingers through his hair, his mouth suctioning around your breast for a few moments before he pulls off with a pop.

His mouth finds your other breast, kissing the side of it, mouthing at your skin. You can feel his tongue caress the underside of it, laving across your breast before he bites gently at your flesh, his half-lidded eyes meeting yours. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease,” he whispers against your breast.

You shake your head, mewling when his hand slides up, his fingers pitching at your spit-coated nipples. He rests his head between your breasts, watching you contentedly as you writhe under the onslaught of his touches. 

“A- Akaashi,” you whimper, hips bucking, “want- want more, please.”

“So polite, baby” he coos, his hands groping at your breasts. 

He pulls away from you and you whine, lifting your hips for him when he peels your pants off. There’s a moment of silence and you’re anticipating the feel of his mouth on your body, only for him to let out a low laugh. 

“Bunnies til the end, huh?” Akaashi asks, his fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

Your brows furrow, not quite sure what he’s talking about until you prop yourself on your elbows and see that you’re wearing a pair of bunny-patterned panties.

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan, slumping back down onto the bed and slinging your arm over your eyes.

“They’re cute,” he smiles, prying your arm away from your face, “just like you, baby.”

Akaashi grasps one of your legs, bringing it to his mouth as he runs his hand along the length of it, kissing the sole of your foot and then your ankle. A soft hum leaves you, watching as he kisses up your leg, his kisses feather-light.

You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses the little bow on your panties, his nose pressing between your clothed folds to breathe you in.

“Pussy’s soaked through,” Akaashi murmurs, pulling back to look at your dampened panties.

“‘s your fault,” you slur, trying to push his face back to where you want it.

“All my fault,” he agrees, his tongue licking up over your panties, “guess I’ll have to take care of you then.”

You nod, trying to stop the little twitches that shoot through your body. Akaashi lets his mouth latch onto you, trying to suck the slick that’s soaked through the fabric of your panties.

“A- ah!” you pant, fingers fisting his hair as he squeezes your hips, his face nuzzling deeper between your thighs.

Akaashi’s lithe fingers pull at your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You don’t miss the way he tucks them into his pocket.

“Always so pretty, baby” he whispers, his thumbs pulling apart your folds to expose your pussy.

He moans when he sees the translucent strings of arousal that cling to your folds, his tongue darting out to lick up the little strings. You whimper when he kisses your clit gently, watching as he rubs the pad of his thumb against your swollen clit. Thighs twitching, you shift, trying to tilt your hips a little higher so you can feel his mouth on you.

“Ask for it,” Akaashi says, his cheek pressing against your thigh as he stares up at you.

“‘m not- ‘m not asking for it,” you retort, glaring at him.

“Bet it’d feel good,” he whispers, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

You whine when he just keeps his tongue there, saliva dripping from the tip of it and onto your pussy. He makes an obscene noise, gathering some more saliva, spitting on your cunt.

“All you gotta do is ask,” he coaxes, his arms wrapping around your thighs, “clit looks so achy… makes me wanna kiss it better.”

“P- please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Akaashi smiles up at you, his eyes twinkling.

You’ll have to get him back for his teasing later, but right now you can’t wait.

“Please lick my pussy!”

You squeal when he latches his mouth onto you again, his tongue lapping over your wet pussy. He groans and you tug at his hair, thighs squeezing around his head as he laves his tongue over you greedily, letting his tongue dip into your hole before he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Legs kicking out, you let out a strangled noise as he flicks his tongue over your clit. Akaashi lands the filthiest kisses to your clit, alternating between sucking and little pecks, while he’s sunk two fingers inside of you. They curl up inside of you, grazing your sensitive spot perfectly. He fucks his fingers in and out of you, your wanton noises filling his bedroom.

Akaashi presses his face deeper, his fingers crooking. The feeling of his mouth in tandem with his fingers has you whimpering and whining, airy noises spilling from your lips at his ministrations. You might not ever be able to go without him ever again.

He holds you in place as you thrash, the overwhelming feeling inside of you building and building. Akaashi slips his fingers out of you in favor of devouring your cunt again, licking through your velvety folds, his tongue swirling before he presses it inside of you. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. 

You blink down at him dazedly. There’s a light flush covering his cheeks, his mouth glistening with your wetness. He opens his mouth to say something else but you ignore him, pushing his head so that his lips are flush against your cunt. Akaashi lets out a muffled laugh against your pussy, his tongue licking over you again.

Hand squeezing at your breast, you bite your lip, losing yourself in the caress of his tongue. He laps over you, again and again, pressing sloppy kisses to your clit. 

“Gonna come,” you whisper, feeling the softness of his hair under your palm, “gonna come, ‘kaashi.”

He tilts your hips a little more, rising up onto his knees with your legs slung over his shoulders. You squeal again when he shakes his head, tongue dragging from side to side before he plunges it inside of you, his thumb pressing against your clit at the same time.

Your thighs squeeze tightly around his head as you come, loosening after a while when twitches rack through your body. Akaashi squeezes your thighs, lets your legs slip from his shoulders as he kisses your trembling thighs. 

“Good girl,” he whispers.

Akaashi kisses your cheek and wipes the stray curls of your hair away from your face. A soft sheen of sweat covers your body and he hums, smoothing his thumbs over the underside of your breasts.

He lays down beside you and you curl up beside him, eyes catching on the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Need some help?” you murmur, fingers dragging down his chest.

“If you don’t mind,” he sighs, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him.

You smile, kissing his jaw gently as your hand slides past his navel, disappearing into his sweatpants. The weight of his cock is heavy and hot and Akaashi moans softly when your hand curls around his length.

“Ask for it, ‘kaashi,” you whisper, voice lilting.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters.

“Use your manners, Keiji.”

His eyes widen when you use his name and you grin, landing a soft kiss to his cheek as your breasts squish up against his bicep. You squeeze around his cock and he lets out a soft whine, his hips bucking.

“Fuck- fuck hah-,” Akaashi grits out, “stroke my cock, baby, hm? Please?”

You hum softly, beginning to move your hand. His thick cock twitches as you stroke him, your wrist rotating.

He pants softly, his head turning to meet yours. You smile, running your fingers through his hair, brushing the soft strands out of his eyes. Affection bursts inside of you, heart fluttering as the flush on his cheeks deepens.

His brows have drawn together and you smooth your thumb over them, peppering soft kisses over his face, leg slinging over his as you pull down his sweatpants to free his cock completely. Akaashi’s cock has filled out, pre-cum smearing across his abdomen. You caress the head of it, giggling when he lets out a broken moan as you rub your thumb against the tip.

“You look so handsome,” you say, stroking his cock a little faster.

Akaashi smiles and you dip your head, kissing him. He groans, his hips chasing after the feeling of your hand around him as you kiss. Your hand tightens a little, squeezing at the tip of his cock. Pre-cum wets your hand, soft gasps escaping Akaashi as you let your tongue slip into his mouth.

“Keiji,” you whisper, lips brushing over his, “Keiji, will you fuck me?”

You squeak in surprise when he manages to grab onto your waist, lifting you up and placing you on his lap. His cock is snug between your folds and you whine, dragging your hips along the length of it, biting your lip as more pre-cum leaks from him.

“Sit on my cock, baby” he whispers, smoothing his hands up your thighs.

You nod, shifting a little so that you’re up on your knees. Akaashi watches as you grip the base of his cock, moaning when you rub his cock against your pussy, letting it catch on your clit. Akaashi’s head tips back as you sink down, whimpery, little noises leaving you as your pussy swallows up his cock.

It’s so thick inside of you, fitting so snugly that you clench around him. Akaashi wraps an arm around your waist, bringing your front flush against him. He lets you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, his arms tightening around your waist. You can feel him move, his feet flat against the bed as he bends his knees.

“K- Keiji!” you wail when he begins to fuck up into you.

Akaashi grunts, holding you against him as he moves his hips, rutting up into you. His hands grope at your ass, gripping your ass tightly as he moves a little more forcefully. You bury your face deeper into the crook of his neck, pressing sloppy kisses against his skin as you smooth your hand over his hair. 

“Is this- fuck,” Akaashi grits out, “is this what you imagined when you drew up those panels?”

You nod, too far gone to cling onto the remnants of your stubbornness. 

“Yeah?” he whispers, “imagined me fucking up into you, huh?”

“Y- yes!” you cry out, body squirming when he lands a heavy spank to your ass.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls.

A soft mewl leaves you at the praise, your hips swaying back lazily to meet his thrusts. The sound of his hips slapping into your ass echoes through his room, your wetness leaking around his cock and coating his balls.

Your body rocks against his, your hand gripping at the sheets beside his head when he adjusts his grip on you, planting his feet a bit firmer against his mattress to thrust into you harder. You gasp at the sensation, sinking your teeth into his shoulder when his cock hits deep inside of you.

Akaashi hisses at the feeling of your teeth, spanking your ass again before you clench around him with a scream, body shuddering on top of his as you come. 

“Baby, baby, you gotta let go,” he rasps.

You shake your head stubbornly, pushing your hips down so that it swallows his cock all the way to the base.

“Inside, Keiji.”

He groans, his hands kneading at your hips roughly. You can feel the twitch of his cock, a satisfied coo leaving your lips when he comes, spurts of his hot cum filling you up. Akaashi’s hips stutter, thrusting into you unevenly as his cock jerks, more cum flooding your pussy.

You both pant, chests heaving. Akaashi rubs his hand along your back and you emerge from the crook of his neck, a drunken smile on your face.

He laughs hoarsely at your expression, cupping your cheek to guide you into another kiss while his cock softens inside of you. It’s a little uncomfortable, but you don’t mind, losing yourself in the heat of his body as cum leaks from your pussy.

“How long have you known?” you ask, tracing the slope of his nose.

“About a month,” he murmurs.

“A month?” you scoff, hitting his chest, “and you didn’t say anything?”

Akaashi grins, grabbing your hand and bringing it up to his lips to kiss across your knuckles.

“That would ruin the fun.”

You roll your eyes, prodding your fingers into his chest, “it was hardly fun, Keiji.”

“But you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he whispers.

You laugh when he flips you onto your back, moaning softly when you feel his cock beginning to harden again inside of you.

“Put- put your glasses on,” you whisper, head tipping back as he rolls his hips into you.

Akaashi reaches over to dig his glasses out from the pocket of his discarded sweatpants, pushing them up to sit comfortably on his nose.

You clench around him at the sight, biting your lip as you give him a pleased smile.

“Knew you had a thing for ‘em.”

He grabs at your legs, moving them so that they’re pressed against his chest, your ankles resting on his shoulders.

“Use this as inspiration, baby,” Akaashi smirks, “I’ll even edit it for you.”

[byexbyez]

lovers of valdaro | leon kennedy x reader

PART I  |  PART II  |  PART III (finale)

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader 

summary: Some things have changed. The months, the weather, the air that hangs between Leon and you. Yet one thing has remained constant: his desire to keep you as close as possible. 

word count: 8.2K of gratuitous smut 

warnings: 18+, smut, established relationship, pda, bickering, consensual somnophilia, groping, dry humping, unprotected p in v, fingering, prone boning, swearing, slight dom/sub undertones, pet names, an attempt at praise kink, pill as contraception, creampie, oral sex (f!receiving), marking, unintentional edging, masturbation, aftercare, no use of y/n, oh and ooc 

notes: i’m sorry to those who were expecting pt 3 to be angsty. i wanted to portray some changes and get used to writing and publishing smut. also, this can be read separately as it is almost all smut. enjoy!

➵ read on ao3.

“This man yaps a lot,” Leon says from behind you, you’re startled by his voice near your ear. His lips tickle your earshell. Like a cat’s fur standing up, your shoulders go up slightly. Renting only one sunbed –a narrow chair, really– for the two of you starts to feel like a mistake. Well, you plan to swim anyway, I’ll just sunbathe, you had said earlier, failing to account for Leon’s FOMO when you pulled out your book from your beach bag. For some reason, he was interested in anything that captured your attention as of late. 

You were looking at travel guides for you and your sister back at home when Leon saw your laptop screen. “What’s this?” he asked, adjusting the screen so he could see it better. 

“Beaches in Italy,” you answered. “My sister will be using her yearly vacation this year. I’m making  a list of places we can go if she asks.” Leon was silent and when you turned to him, already watching you intently. “What?” 

“Our anniversary is coming up.” 

You looked at the date, wondering why he brought it up. “I guess it is.” 

“How about we go? Before your sister asks, I mean,” he suggested, scratching the back of his neck. 

You straightened up on the couch. “You wanna go on a vacation with me?” 

The corners of his lips curled up. “Err, I believe I asked you first.” 

A little girl runs by your sunbed with her arms full of plastic toys, screaming with joy as she plops down to the sand. The bottoms of her tiny feet are red, probably because of how hot the sand is. She begins digging up sand with her toy shovel. 

“It’s Dostoevsky,” you say, like that would be enough clarification for Leon. His arm comes up to pinch the book up top to flip it and peek at its title, which reads “White Nights.”  Propping up your elbow on your torso to adjust both your book and your attention, you try to move as little as possible to not disturb him. He basically made you sit between his legs and lay your back on his chest, saying he would take a dip in the sea in a few minutes. 

You know he’s about to speak again when your head rises along his chest. “He’s been talking nonstop for three pages.” 

“Leon, I’m trying to focus.” 

The little girl a few feet away lets out a frustrated cry when her castle crumbles down, her little arms flap irritably, chucking the toy shovel in front of her in the process. A slightly older boy, probably her brother, comes to the rescue with a bucket full of sea water. He shows his little sister how to wet the sand for it to hold shape. The sound of waves crashing against the breakwater drowns out their shrill laughter.

“You’re squishing your boob,” Leon blurts out, takes hold of the planted elbow on your breast and lifts it in the air. 

Trying to follow the words, your head knocks on Leon’s chin. “I can’t read like this. Let go of my arm.” 

“Nuh-uh. If I let go, you’re gonna keep pressing your arm to your boob and have a nip slip.” 

“I’m not gonna have a nip slip.” 

“Whatever the correct verb for a nip slip is, it will happen.” His chin digs into the crown of your hair. “And those teenagers will remember this day forever.” 

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “What teenagers?” 

“The ones that are looking this way,” Leon states in a matter-of-factly tone. He’s right, a bunch of boys are in the sea, laughing among themselves by splashing water. Every now and then their heads tilt up to your direction. 

You look down on yourself to see if the swimsuit is covering you like it’s supposed to. There’s nothing wrong with it, yet that doesn’t stop you from setting the book down on your stomach. “Why are they looking here? What’s wrong with my swimsuit?” 

“It looks good on you, that’s why. Hormonal teenagers.” 

“I think it’s the position we’re in,” you mumble. Your back feels damp with sweat as you peel away from him, sitting up further away.

But Leon has other plans, he snakes his hand around your shoulder and plants his palm right on your sternum, pulling you back to him by your chest. 

“Oof,” you breathe out once you collide with his torso again. 

He taps his fingers on your breastbone as he catches the slipping book on your lap. “Here, I’ll hold it. You turn the pages.” 

“It’s too hot for this,” you groan. 

“Pardon me for doing something,” he says, sounding neither hurt nor sorry. 

“You said you’d swim,” you say, though it sounds more like a suggestion. “Want me to lather you up in sunscreen? I know you didn’t put it on back at the hotel.” 

“I mean, when you ask it like that, sure.” He’s grinning like a cheshire cat, it warms your heart that he’s pleased with himself just by managing to get under your skin. Something quite like a heartbeat, it feels intimate, an embrace out in the open. In a snap, you shake off the feeling. You’re not going to see these people again, they do not know you, just like how you don’t know the couple dipping their feet in the water while holding hands, little girl building sandcastles with her brother, young boys jumping on each other’s backs. Who would have thought being a stranger to all of it would make your yearning flesh all the more tender? 

Your wandering eyes shut in bliss when you feel it. A featherlight, barely-there kiss on the back of your neck, placed just below your hair, followed by the disappearance of your book from your sight. Leon reaches down to drop it in your bag, you wiggle away to let him search for the bottle of sunscreen. 

“Take your shirt off,” you say once you turn to face him. 

“Damn, woman. At least buy me dinner first.” 

“Can you get any cornier? You’re getting overpriced beer at best.” 

“...May your sky always be clear, may your dear smile always be bright and happy, and may you be for ever blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness which you gave to another lonely and grateful heart. Isn't such a moment sufficient for the whole of one's life–?”

Your attention snaps away from your book over a playful voice. “Hey, miss. Sorry to bother you.” Leon is standing a few steps in front of your chair, hands on his hips, most of his weight on one leg. Water drops cling to his firm chest, following a delectable path down his muscles. Some even caress his faded scars gently, a reminder that he has endured things far from gentle. His hair seems darker due to saltwater, the tips of it almost poking his eyes, by the looks of him having to shake them away from his face when he attempts to tilt his head to the side. “Are you perhaps single?” 

You purse your lips to suppress a grin. “Why are you asking?” 

“I’m interested.” 

“Oh,” you croon in mock-embarrassment. “I’m married.” You make sure to show off the gold band on your ring finger. 

He walks next to your chair. “Lucky guy. Speaking of, where is he?” His gaze lingers on your legs that are bent towards your chest, the book propped up on your knees. 

You close the book and play along. “He’s swimming.” 

“Is he a good swimmer?” 

“Yeah, his strokes are phenomenal.” 

His eyebrows shoot up. “Are we still talking about swimming?” 

You tilt your head to the side. “Why yes, is there a misunderstanding?” 

“No, no. Just making sure we’re on the same page here. Tell me more about him.” 

You gesture to the empty room on the foot of the sunchair. “Then you might want to sit here for a while. Maybe dry off?” 

“I’d love to keep you company until your husband shows up.” Leon sits sideways next to your feet, way too familiar for a ‘stranger.’ “What’s he like?”

“First of all, he looks a lot like you.” You press your lips together. This is ridiculous. “He’s also incredibly annoying.” When Leon gasps half-mockingly, you cast a sideways glance at him. “His jokes are really corny, he’s lucky I put up with them.” 

“That might hurt his feelings.” 

“Well, he’s not here.” 

He scrunches his eyebrows together, there’s a visible question mark in his blink. “My jokes are that bad?” 

“Aaand, the play is over.” You slap your knees lightly, sliding your feet towards Leon until your toes touch the side of his thigh. “We are not sharing the chair again. You’re still dripping.” 

A sluggish sigh escapes his lips. “Let me lean on you at least.” 

And before you can say no, Leon is relocating your hands from your knees, moving them by your wrists, placing your arms at your sides. He folds his own arms on top of your knees and rests his temple on them, hugging your knees to himself, looking off into the side. You could lean forward and bury your nose in his hair like this, inhale the sun and salt, let your lips linger, let him feel the ghost of a kiss for a change. Though he was always better at unprompted acts of affection, maybe because he didn’t think much of it. 

It’s peaceful—the secluded space you’ve managed to carve out for the two of you, despite the chaos of the crowded beach. It feels like a quiet world unto itself, hidden in plain sight amid a sea of distant faces, as if removed from everything around you. It’s strangely intimate. Minutes or hours pass, you can’t make out which, lost in the stillness. 

When Leon speaks, his thumb starts brushing your knee. “I can hear you think,” he murmurs, his voice low. What’s going on in that head of yours? 

“Will you tell me a truth?” you ask, almost in a whisper. 

Leon doesn’t lift his head up, lazy like a cat in the sun. Although his body reminds him to be on guard upon hearing a kid yell in the distance, his muscles twitch reflexively. “Why?” 

“For all of this to feel real.” Your eyes follow the slope of his nose, then the squished red cheek leaning on his forearm. The sunscreen you copiously put on his nose bridge couldn’t protect his skin. You can’t help but admire his long lashes, fluttering so prettily the action could make butterflies jealous. 

His answer surprises you. “I’m scared all the time.” 

“Of what?” 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” His thumb stops moving so he can squeeze your kneecap. “I’m scared that one day you’ll want us to go our separate ways. I’m scared that I will not be able to let you go. You know I wasn’t able to do it the first time around. I dread the day you won’t want to see my face again.” 

“Leon–” 

“Sometimes I get scared that something will happen to you and I will lose you.” 

It dawns on you then. The reason why you’ve been waking up to strong arms tangled around your waist for months. 

“Leon, nothing’s going to happen to me.” 

However, he’s still going on. “If you decide you’ve had enough, just let me know, okay? Don’t just up and leave.” 

Your throat constricts itself. You don’t know what to say to that. Part of you wants to do just that: up and leave. Not the way he means but in a way to escape his hold, step aside to mull it over and come up with a humane response. The fact that he couldn’t meet your eyes while saying all that leaves your heart with a dull ache, chest too heavy to even breathe. 

He finally looks up, expression unreadable. His eyes scour your face, searching for something. “Does it feel real now?” 

You swallow on nothing as you meet his eyes. Sure, you nod. It terrifies you how real it actually feels. 

Leon thinks he’s a genius for lowering the temperature of the air-conditioning while you were in the bathroom, carrying out your night routine. No, he didn’t have any malicious intent, not at all, he was just sweating a lot even after his shower. By the time you entered the bed in your pajamas, you suspected nothing, lifted the bedcover to join him. Your skin was glowing from all the products he couldn’t wrap his head around, your lips were shining clear. For a moment, he wanted to plant his mouth to your lips and taste the vaseline. 

He was aroused, which was not surprising considering the amount of sex you two had been having. It’s become so regular that he thinks he never had this much compatibility with anyone before. Goodnight, Leon, you murmured before gracing him with the sight of your back, voice so sweet he nearly whined out of desperation. He didn’t know why he waited for your breathing to fall steady, he’s been holding you in your sleep for a while now. Every morning you wake up before him and toss his arms aside, get the day started. 

When he’s sure that you’ve fallen asleep, he makes his move, drapes an arm around your waist, pressing his bare chest to your clothed back, spooning you. He’s careful not to wake you despite the evidence of his arousal resting against your ass. Normally, he would ignore it and take care of it in the morning but you make that impossible by squirming in your sleep. A few minutes pass by and he guesses the room must feel like an icebox to you, he knows you get cold quickly. Leon thinks he’s a genius because he could just wake you up and suggest warming you up. He also thinks he’s a fool because what if you don’t wake up, with all this squirming? He could move to the side and wait for the cold to do its own thing or he could just get up and go to the bathroom to rub one out. Or he could lower his boxers, do it right here. He’s positive you wouldn’t mind, that’s how intimate you two have become.  

Before he can decide, a shiver takes over your body, a soft whimper escaping your lips. Now Leon feels bad. He’ll just get up and fix the AC to an acceptable temperature. 

You shrivel into him, searching for warmth. The arm across your waist reaches up, the entirety of his hand cupping your breast that’s pressed against the bed. His body runs hot despite the breeze in the hotel room, so he thinks this will help. Just as a quiet, needy cry from your throat travels to his burning ears, his other arm snakes beneath your body to press against your belly. He squeezes you tightly until he can feel the blood pumping through your veins, buries his nose into the crook of your neck. Inhaling deeply bestows on him your enticing scent. 

Guilt washes over him as he ruts his hips into your sleep shorts, because who becomes an animal in heat when they smell clean soap? 

Leon. Leon does. 

The smallest things have been setting him off. All of your flimsy sundresses, swaying of your hips in them, your smooth legs, the gold anklet that matches with your wedding ring, the swimsuit that makes your cleavage call his attention. You, taking his arm while walking side to side. In fact, he suppressed smothering his face into your cheek today at lunch—cuteness aggression— as he tried to eat his food in peace. You were enjoying your pasta, humming contentedly after your first bite, you smiled at him when you caught him watching you intently. Leon was never into taking pictures but at that moment, he wanted to engrave the picture of you smiling up at him lovingly into his memory for the future, remember your crinkled eyes and adorably scrunched up nose when he would miss you. He knew he would miss that moment right when it was happening, he’d be gone again for an assignment soon. 

“What?” You laughed.

“That good?” he asked, eyes pointing to your bowl of pasta. 

“Yep! Want some?” 

Leon keeps clinging until your body twitches no longer, takes deep breaths against your neck, pleased as his heat completely stills you. His hold relaxes as he becomes aware of his grip strength. He releases his clamped fingers from your breast, stroking your nipple apologetically. It will surely leave a mark on your soft skin, which you will whine about later, though he knows deep down you enjoy him being rough with you. After all, it was you who brought up that you weren’t made of glass, he didn’t need to act as if you were going to break. 

Your soft sighs soothe him to an extent, as far as the strain in his boxers allow. Fuck it, he thinks. He’s still humping your backside, cock throbbing. He’s going to wake you up. Pounce on you once you open your eyes. 

Forefinger and thumb pinching a hardening nipple, he nuzzles his face into where your neck meets your shoulder, dropping heavy kisses first, then switching to sucking your skin. If he could drown in your smell, he would. “Honey, please wake up.” 

“Hm?” He hears you, heart starting to beat even faster. “Leon?” Your first touch is on his arms, fingertips ice cold, groggy voice calling to him. 

“You awake?” he breathes in your ear. 

Feeling tickled, your shoulder rises to your ear. “Clearly,” you reply hoarsely. His thigh is glued to the back of yours, reaching back to hold it, you manage to slow his movements. His erection is fully pressed against you. “Everything okay?” 

“No.” He pants in your hair. “Need to fuck you.” 

“Leon,” you groan, face dropping fully into your pillow. “I’m too tired.” 

“Please, you don’t need to do anything.” 

“Don’t think I can even lift my leg.” 

“Then don’t. I’ll do everything. Lift your hips for a second so I can get this off?” 

“Fine,” you huff, rolling onto your stomach so his strong-willed hands can strip off your shorts along with your underwear. “We don’t have lube.” 

He drops a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll just have to prep you.” 

Ugh, so sweet. “Make it quick,” you say as he carefully sits on the backs of your thighs, his knees trapping your legs together. “How do we do this?” 

“Stay still,” he mumbles, barely audible. You grow impatient as you hear him moving in the dark, taking off his only piece of clothing. He reaches over to the bedside drawer to turn on the lamp. The blanket is scattered across the bed. You hiss sharply, eyes adjusting to the soft light. 

He holds your shoulders firmly. “What’s wrong?” 

“Why is it so cold?” 

Somehow, you can hear him grinning behind you. “The AC’s broken.” 

“Have you tried calling the reception? It’s too cold for this.” 

“I’ll warm you up,” he says as his heat hovers over you, fingers hiking up your flimsy camisole to gain access to your waist, the other hand shaking off the thin straps. He buries his nose into the back of your neck, kissing a path to your right shoulder, sharp teeth grazing skin along the way. He shifts his attention to your left shoulder, reaching down to cup your ass, pulling apart your cheeks. His fingers find your sex straight away; he’s familiar with your body. 

“You’re a bit wet for someone who’s feeling too tired,” he teases. 

You don’t bother with pleasantries. “I will leave you blue-balled for the rest of the week.” 

“Right,” he says. “Lift your head up.” 

“I just woke up, you’re asking for too much from me.” 

He nudges his nose into the back of your ear instead of answering. Kiss me, he demands, pressing his hips to your plushness. Familiar with his silent commands, you submit to his reign, craning your neck back, open mouth chasing his. 

Your mouths clash unceremoniously. It’s messy, sloven, uncoordinated, and animalistic. He finds your tongue in no time, suckling on the wet muscle all the while managing to lift your shoulders off the bed to drop your thin straps around your elbows, pulling your camisole down. Now your top sits below your naked breasts, bunched around your middle like a thick headband. Leon’s jaw moves as if he’s thirsty, drinking from your mouth unapologetically. The noises from your so-called kissing are obscene, filling the room along with the sounds of heavy breathing. Heat starts to pool in your lower belly, body slowly warming up. 

Quick as a wink, a strong hand wraps around the back of your neck, pushing you face down to the mattress. Your surprised yelp into your pillow is cut short once he pulls your hair gently, laughing next to your ear. “Don’t want you to suffocate. Try to keep your head up. Can you do that for me, honey?” 

Rolling your eyes, you bite back a remark. Resting your cheek on the pillow is all he’s going to get. After all, he did tell you that you didn’t need to do anything. Your crushed breasts feel funny, one side aching considerably more than the other, owing to him groping it roughly while you were sleeping. 

Leon lets out a low chuckle and continues his undeterred path from your jaw to your neck, nipping at skin, leaving a stinging sensation behind. His knees make room for your squirming legs, a perfect chance for him to dip his hand between your thighs, a slight part of your legs to accommodate his fingers on your cunt. Rubbing your lower lips, he slicks his fingers with your wetness. 

Your breath hitches when two pads of fingers make contact with your clit, drawing tight circles. “That feel good?” His voice is muffled by your skin. 

You groan a noise of confirmation as he puts more pressure on his fingertips, quickening his movements on your now soaked pussy. His thumb catches at your entrance, maybe accidentally, and you can’t hold yourself back from pursuing that pleasure, back arching so your hips could sway up, chasing his touch. Thankfully, he is quick to place his thumb back, swiping back and forth. The double stimulation on your opening and clit creates enough lubrication for him to slide right in. 

Your eagerness doesn’t go unnoticed by Leon, the feel of his teeth on your earlobe is a wary appreciation. “Too tired, huh? Look at you.” He means your hips in the air, quivering right in front of his view. “Lemme help you relax.” 

You think he’ll finally thrust himself in, however, you’re taken by surprise when he works two fingers into you, the stretch unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless. He shoves your hips back down into the mattress, arm across the small of your back to keep you steady against the bed. “Don’t be disappointed. I need to open you up first,” he speaks into your temple, nose pressed to the tail of your eyebrow. He starts moving his fingers in and out. “Don’t want you to hurt.” 

He grabs a handful of your ass to pull apart while working your cunt open with his fingers. Your whole body feels electrified each time he strokes the velvety walls of your pussy, throat humming with need. 

“Leon…” you moan, wanting to arch into him. Your desperate hand slides under your belly to touch your clit. “Enough.” 

But that’s not what you want to tell him. You want to tell him this is not enough, he needs to be inside you right now or you will start to wail, turn over and jump his bones. This is quite the opposite from where everything started, with you worked up and fussy in his hands, unable to speak properly. 

You feel him watching his own hand between your legs, ears perked up for the sounds coming from where you are gushing, shallowing his thrusts once he feels your fingers join in. “Enough? You don’t want to come first?” 

“S’cold,” you cry out. “Fuck me already.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” he coos at you, pulling his soaked digits out of you, head rising to meet with your parted lips. The arm around your waist slides up, fingers gently digging into your scalp to hold you in place as he kisses you, using the fingers he just pulled out of you to slick up his cock. He moans into your mouth before pulling away. 

“You have me. Ready?” 

You nod into the pillow. 

As he presses his swollen tip into you, he watches the back of your head tip back with a shiver, your neck exposed for him to reach and grab. Instead, he wraps his arm around your neck in a gentle headlock, helping you rest your cheek on his bicep, the movement helping him slip further inside you. 

Hot, bullish breaths burrow into your neck when he is buried to the hilt, balls pressed against your clit and fingers that are spreading yourself. 

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he whispers, his torso meeting your back. 

He presses his entire weight down onto you and it is glorious, being trapped between him and the mattress, surrounded by his body heat with no room to flee. Not that you even consider it. Though your wrist, strained under the weight, digs into your pelvis as he begins to thrust feverishly. “Oh, fuck,” he grunts. 

Your mouth opens to let him know of the awkward position your arm is in but you only manage to moan wantonly. He takes it as a cue to snap his hips faster. 

“Wait, Leon—my wrist.” 

He stops completely, lifting his hips slightly for you to pull your arm out from underneath, dropping a kiss in your hair as an apology. “Fuck, sorry. Forgot your hand was there. Are you good? Am I too heavy?” 

Your hands fist around the sheets to brace yourself. He did not pull himself fully out of you, you just want him to fill you to the brim again. Even though you don’t know if you can come like this. “No, I’m good. Let’s continue.” 

As your wish comes true, his hips pick up a frenzied pace, the bed starts to shake. You don’t know how he manages it, you’re immobilized under him, high on the pleasurable feeling. Your poor nipples are chafing against the sheets with all the movement. The noises escaping your lips are embarrassingly loud, mingling with the creaky springs of the hotel bed. He doesn’t hold back either, sucking love-bites wherever his mouth can reach, moaning against your spit-lacquered skin. Palms sliding under your shoulders to hold you even closer, he squeezes you to himself while letting his weight push you hard into the mattress. 

It’s as if he wants to open up his chest and tuck you beneath his ribs, or crawl beneath your skin from behind, until you both become one. 

His pace falters, you squeak as he bottoms out, walls pulsing around him. He must have been desperately horny, for he is spitting out delirious things in your ear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck— you look so cute. You always do.” 

“Huh?” 

Rather than addressing your confusion, he leans in your face. One hand cups your jaw, guiding your face to his, squishing your cheeks together until your lips are puckered, ready for him to attack, though it’s a pleasant assault of kisses. “You’re so—” Kiss. “Soft.” Kiss. “It makes me crazy.” Kiss. “And you always smell so good.” Kiss. 

“Leon, what’s gotten into you—mmph!” 

He doesn’t care about what you have to say about his raving state; instead, he crashes his lips to yours for a longer, deeper kiss. His strong arm hugs your neck again, cradling you to himself. You swallow his animalistic groan when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the tresses while trying to squirm. His hair has gotten so long; a luxury of taking time off work. 

His hips start to grind, precise snaps eliciting small sounds out of both of you, his cock massaging your innermost crevices. 

“You’re like an angel,” he whispers in your mouth, panting wildly. “You feel like heaven. God, I love you. I can’t believe—shit, I’m close. I’m gonna come. Tell me where to come.” 

If he wasn’t literally in your face, you might have missed it—that sacred, dangerous word slipping past his lips as if it was an everyday occurrence. 

It didn’t even register at first, partly because it happened so quickly and partly because it made you clamp down on him with an intense ripple of pleasure, causing him to grunt. 

Losing all strength in your muscles, you sag against his arm on the pillow, neck too numb to keep your head up, feet plopping down with a pat. When did you lift your feet up? 

Like a snap of a thread, his demeanor changes instantly. Concerned, he brushes your hair away from your face hastily. “Baby, did you just come?” 

A sound resembling “yes” is murmured into your pillow, your whole body feeling prickly upon the fondness in his voice, spasming uncontrollably. He’s still inside you, reaching incredibly deep, hip bones digging into the meat of your ass, caging you in his warmth. 

“Didn’t even need me to touch your clit,” he says. There’s that smugness in his tone, like he didn’t just rock your whole world. 

Feeling fuzzy around the edges, you remember his need to have a release, and words rush out without much thought, “Inside. Come inside.” 

The faint rhythm of his hips turn sloppy upon hearing you. He’s gasping, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m on the pill.” 

“Fuck. Thank you, baby.” 

His face finds home in your neck again. It’s not long before you feel the thick trickle of warmth filling you up. Coming to his senses, his arms loosen around you, waiting for his breathing to turn to normal. 

You can sleep like this, you think. With him literally in your skin, smothered under his delectable weight. It’s calming. 

Eventually, he pulls out and rolls over on his back, the absence of his weight feels oddly sad. He turns his neck towards you. “That was… something else. How are you feeling?” 

You stretch your arms, sliding them under your pillow. “Like I’ve just run a marathon. And I didn’t even move much.” 

“Now that you’re properly tired, you’re gonna sleep like a log.” He chuckles, throwing an arm on his forehead. 

You slide a hand between your legs, knitting your eyebrows, reconsidering. “We need to clean up first.” 

“Right,” he sighs. “I promised you I wouldn’t make you move, didn’t I? Wait here.”

Before you can say anything, he gets up from the bed, picks up his underwear from the ground and heads to the bathroom. You don’t move in case the viscid fluids threaten to leak onto the bed. He comes back with a few rolled-up toilet papers and a damp towel, with his underwear on. He sits on the edge of the bed next to you. 

You spread your legs as he holds up the rolled-up toilet papers to your dripping entrance. “Push it out.” 

You squeeze out the mixture of you and him. Your cheeks flare up, not because of embarrassment. But because of something else. Him instructing you with a raspy voice shouldn’t get you fired up, your limbs are still weak from the earth-shattering orgasm he pulled out of you, but your body reacts on its own volition. 

“I didn’t know you were on the pill,” he continues as he wipes down your sweat with the towel. 

“A recent development,” you say, eyes heavy with sleepiness. “Started it a while ago, I meant to tell you.” 

“That’s fine.” He cleans up the residue between your thighs lastly. The pressure of his touch is so careful, in case you’re overstimulated. “Honestly, I think I found out about it in the best way.” 

A small chuckle from you eases his heart. The image of you lying naked on your belly, your head turned to the side with bleary eyes is like a painting to him. He leans down and places a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades. 

“Can I wake you up in the morning?” he mutters into your skin before hoisting your camisole to its place on your shoulders. 

You understand his implication. “Yeah, but no sooner than eight or I’ll be super cranky.” 

“We’ll miss breakfast.” 

“Breakfast or sex. The choice is yours.” 

“Room service it is.” 

Eventually, he finds your panties and shorts under the blankets, lifts them up over your hips, and finishes dressing you.

You give him a smile, fingers resting on your lips as you ponder. “I have something to ask you.”

“I know,” he replies, too quickly. He’s aware of the things he’s just said. “I know you want to talk about it. But I feel awful for disturbing your sleep. You’re tired. We can talk all you want in the morning. Just know that I meant it.” 

“C’mere,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to reach out to him.

This time, it’s Leon who seeks warmth, succumbing to the balmy caress of your hand as you pull him in.

The kiss is too soft, too fragile, and he wants it to linger forever. 

He’s offended when you pull away abruptly. But that feeling is short-lived as you turn your head away to sneeze twice. “Bless you,” he says. 

Deep down inside, remembering he changed the settings of the AC, he rolls his eyes at himself. He gets up and turns it off, throwing the soiled toilet papers in the trash on his way. “I’ll call the reception the first thing tomorrow.” 

Leon is insatiable. 

The first things he notices when he opens his crusty eyes is his morning wood and the deep red hues scattered across the back of your neck in front of his face. Wiping the sleep from his eyes with one hand—the other arm trapped under your neck—he presses himself to your backside. A repeat of what started everything. 

He retracts after letting out a low growl into your hair, only to roll you on your back by your shoulders. You’re still asleep, muscles all soft and pliant under his maneuvering. So pretty, he thinks. The tiny flutter of your eyelashes casts soft, quivering shadows on the apples of your cheeks as warm sunlight streams into the room through a narrow gap in the curtains. Hovering over you between your legs, he cups your face, thumbs caressing the dainty shadows. His breaths fan your face as a gentle nudge to your slumber. 

“Baby…” he croaks, voice all ragged from hours of disuse over the night. 

Even in your sleep you seek out his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, rousing something carnal in him. His lips get to work on your throat briskly, sucking the delicate skin, humming against it. 

He feels the vibrations of the mellow sound your throat gives out against his lips and continues the path down to your clavicle, leaving ruddy blemishes behind. Rubbing up and down on your thighs, his palms curve behind the backs of your knees, bending them to spread your legs completely open against the bed. He presses his hard-on to your center. 

Your cunt must be sore, he’ll kiss it better. 

He mouths at the tops of your breasts, palms fondling them up in his face. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, though you’re too drowsy to hear. 

His head slips down the blanket, your cover slides down your body as it gets caught on his broad back, opening an airway for him. 

He starts littering kisses on the inside of your thigh, beginning from your knee and continuing the path up to your groin, pulling back each time his nose touches the verge of your panties. He looks up expectantly to see you stir. Because once he sees you awake, he’ll devour you. 

You are stirring, head lolling in an attempt to turn on your side. Leon’s hands quickly clamp down on your thighs, “Nuh-uh.” He denies you, keeping your hips still. His mouth switches to your other thigh, repeating his ministrations. 

His teeth graze the edge of your underwear. Your leg twitches under his touch, which further encourages his sudden urge. 

Blunt teeth sink into the soft, supple flesh of your inner thigh. 

That seems to wake you up as your head jerks, hand flying to his hair between your legs under the blanket. “Ow.” 

“Morning.” His tongue darts out to soothe the dull ache. 

With heavy eyelids, you crane your neck to assess the situation. His lips are slick and plump from all the kissing and biting. “Mhm. Good morning.” Yawning, you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the other one cards through Leon’s hair lazily. As your grip tightens, you drop your head back to the pillow to blink away the haziness. 

The sounds of his lips smacking against your skin are accompanied by the fan noises filling the room. You realize you’re no longer sweating like you were through the night, when the broken air-conditioning left you sweltering—or would have had you freezing if it were actually running. You’re confused. “AC’s working again?” 

You feel him smiling against your thigh. “Yeah. Called the reception and everything.” 

“What was wrong with it?” 

“I’m literally in between your legs and that’s what you wanna know? Like, right now?” He nuzzles your underwear, placing a kiss on your clothed center to stress his frustration, which you reply with a startled whimper. 

“First, I risked frostbite and then sweated like it was hell. Of fucking course I wanna know the reason of my suffering.” 

“You didn’t suffer,” he says in a jeering tone, fingers hooking under your panties to peel them off. He’s quick to get rid of that obstructive piece of fabric. “I’d say I took pretty good care of you.” 

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah—world’s best husband or whatever, keeps waking me up because he’s horny.” 

“Hey, you said breakfast or pussy and I made my choice.” 

He licks a path up from your entrance to your clit, your hips jump. He grips your thighs and slings them over his shoulders. 

“I did not say that.” Words slurred, your eyes close upon the honeyed sensation. 

“Something along those lines,” he mumbles, lips brushing against the sensitive little bud of nerves. 

You kick the blanket off his back so he doesn’t suffocate under the heat. The slight temperature change makes your hips jerk up to his face, his morning stubble scratches the insides of your thighs deliciously. He drapes an arm across your abdomen to keep you steady. His other arm tugs on the thigh slung over his shoulder, only slightly, to make room for his head. 

Two fingers brush your slit, spreading apart slowly to gain access to your most sensitive parts. It’s still a little tender and swollen that when his hot breath fans across the sensitive flesh, your legs try to shut instinctively. His hold grows stronger to remind you not to squash his head. He licks a broad swipe up your slit and looks up at you through his long lashes. 

You can’t help but moan. He looks so pretty like this. 

Leaning forward, he places a kiss directly on your clitoris, the soft smack sound sends a hot burn to your ears. 

He parts his lips to suck your sensitive clit into his mouth, your back arches as you gasp. His plump lips pull on the taut flesh, making you writhe against the sheets. Now aware of your fist that was bunching the sheets this whole time, you let go to join it with your other hand in his hair.  

He’s always liked your hands in his hair, petting it, tugging at it, pulling it to steer him to where you need him most, he loves it all. He moans as you make a mess of his soft tresses, sending jolts of vibrations up your body. 

Relaxing his tight jaw with a wet pop, he quickly drops a kiss to the juncture of your thigh and begins to lap up your dripping mound like a starved man. 

“Leon!” Your back arches again, hands buried in his hair pressing his face firmly between your legs. You’re not sure if he can even breathe with your thighs caging him. You don’t care, he’ll tap you if he wants to take a breather. 

Blindly, the hand that keeps your slit open slides up to your chest, to push between the valley of your breasts. You clutch your palm on the back of his hand, fingers slotting between his. He squeezes his hand once. I’m alright, it means. He keeps your intertwined hands there. 

His face burrows deeper into your slick, thrusting his tongue into your hole in and out. Nose pressed against your clit, he hums contentedly and starts wiggling his head, sending a wave of pleasure through your body. 

The gasps that fall from your lips fuel him, he drags his tongue back up to your sensitive bud, flicking up and down with only one goal in his mind. 

Up and down. Suck. Up and down. Suck. 

“Too much, ‘s too much!” You repeat with a shaky voice. But you are insatiable too, with the way you guide his hand to your tit, encouraging him to squeeze tight. 

“I know, baby, I know. Just tell me when,” he rasps, trying to keep up with your bucking hips. Groping your breast under your pressing palm, he can’t quite reach to your shoulder to lower the straps of your top, though his fingers find your taut nipple through the fabric and start to draw circles around the pebbled peak. 

His stubble burns your thighs so good it only drives you more crazy. Your droopy eyes lock with his determined ones, mouth hanging open in a silent moan, hand brushing away the hair on his forehead. 

He tightens his tongue and places the tip of it right on your sensitive clit, wriggling the wet muscle in a snake-like fashion, and listens to your moans. Each roll of his tongue is a sweet torment, delivering sparks of pleasure to your quivering body. 

“That’s not—ah!—that’s not fair.” 

His mouth never leaving your pussy, he hums questioningly. “Mm?” The short syllable vibrates through your core, making you fussier. 

What’s not fair? His hips grinding into the mattress? The hand that previously held you down now slipping under his boxers to rub his slick, swollen tip? Fairness is not even the last thing on his mind right now. He’s too drunk on your essence, happily suffocated between your legs, unaware of the fast pace his hand picks up on his cock. He’s fully pumping himself. 

You also know you’re not making any sense. A hot blush warms your chest, travels up your neck to your ears, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. Your body is screaming for release, of course you don’t have any idea what you are blabbering about. 

Feeling your clit pulse beneath his tongue, he waits to hear your staccato breathing, waits for the tumble of unintelligible words to fall on his ears. 

“Leon, I’m… I’m—ah, fuck!” 

Just before the intense wave of pleasure comes crashing down on you, he tears his mouth away from you, panting for oxygen. 

“No, please,” you cry out. “Don’t be mean.” 

Not wanting to deny you stimulation, he gets to work on your tit and gives it a firm squeeze for good measure before returning his fingers to your aching nipple. He toys with it, flicking, pressing down, pinching through fabric. You whine softly through it all, trying to wrap your trembling legs tighter around his head so he could return to what he was doing before. 

“Please, I was about to come…” 

“I know, honey, I’m sorry. I needed to breathe.” He plucks at your nipple, rolling it before returning to your sex. 

This time he alternates between kitten licks and soft kisses on your clit, meant to be soothing. It feels as if he’s grazing a feather on your oversensitive, swelled up nerves. It’s so ticklish that your hips jump to chase after the phantom itch. 

That’s all it takes for the overwhelming waves of pleasure to come crashing down on you. The coil in your belly snaps. Eager as ever, he presses his open and panting mouth against your cunt, moaning against the spasming flesh. Cleaning up the remnants of your climax is only a poor excuse for his lips to linger. He presses a kiss to your thigh before pulling away from between your legs, the slick coating his mouth and chin leaves your skin damp. 

Taking a deep breath, he rises to sit on his knees between your thighs. Your legs drop from his shoulders. Pride fills his chest once he eyes up the litter of love-bites on your flushed skin. His doing. The rapid rise and fall of your chest. Also his doing. 

Through a fucked-out smile, you say, “What? What’s so funny?” 

Unaware that he’s cheesing, he shakes his head. “Nothing, honey. You look so pretty.” 

“I feel nasty, though.” 

He shuts you up with a kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Mm… How about you?” you mumble into the kiss while ruffling his soft hair. 

His hips are grinding against his hand in a faint rhythm, palm stroking up and down slowly. He huffs. “Keep spreading your legs and it won’t take long.” 

Discerning the questioning raise of your brow, he swipes a thumb at the corner of your lip. “I’m not gonna put it in. I know you’re sensitive, baby. Trust me. Please?” 

You wiggle a bit to open your legs further, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bed because the way he kept pinning you has you feeling sores on your butt. “Yeah, okay.” 

Lining himself up against your slit, he hovers his cock above your puffy cunt and keeps stroking. He groans and bucks into his hand, head falling backwards. You whimper and bunch the sheets in your fists. He looks so hot. His hair is chaotically messy, lips swollen and slick, hand working desperately on his cock. Your pussy flutters at the sight. 

Eyes zeroing in on your center, he says, “Show me. Hold yourself open.” 

You reach down and spread yourself for him, shamelessly displaying what he wants. Your hole clenches down on nothing upon the little stretch, pulling another groan out of him. 

He’s grinning, head tilted to the side. “Fuck, that’s it. Like what you see, huh?” 

You nod fast, staring at the movement between your legs. It’s captivating. 

Feeling devious, you lift your hips slightly to touch your pulsing clit to his red tip, directly to his precum-coated slit. Like a featherlight kiss. It sends a pleasurable shock through your entire body, you plop down on the bed again. 

“Oh shit—you…” His expression tells you he’s very close.

Gripping your thigh, he jerks himself to completion against your twitching pussy. Thick spurts of cum coat your center and belly, your thighs get to have their fair share, too. 

A breathless laugh escapes him, like he can’t quite believe what just happened. His gaze softens, as though clearing a daze. “I’m sorry. Let me carry you to the bathroom.”

A quiet shift lingers in the air. 

He’s so silent while massaging shampoo into your hair, cocooned by your arms around his waist, water cascading over his back. His lips are set in a straight line, eyes roaming your face and coming back to meet your gaze every once in a while. 

You and him, in that sacred, safe haven again. 

I can hear you think. He wills you to speak without saying the words. 

“You don’t need to be scared.” 

His hands pause in your hair. Of what? 

“The things you said at the beach yesterday… You don’t need to be scared, Leon. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you,” you continue. 

He pulls you closer, cups the back of your neck and rests your head on his shoulder. I love you. 

“And I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing your face. I miss it terribly when you’re away.” You nudge his neck with your nose. 

He closes his eyes. I love you. 

“Tell me a truth?” you whisper, watching the slow up and down of his Adam’s apple. 

The urge to draw you even closer to himself is too strong. Come, live inside my skin—I’m yours, anyway. Instead, he opens his heavy-lidded eyes, locking his gaze with yours. 

“I love you.” 

With a slow and languid kiss, he seals his lips to yours, weaving your souls together in that tranquil, infinite moment. 

“At times I think of human relationships as something soft like sand or water, and by pouring them into particular vessels we give them shape.”

― Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You

[jamingbenn]

year in review - hockey rpf on ao3

hello!! the annual ao3 year in review had some friends and i thinking - wouldn't it be cool if we had a hockey rpf specific version of that. so i went ahead and collated the data below!!

i start with a broad overview, then dive deeper into the 3 most popular ships this year (with one bonus!)

if any images appear blurry, click on them to expand and they should become clear!

₊˚⊹♡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅. ݁

before we jump in, some key things to highlight: - CREDIT TO: the webscraping part of my code heavily utilized the ao3 wrapped google colab code, as lovingly created by @kyucultures on twitter, as the main skeleton. i tweaked a couple of things but having it as a reference saved me a LOT of time and effort as a first time web scraper!!! thank you stranger <3 - please do NOT, under ANY circumstances, share any part of this collation on any other website. please do not screenshot or repost to twitter, tiktok, or any other public social platform. thank u!!! T_T - but do feel free to send requests to my inbox! if you want more info on a specific ship, tag, or you have a cool idea or wanna see a correlation between two variables, reach out and i should be able to take a look. if you want to take a deeper dive into a specific trope not mentioned here/chapter count/word counts/fic tags/ship tags/ratings/etc, shoot me an ask!

˚　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

with that all said and done... let's dive into hockey_rpf_2024_wrapped_insanity.ipynb

BIG PICTURE OVERVIEW

i scraped a total of 4266 fanfics that dated themselves as published or finished in the year 2024. of these 4000 odd fanfics, the most popular ships were:

Note: "Minor or Background Relationship(s)" clocked in at #9 with 91 fics, but I removed it as it was always a secondary tag and added no information to the chart. I did not discern between primary ship and secondary ship(s) either!

breaking down the 5 most popular ships over the course of the year, we see:

super interesting to see that HUGE jump for mattdrai in june/july for the stanley cup final. the general lull in the offseason is cool to see as well.

as for the most popular tags in all 2024 hockey rpf fic...

weee like our fluff. and our established relationships. and a little H/C never hurt no one.

i got curious here about which AUs were the most popular, so i filtered down for that. note that i only regex'd for tags that specifically start with "Alternate Universe - ", so A/B/O and some other stuff won't appear here!

idk it was cool to me.

also, here's a quick breakdown of the ratings % for works this year:

and as for the word counts, i pulled up a box plot of the top 20 most popular ships to see how the fic length distribution differed amongst ships:

mattdrai-ers you have some DEDICATION omg. respect

now for the ship by ship break down!!

₊ . ݁ ݁ . ⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ ⊹ .

#1 MATTDRAI

most popular ship this year. peaked in june/july with the scf. so what do u people like to write about?

fun fun fun. i love that the scf is tagged there like yes actually she is also a main character

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#2 SIDGENO

(my babies) top tags for this ship are:

folks, we are a/b/o fiends and we cannot lie. thank you to all the selfless authors for feeding us good a/b/o fic this year. i hope to join your ranks soon.

(also: MPREG. omega sidney crosby. alpha geno. listen, the people have spoken, and like, i am listening.)

₊ . ݁ ݁ . ⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ ⊹ .

#3 NICOJACK

top tags!!

it seems nice and cozy over there... room for one more?

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BONUS: JDTZ.

i wasnt gonna plot this but @marcandreyuri asked me if i could take a look and the results are so compelling i must include it. are yall ok. do u need a hug

top tags being h/c, angst, angst, TRADES, pining, open endings... T_T katie said its a "torture vortex" and i must concurr

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BONUS BONUS: ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA

as an a/b/o enthusiast myself i got curious as to what the most popular ships were within that tag. if you want me to take a look about this for any other tag lmk, but for a/b/o, as expected, SID GENO ON TOP BABY!:

thats all for now!!! if you have anything else you are interested in seeing the data for, send me an ask and i'll see if i can get it to ya!

[ao3org]

Update on "No Fandom" tags

AO3 Tag Wranglers recently began testing processes for updating canonical tags (tags that appear in the auto-complete and the filters) that don’t belong to any particular fandom (commonly known as No Fandom tags). We have already begun implementing some of the decisions made during the earliest discussions. By the time this post is published, you may have already noticed some changes we have made.  Several canonical tags are slated to be created or renamed, and we will also be adjusting the subtag and metatag relationships between some tags to better aid Archive users in filtering.  Please keep in mind that many of these changes are large and require a lot of work to identify and attach relevant tags, so it will likely take some time to complete. We ask that you please be patient with us while we work! While we will not be detailing every change we make under the new process, we will be making periodic posts with updates on those changes we believe are most likely to prove helpful for users looking to tag or filter works with the new or revised tags and to avoid confusion as to why changes are being made. 

New Canonicals!

1. Edging

For a long while, there has been some confusion caused by the fact that we have a canonical for Edgeplay, but not for Edging which has led to some unintentional mistagging and other challenges. Consequently, we will be creating a canonical tag for Edging with the format Orgasm Edging and this new canonical tag will be subtagged to Orgasm Control. Relatedly, we will be reorganizing the Orgasm Control tag tree to allow for easier and more straightforward filtering and renaming Edgeplay to add clarity. You’ll find more details regarding these changes in the Renamed and Reorganized canonicals section below.

2. Generative AI

We have canonized three tags related to Generative AI. 

Created Using Generative AI

AI-Generated Text

AI-Generated Images 

All tags which make mention of specific Generative AI tools will be made a synonym of the most relevant AI-Generated canonical. Additionally, please note that AI-Generated Text and AI-Generated Images will be subtagged to Created Using Generative AI. How to Use These To Filter For/Filter Out Works Tagged as Using Generative AI: ❌ Filtering Out: To filter out all works that use tags about being created with AI, add Created Using Generative AI to the “other tags to exclude” field in the works filter. This will also exclude works making use of the subtags AI-Generated Text and AI-Generated Images. If you wish to exclude either the Images or Text tags only, you can do so by excluding either AI-Generated Text or AI-Generated Images.

☑️ Filtering For: Add Created Using Generative AI to the “other tags to include” field in the works filter. This will also automatically include the works making use of the subtags AI-Generated Text and AI-Generated Images. If you wish to filter for Images or Text only, you can do so by including either AI-Generated Text or AI-Generated Images only .

As a reminder, the use of these tools in the creation of works is not against AO3's ToS. These new tags exist purely to help folks curate their own experience on the Archive. If you would like to see more information about AO3’s policies in regards to AI generated works, please see our News post from May 2023 on AI and Data Scraping on the Archive.

Renamed and Reevaluated Canonicals!

3. EdgeplayAs mentioned above, we will be renaming Edgeplay to clarify the tag's meaning, given that it is often confused for Edging. This tag will be decanonized and made a synonym of Edgeplay | High Risk BDSM Practices. It will be removed as a subtag of Sensation Play and be subtagged instead directly to BDSM. Please note if you have made use of the Edgeplay tag on your works or wish to continue to use it in the future, you are still welcome to do so. The tag Edgeplay will be made a synonym of the new canonical, so all works tagged with Edgeplay now or in the future will fall under the new tag so that they’re still easy for users to find. If you have made it a favorite tag, it will be transferred  automatically when we make this change. 

4. Orgasm Delay/Denial The tag Orgasm Delay/Denial will be decanonized and made a synonym of Orgasm Control to help limit confusion with the more specific Orgasm Delay and Orgasm Denial canonicals. Tags that are currently synonyms of Orgasm Delay/Denial are being analyzed and moved to either Orgasm Control or Orgasm Delay or Orgasm Denial or Orgasm Edging. The revised tree structure for this tree will feature Orgasm Control as the top-level metatag with subtags Orgasm Edging, Orgasm Delay, and Orgasm Denial. So, if you wish to filter for all these tags at once, you can do so just by filtering for Orgasm Control. 

5. Female Ejaculation Female Ejaculation will be decanonized and made a synonym of Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation.  We hope this new phrasing will be more inclusive, clear, and make the tag easier to find whether users are searching for Squirting or the previous canonical. All current synonyms of Female Ejaculation will also be made a synonym of Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, including Squirting. You may continue to tag your works as suits your preferences, and we will make sure these tags are made synonyms of the new canonical so that your work can be found in the filters for it.

These are just some of the changes being implemented. While we won’t be announcing every change, you can expect similar updates in the future as we continue to work toward improving the Archive experience. So if you have an interest in the changes we’ll be making, you can follow us on Twitter @ao3_wranglers or keep an eye on this Tumblr for future announcements. Thank you for your patience and understanding as we continue our work!

(From time to time, ao3org posts announcements of recent or upcoming wrangling changes on behalf of the Tag Wrangling Committee.)

[stylesispunk]

"The days of you and I" - part 2

Jackson! Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel’s growing pain and survivor's guilt create a widening rift between you, as harsh words leave wounds deeper than any physical injury.

w.c: 7,9k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. mentions of miscarriage. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know. No proofreading because I'm a lazy sloth.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Thank you so much for all your love on this fic. As I said, this fic will touch on some heavy topics related to the aftermath of events we are already familiar with. This one is not the best, I know. But it is building the tension I talked about before. I hope you like it, and I really expect to see your reactions and comments on it. Remember I created an AO3 account where these pieces of reading are being published too. Sending hugs and love.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Breathe.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

He is fine. He is fine.

You saved him.

Every time you closed your eyes, you still saw it. You still heart it. You still feel it.

You could sense the inevitable outcome of a nightmare with no end. Perceive the crackling of your heart, shattering, being ripped out from you.   

There was Joel lying, blood slicked across his face, his chest barely rising, his name caught somewhere between your throat and the crushing weight in your chest. The field of dreams built after these years of a quiet life, tearing apart.

Because inside, right at the back of your mind, there was still a reality from which Joel wouldn't make it out alive. That reality was still your trembling knees, touching the floor and caressing a face whose eyes couldn't meet yours.

But in those dreams, you also saw the bodies of Fireflies scattered around him, the smell of gunpowder and copper heavy in the air. His eyes flickering open, then closing again, and you knew, you knew you were too late.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your hand gripping his tighter than you’d realized, your head heavy against the sheets at the edge of his hospital bed. The room was dim, Joel’s chest rising and falling in slow. You turned your head, your cheek brushing against the rough calluses of his hand still in yours. It was warm. Real. Alive.

A broken sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your lips pressed to his knuckles, over and over again, relieved washing all your body.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, voice shaking, salt from your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin. “You’re okay.”

But it wasn’t enough to calm the storm inside you. The room felt too small. The grief, the relief, the terror, too loud, crowding your lungs.

You carefully set his hand down, brushing your fingers through his hair one last time before quietly standing, the floor creaked under your boots. You slipped out the door just as Tommy was coming down the hallway.

He nearly bumped into you; his brow furrowed the moment he saw your face. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low, cautious, like one wrong word might send you shattering.

You tried to speak, but your throat closed. The only thing you managed was a rough, strangled, “I—I Tommy.”

And then your hands were fisting in his jacket and you were burying your face against his chest before you could stop yourself.

“I’m so scared,” you choked out, the words spilling like blood from a wound. “I’m still so scared.”

Tommy’s arms came around you, strong and steady. He let you shake; let you break against him for a minute. “Hey now,” he murmured, “I know, I know. But listen to me — Joel’s fine. He made it. He’s in there, he is breathing thanks to you. You don’t have to keep carrying this like you been.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, your face crumpled. “I can’t,” you rasped, shaking your head. “I can’t, Tommy. If I close my eyes, I lose him. Every time. I’m terrified that I’m gonna wake up and he is going to be dead.” You looked at  him, “I cannot get back from it.”

He gave a weary, sad sort of smile. “Yeah… you can. And you need to.” He let out a breath, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “You haven’t slept, not really, in near a month. You been sitting in that chair every night like a ghost. I see you. Maria sees you. Ellie does. You need to come up for air, darling. You need to grieve what you lost, too.”

You stiffened, your stomach twisting. “I can’t… we agreed,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “We weren’t gonna—”

“I know what we agreed,” Tommy said quietly, eyes steady. “But just because you made me and Maria swear not to tell anyone, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Don’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You lost something, too.”

And for a moment you hated him for saying it out loud, for naming the grief you’d tried to bury beneath blood and terror and a flicker of hope.

But mostly you felt yourself breaking, splintering apart, because you’d been holding it together with spit and wire and now there was nowhere left to hide.

“I’m not ready to talk about it.” You replied, “My only priority is Joel’s well-being.”

Tommy nodded, a quiet, sad understanding in his eyes. He didn’t push or didn’t offer some empty platitude or tell you it was okay, because you both knew it wasn’t.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I get it. Just… don’t forget you’re still here too, alright? You can’t bleed out until there’s nothing left of you to give.”

You swallowed hard; throat thick. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. You both knew it. But Tommy let it be, because sometimes kindness was letting someone cling to the lie a little longer.

For the sake of it.

He gave your arm a squeeze and gestured back toward the room. “I’ll sit with him for a while. Go walk it off. Get some air. Go get to change clothes. You don’t have to be strong every second, you hear me?”

You didn’t answer, just gave a small, jerky nod before moving past him down the hall, your chest tight, legs unsteady. The grief was a storm inside you, still too raw, too sharp, but for the first time in weeks, you weren’t carrying it alone.

The door creaked softly as you stepped into the house, the familiar scent of old wood, leather, and that trace of Joel that clung to everything hitting you like a blow to the chest. It was like walking into a memory you weren’t ready for; one you hadn’t realized you’d been avoiding.

The one where things had remained still, and your quiet little life hadn’t been tainted by ghost of the past he wasn’t ready to face.

You left the door half-open behind you, the quiet hum of the wind outside the only sound filling the empty space. Your boots felt too loud against the floorboards as you made your way upstairs, each step heavier than the last.

In the bedroom, it was like time had stopped.

Joel’s glasses still rested on the nightstand; one arm crooked like he’d taken them off in a hurry. An empty glass of water sat abandoned on your side of the bed. The blankets were half-pulled down, the imprint of both your bodies faint in the mattress as if neither of you had truly left.

Almost a month had passed.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the bed like it was some kind of relic. Your chest ached at the sudden, vivid memory of that night.

Joel’s rough laugh echoed across the room when Ellie had made some comment on her willing to try and forgive him for what he had done. the way his eyes had shone just a little when he said, “Maybe she’ll come around more often again.”

How you’d nearly told him.

You remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, hand brushing his, your heart hammering as you tried to work up the nerve to say the words that had been eating you alive for days. You hadn’t gotten the chance. The attack came that morning. And everything after that was blood, screams, and a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

Your hand came up to your face, covering your mouth, as if you could press the grief back in.

Not now.

You turned away from the bed, your throat tight, and made your way into the bathroom. The light buzzed softly when you flicked it on. You gripped the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection. You looked wrecked. Hollow-eyed, pale, a shadow of the person you’d been a month ago.

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never had been.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to chase away the ghosts. The house felt too quiet without Joel in it. Too big. Too wrong.

You dried your face, took a steadying breath, and for the first time in weeks, allowed yourself to murmur the thing you’d almost said that night, so soft, even the walls couldn’t hear.

“I was pregnant.” You murmured; your voice broke on the process.

You made your way to the dresser with, every step heavier each time, like your bones knew what was coming before your heart did. The top drawer still held your clothes, neatly folded the way Joel always teased you about.

Your fingers brushed over a worn t-shirt before you pushed it aside, pulling out a clean pair of jeans, tugging them on with monotonous movements. Your hands shook as you reached for a simple tank top. It felt too thin, too unfamiliar against your skin.

Without even thinking, you crossed the room to Joel’s side of the closet, the side you hadn’t touched since that night.

His scent hit you again, sharp and familiar: cedar, soap, something distinctly him. Your chest tightened, throat burning as you reached out and pulled one of his old flannels from the hanger. The one he wore when it got cold around the house, sleeves rolled up, collar a little frayed.

You shrugged it on over your tank top, the fabric heavy and too big around your frame. The sleeves hung past your hands, the scent of him wrapping around you like a hug you weren’t sure you would even feel again.

Your fingers gripped the lapels of the shirt, holding it closed like armor.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror then, wearing his clothes, eyes rimmed red, hair messy, face drawn.

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart under your palm.

He’s alive.

He’s breathing.

And you’re still here.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, you let it fall.

You grabbed your jacket from the hook by the door, not bothering to wipe your face. The cold evening air would take care of that. 

And then you walked out, because you couldn’t stay in that house one more goddamn minute.

You headed back to the hospital.

Because wherever Joel Miller was, that’s where you belonged.

You didn’t bother taking the main path. Your feet knew the way, cutting through the back alleys and between old buildings like muscle memory. Every step closer to that hospital felt like pulling yourself out of a grave, but you kept going.

Because he was still there and walking to the hospital felt relieving. Jackson was still recovering from the attack, but nothing mattered to you.

It was like if you had become selfish.

You reached his room and hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, heart pounding like it wanted to crawl out of your chest.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

The memory of your nightmare flickered in the back of your mind. Joel, bloody. The Fireflies on the floor. The way your hands shook as you fired again and again, the sound of someone begging.

You swallowed hard and pushed the door open.

Tommy was sitting in the chair by the bed, elbow propped on his knee, head bowed like he’d been carrying a weight too heavy for one man alone. The soft light entering from the window, accentuated some of the lines in his face, made him look older than you remembered. He lifted his head when he heard the door, and his eyes softened when he saw you standing there, Joel’s flannel drowning your frame.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave you that sad, understanding look that made your throat tighten all over again.

“He’s been sleeping,” Tommy murmured, his voice rough, like gravel. “He woke up before, but it seems like he is tired.”

You nodded, your eyes sliding past him to Joel. His face had recovered the same color it had before, but the wounds and scars would settle past him. Your eyes settled on his lips parted as he breathed deep and even.

You crossed the room quietly, your hand brushing over the edge of the bed as you made your way to Joel’s side, needing to see him up close, to confirm with your own eyes what Tommy had said. His chest rose and fell, slow but steady. The faint furrow between his brow had eased in sleep.

It loosened something in your chest, if only a little.

“How’s the fixing going?” you asked softly, not taking your eyes off Joel. “With Jackson, I mean.”

Tommy let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s… going good. Roof repairs, patching the wall on the south side. Got a couple of new folks stepping up too. But it’s not the same without you both around.”

You finally looked at him, brow drawn.

“You know,” he went on, his voice gentler now, “your help would be useful. It might even help you, being out there. With your hands busy. With people. Jackson still needs you. And so does he.”

His eyes flickered to Joel, then back to you.

And you felt it, that ache in your bones, that pull between needing to be right here and knowing the world kept moving outside these four walls, that grief didn’t wait for anyone to be ready.

“I don’t know if I can yet,” you admitted, voice small. “I feel like… if I leave this room, even for a minute, something might happen. I can’t— I don’t wanna miss it.”

Tommy gave you a soft, sad smile. “I get it. I do. But you aren’t going to disappear into this room to prove you love him. You already did the hard thing. You kept him here.”

You swallowed, blinking fast. You hated how constantly you were reminded of what you had done to kept him here.

He stood up then, resting a hand on your shoulder as he passed. “When you’re ready,” he murmured. “We’ll be waiting, alright?”

And then he slipped out, leaving you alone in the soft light and steady rhythm of Joel’s breathing.

You let out a trembling breath, pulling Joel’s hand into yours, and leaned down, pressing your forehead to the back of his knuckles.

“I’ll come back to the world soon,” you whispered. “Just not without you.”

The days bled together after that. Sleep came in snatches, food tasted like nothing, and the house still smelled like Joel. You’d started to force yourself to step outside, help with repairs, take walks around the perimeter of Jackson. Tommy was right. It didn’t fix anything, but it dulled the sharp edges of grief for a little while.

And Ellie… Ellie had finally come around.

It wasn’t easy for her either, carrying her own ghosts and regrets, the heaviness between them too tangled and fraught to name. But she’d shown up, a little bruised, one arm hugged around her middle where cracked ribs still ached.

You came back to the hospital late that afternoon, sun just beginning to dip, the sky streaked with orange and pale pink. The moment you stepped through the door; you could hear voices. Joel’s still hoarse, Ellie’s quieter than you remembered, both of them cautious but trying.

You made your way there, pausing by the door before they noticed you.

“—still think you should read that stupid comic,” Joel rasped, a ghost of a smile in his voice. “It isn’t as half as bad as you make it out to be.”

“I don’t know man,” Ellie shot back. “You say that now, but last time you fell asleep halfway through.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You felt your throat tighten, an ache blooming in your chest. It was such a small, ordinary thing, a normal conversation in a world that had been anything but. And it hit you how long it’d been since you’d heard them like this.

Joel caught sight of you then, his gaze softening. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching his hand out weakly toward you like instinct.

Ellie twisted in her chair, a sheepish look on her face like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. “Hey… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you shook your head quickly, offering them both a smile that barely held. “No, I’m glad you’re here.”

Ellie’s lips twitched, and she gave Joel a small nudge. “Told you she wouldn’t be mad.”

Joel’s fingers brushed yours when you reached for his hand. “We were talking abou that comic we found back in those old days of us on the road.” he murmured; his voice still rough but warmer than it’d been in weeks. “It’s good, her being here.”

“I know,” you said, voice soft, squeezing his hand.

Ellie stood then, stretching with a grimace. “I should… get back. I promised Dina I wouldn’t be out too long. She says I need to take it slow.”

Joel’s expression flickered, something close to reluctant, but he just nodded. “Will you come back again?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking between the two of you. “I will.”

And with a last glance, she ducked out the door, leaving you in the quiet again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

That’s what you wanted to believe.

You pulled Joel’s hand to your chest, resting it over your heart. “She loves you; you know?”

Joel’s eyes closed, a tear slipping from the corner. “I’m not sure how I deserve it.”

You kissed the back of his hand. “None of us deserve half the things we get, Joel Miller.”

His brow furrowed faintly at your words, his rough thumb instinctively brushing over your skin, like he could soothe whatever storm had just crossed your mind.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice soft, fragile in a way you didn’t often hear from him.

But your gaze had already drifted, landing somewhere past him, past the room, past yourself. You smiled then, small, sad, a little tired, the kind of smile that felt like old wounds and memories too sharp to hold for long.

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head like it could scatter the ache away. You squeezed his hand, brought it to your lips one more time, and didn’t let him ask again. Because you knew if you said it out loud, if you told him what you lost, what you gave up, what you carried so he wouldn’t have to, you might break apart in a way you couldn’t put back together.

And right now, he needed you whole. Or at least, what was left of you.

So, you just kept his hand pressed to your heart and murmured, “You just rest, Joel. I get you.”

Three days later, the room smelled clean, and old wood, the soft hum of life returning to a place that had been far too quiet for too long. Joel sat propped up in a chair by the window, the pale light of morning painting his face in soft golds and silvers. He still looked worn, the bruises faded to ugly yellows and greens, but his eyes were clearer now.

The exercises had started that morning.

Mara, a woman in her middle thirties just as you, one who’d lost her sister in the attack, had volunteered to help with Joel’s physical therapy. It wasn’t easy for her, you could see it in the tightness of her jaw and the flicker of grief in her gaze when their hands met, but she did it. Carefully, gently, guiding Joel’s arm through its slow range of motion, mindful of the broken ribs, the healing bullet wound in his leg.

Joel winced but didn’t complain, his jaw set, sweat beading at his hairline. Ellie sat on the floor nearby, legs crossed, making sarcastic remarks when she thought he needed distraction and staying silent when she could tell he didn’t.

Tommy leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable but his presence steady as ever. Watching, like he always did. Taking care of his big brother, switching places this time. 

And you, you’d given Gail another chance.

It hadn’t been easy, but you’d found her by the gates a couple days before, asking for a way to help. The bitterness between you hung in the air like smoke, but you let her through it. Because grief made ghosts out of people, and neither of you needed another enemy.

You were at her house. The air between you still felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break, but you’d come anyway. Because maybe you didn’t know how to tend some wounds you had on your soul.

Gail handed you a cup of coffee, her hands trembling just enough for you to notice. You took it in silence, standing by the window that looked out toward the mountains.

“How’s he doing?” she asked after a while, her voice rough, like it hurt to say the words.

You didn’t look at her, kept your eyes on the way the snow clung to the branches outside. “He is trying. Still hurts like hell. Can’t move much on his own yet. But he is fighting.” You took a slow sip of the bitter coffee. “Ellie had come. They talked. First real conversation since it happened.”

“And you?” She asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m glad he is fine.” You replied, no meeting her eyes.

Gail was quiet for a moment, the silence between you thick and aching. The wind outside rattled against the windowpane, a ghost of a sound in the quiet room.

“I don’t think he could,” she said softly, like she was testing the words, seeing if they sounded true spoken out loud. “A man doesn’t fight his way back from the death like that for someone he hates.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your eyes still locked on the white-dusted branches swaying in the wind. “He didn’t. I was the one who…” you murmured. “What I did. What I… what I gave up.”

At that, you finally turned your head, your gaze meeting hers. There was no malice there now, just an old, worn kind of sadness you both carried like extra weight. She gave you a small, sad smile, and you felt something loosen in your chest — not forgiveness, not yet, but something close to it.

“I was afraid, you know,” you admitted quietly, voice trembling. “Still am. That when he looks at me, he’ll see what I cost him.”

“Maybe,” Gail said, taking a sip from her cup, her eyes never leaving yours. “Or maybe he’ll just see the woman who sat at his bedside every night. The one who wouldn’t let go.”

“Do you think he could come to resent me?” you asked her, meeting her gaze.

Gail let out a long breath, setting her cup down with a soft clink on the table. She rubbed her hands together like she was trying to find the right words, or maybe the courage to say them.

“I have no answer for that.” she admitted, honest in a way that stung. “People carry and react to things in different ways. Joel…He might be angry he doesn’t have the control on his hands. He might be hurt. He might not even know how to feel about it yet.”

You felt your stomach twist, a sick kind of dread curling low in your gut.

“But,” she continued, leaning forward a little, her voice softer, steadier, “I don’t think he’ll resent you for saving his life. For loving him enough to do whatever it took. I think… deep down, he’ll understand. You burn for them. You bleed for them. And I don’t think he is stranger to that kind of love.”

You bit your lip, your eyes stinging as you looked down at your cup. “I just… I don’t wanna be another scar on him.”

Gail gave a small, sad smile. “But you already are. But that’s no the same as a wound”

You sat there a moment, her words settling in your chest like a stone and a balm all at once.

“Do you still resent him for what he did to Eugene?”

“I will always despise him for it,” Gail said again, her voice steady, like she’d made peace with her anger. “But I’ll accept that you don’t deserve to lose him because of what I feel. I loved Eugene. You love Joel too. And that kind of love, well. Loving is tragic sometimes.”

Your throat felt tight. You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice right away.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you whispered.

Gail gave a sad little smile. “None of us did. We just get what’s left after the world takes what it wants.”

For a long moment, you both just sat there, two women bound by grief and blood and the ache of what couldn’t be undone.

“I had a miscarriage,” you confessed, like if you didn’t say it out loud it might not be entirely real. “The night we brought Joel back. Only Tommy and Maria know.”

Gail set her cup down with a shaking hand, leaning her elbows onto her knees, staring at the floor. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you—?”

“Because I couldn’t,” you breathed, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I couldn’t deal with losing him and… and that baby. I didn’t even tell Joel. I just… shoved it down. Buried it under everything else. Because he needed me. Ellie needed me. There wasn’t room for me to fall apart.”

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Then, softly, Gail spoke, voice rough as gravel. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, wiping a tear off your cheek. “It’s just one more thing, right? One more grave I’ll carry around in my chest.”

“No,” she said, and this time there was steel under it. “It’s not just one more thing. It matters.”

You looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no anger in her gaze. Just a tired, broken woman who understood what it meant to lose pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

“Don’t tell this to anyone,” you said, standing up, your voice steady even though your chest felt like it might cave in.

Gail didn’t argue. Didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. She just nodded, solemn, the lines around her eyes deepening as she looked up at you.

“I won’t,” she murmured. “It’s not my place.”

You gave a tight nod, setting the empty cup down on the table. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close, so you crossed to the door, your hand hovering on the knob for a second.

“You ever need to… you know where to find me,” Gail said, her voice softer now, almost gentle.

You didn’t answer. Just gave a faint, weary smile over your shoulder and left, stepping out into the cold evening air. The chill hit you like a wall, but it was easier to breathe out here. Easier to feel like the world was still turning.

When you made it back to the infirmary, the late afternoon light was slipping through the blinds in thin, tired lines. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, and there was the soft shuffle of movement, the faint sound of labored breathing.

Joel was gripping Mara’s hand, his knuckles pale as she helped him ease through another stretch, working his upper body with a focus that made your throat tighten. His face was drawn tight with effort, sweat beading along his temple, but his jaw was set, and his eyes, those goddamn eyes, burned with stubborn, quiet determination.

“You’re doing good,” Mara was murmuring, steady and calm. “One more. You got it, Joel.”

He let out a ragged breath, brow furrowed, and pushed through it. And you felt something twist in your chest. Because even after everything, even when his body betrayed him, Joel Miller still didn’t know how to quit.

You stepped inside quietly, but his gaze found you anyway. Those storm-grey eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, his hand almost faltered.

You forced a smile, crossing the room and settling on the other side of the bed. You reached out, your fingers brushing over the back of his wrist where his pulse thudded wildly.

“Look at you,” you said softly, voice thick. “You’re doing good.”

And it hit you like a blow to the ribs, not the pain of a wound, but something heavier, deeper. The kind of ache that settled behind your sternum and made your hands feel too empty, your throat too tight.

Because in that flicker of a look, no warmth, no smile, no spark of that easy, familiar ache you knew so well, you saw it. The doubt. The distance. The quiet, gnawing thing you’d been terrified of since the night you dragged him back, half-dead, bleeding out in the snow.

And maybe it wasn’t resentment. Maybe it wasn’t hate. But it was something. Something colder.

You forced your smile to stay, even though it felt brittle as glass. Let your thumb drag along his wrist, feeling his pulse there like a frantic little drum, as if it mattered. As if you could hold him to this world by sheer will alone.

“You’re almost through it,” you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word. “I told you I wasn’t gonna let you go.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you a moment longer, something unreadable passing through those tired, storm-dark eyes before he dropped his gaze back to his lap, letting Mara guide his arm down carefully.

You swallowed hard and stood, backing toward the door.

“I’ll… I’ll come back later,” you managed, already hating yourself for the way your voice shook.

And before either of them could say anything else, you slipped out into the hallway. Pressed your back to the cold wall and closed your eyes, because you didn’t want to cry here. Not where someone might see.

But Tommy noticed.

Ellie too.

Perhaps this was the beginning of the aftermath you didn’t want to face.

Tommy’s footsteps were quiet but deliberate as he came to stand beside you. Without a word, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, close enough that you could feel the steady weight of his presence.

“He is…It has been a difficult day for him” he said.

You nodded slowly; your breath still uneven. “I see it in his eyes. Like he’s somewhere far away, and maybe… maybe resenting being here.”

Tommy’s gaze was steady, his voice low and rough. “He’s scared. Not just about his body. About what’s left of him, who he is now. It’s a hell of a thing, knowing you survived but feel like a ghost.”

“You had tried to keep it hidden, the blood seeping through your shirt from a wound you got during a scuffle with some smugglers. You thought you were careful, but Joel had that sixth sense, the one that made it impossible to hide anything from him.

That evening, you’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to clean the cut with water, heart pounding from the pain and the fear of being discovered. You heard footsteps before you saw him.

Joel crouched down beside you, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading across your shirt. “Are you trying to hide that from me?” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of concern and frustration all at once.

You shook your head, forcing a weak smile. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

He grabbed your hand gently, pulling you up. “You don’t have to do that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of tears, not just from the wound, but from the raw truth in his words. That night, he stayed with you, helping patch up the wound, silently promising to watch over you no matter what.

That was the moment you knew Joel was never going to let you face the world alone.

That was the moment you realized you loved him.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the hospital room blinds, casting pale stripes across the worn floor. You stirred awake, your body aching from hours spent curled up in the hard chair beside Joel’s bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything felt still, until you caught his gaze.

Joel was watching you, eyes sharp and clear, a faint crease of both worry and irritation etched across his brow.

“You should stop sleeping on that chair,” he said, voice low but edged with annoyance. “I’m alive. Just like you wanted.”

There was a pause, a soft breath between you. His words were blunt, but beneath them, you heard something softer, relief, and maybe even a hint of gratitude.

You managed a tired smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I just want to make sure you’re still here.”

Joel’s eyes softened for a fleeting second, the weight of his pain briefly giving way to something gentler. He squeezed your hand back, his grip still weak but steady.

“You worry too much,” he muttered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position but mostly just staring at him. “I can’t help it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you won’t be here.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m stubborn. You should’ve known that by now.”

You were about to say something when Mara appeared quietly in the doorway, clipboard in hand and a reassuring smile on her face.

“Good morning, Joel. Ready to get started?” she asked gently.

Joel glanced at you, then back at Mara, a mix of relief and determination flickering in his eyes. You squeezed his hand once more before standing up.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me,” you said softly, stepping back to give them space.

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer.

“You can stay.”

“I... okay,” you said quietly, moving to pull up a chair beside the bed.

Joel shifted slightly, the effort causing a faint wince, but his eyes held steady on you.

“Don’t make it a habit,” he warned, voice rough but teasing.

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand.

The days blurred together after that. Snowfall, dim afternoons, the creak of old wood floors, the sharp scent of antiseptic in every room. Joel was healing, slowly, stubbornly, as everyone expected he would.

He was soft with Ellie. She came by every other day now, bringing comics or talking about new skills she was learning with Dina. Joel would ruffle her hair, tease her about how much taller she’d gotten. There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke to her, something aching and tender you remembered so clearly from before.

He was patient with Tommy too, with his brother’s worry, with the way Tommy hovered and cracked bad jokes to fill the silence. And with Mara, the doctor helping on his rehab, Joel offered polite thank-yous and that old, quiet grit of his, never complaining even when the pain was plain in his face.

But with you… now it was different.

It was in the way his eyes slid past yours when you walked into the room. The way his voice turned clipped and careful when you spoke. The way his hands, once so instinctively reaching for you in sleep or conversation, now stayed neatly folded in his lap.

He wasn’t cruel. Joel Miller never was. But there was a distance. A wall he had lifted. And it hurt worse than anything you could’ve braced for.

It was in the little things too, like when Ellie asked about that old guitar Joel kept at your house, and he just said, "I’ll get it sometime," like it wasn’t something that had once lived between your lives like a promise.

Or when Tommy cracked a joke about you two being thick as thieves again once Joel was back on his feet, and Joel’s answering smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You kept showing up. Because you had to. Because you loved him.

But every day it got harder. And it felt like you were both pretending not to feel it.

It started with Joel’s nightmares and how he neglected the comfort you offered.

The first time, you woke to the sound of his ragged breathing, a low, broken sound like a wounded animal caught in its last fight. His hand clutched the blanket, face contorted in some terrible, unseen memory.

You reached for him without thinking, murmuring his name, fingers brushing his damp hair from his brow.

But he jerked away. With force enough to freeze your hand mid-air, enough to make the ache bloom in your chest like something sour.

“I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes still glassy, staring anywhere but at you. And when you tried again, when you offered a whispered "Hey, it’s just me," Joel had turned his face to the wall.

Night after night it was the same.

You’d stay when Tommy or Ellie left. You’d sit in that chair by his bed, or sometimes at the window, and when his sleep turned restless, you’d rise and cross the room.

And every time — every goddamn time — he brushed you off.

"Go home."

 "Don’t need you watching me."

A warning flicker in those tired eyes that begged you not to push.

But you did. Because you couldn’t not.

And that was when it started to fray, that quiet war between wanting to be what he needed and realizing he wouldn’t let you anymore.

Ellie could hold his hand. Tommy could steady him through the worst of the spasms when the pain gripped his leg. Even Mara could coax a ragged laugh from him when he managed to hold something strongly.

But you…You were the one thing he refused.

And it broke something in you. Little by little, day after day.

Because you knew the ache in his eyes wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t even disappointment.

It was grief and resentment.

And every time you looked at him, you were a reminder of all the ways he’d nearly slipped away.

Of all the things unsaid.

And that maybe… just maybe… you saving him had cost you both more than you realized.

You were kneeling beside him, one hand steadying his wrist while the other guided the small rubber ball he was supposed to squeeze, a simple exercise, but every movement made his jaw clench, sweat prick at his hairline.

The ball slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud and rolling toward the edge of the room.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, tight with frustration.

“I got it,” you said quickly, already moving, reaching for it before it could roll too far.

But something in the way you said it, too fast, too practiced, like you’d spent weeks catching the things he dropped, making it easier for him to avoid asking, made him still.

When you straightened, ball in hand, you caught the flicker in his eyes. There was irritation.

“You don’t have to… you know,” Joel rasped, his voice rough around the edges, “keep picking up after me like I’m… like I can’t do it.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not,” you said, even though you both knew you were.

He let out a slow breath, his hand flexing open and closed like the weight of it was more than just his busted bones. “Stop pitying me.”

Your hand tightened around the ball, heart stumbling in your chest at the edge in his voice.

“I’m not pitying you, Joel,” you said quietly, the words rough like gravel. “I’m here because I love you. Because you matter to me, not because I feel sorry for you.”

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there. He looked away, and for a second you thought maybe it would stop there, like all the other half-finished conversations the two of you had let die in the quiet. But it didn’t.

“Bullshit,” Joel muttered, shaking his head, his fingers flexing uselessly. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Then help me understand,” you bit back, voice trembling. “Stop shutting me out.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, and there was something raw in them, grief, anger, shame, it bled out in every word.

“I can’t even… I can’t manage to make love to you anymore,” he ground out, like it physically hurt to admit it. “I can’t touch you without feeling like a goddamn shell of who I was. And you sitting there, looking at me like I’m still him… it’s killing me.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt too small, too bright, too heavy with things that’d been left unsaid for too long.

“I never asked you to be who you were,” you managed, your voice breaking. “I just wanted you. All of you.”

Joel’s face crumpled, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like he might tear the damn thing apart.

“You deserve better than this,” he whispered.

“I don’t want better,” you shot back, voice sharp, trembling. “I want you.”

For a long second, all you could hear was the ragged rise and fall of his breathing, the distance between you still there, but cracked now, fissured with something desperate and bleeding and real.

“I should have died.” He said, “And you brought me back because you’re selfish.”

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

Your breath stuttered, eyes burning as they locked on his. There was no venom in his voice,  just raw, bone-deep hurt, the kind of grief that twisted a man up from the inside out.

And still, it felt like a knife.

“I brought you back because I love you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Because losing you would’ve killed me too. And I didn’t—I couldn’t let that happen.”

Joel shook his head, his jaw tight, eyes glassy but refusing to fall. “You should’ve. You should’ve let me go.”

“No,” you said, the word sharp and final, your throat tight and aching. “I will never be sorry for saving you. Never. You can hate me for it, Joel, you can push me away, but I’ll carry that. Because I still wake up every day and thank whoever’s out there that you’re still breathing.”

His face twisted, pain and anger and love and loss all tangled in a single shattered look. “You don’t know what it feels like,” he rasped. “To be stuck in this… this broken thing that ain’t even a man anymore. To see you looking for a man who is not here.”

Your heart felt like it was splintering clean in half. You crossed the room slowly, not touching him yet, not forcing it, but close enough that he couldn’t avoid your voice.

“I’m not looking for the man you used to be, Joel,” you said, quietly, steadily. “I’m in love with the man right in front of me.”

For a moment, he looked like he might come apart entirely, like those words knocked something loose inside him he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I’m so goddamn tired,” he whispered, a crack in his voice you hadn’t heard since the outbreak years. “What you did to keep me here… you shouldn’t have done it.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “You would have done the same for me, Joel,” you said, steady, though your voice wavered on the edges. “As you did for Ellie. At Salt Lake. When you lost it because you thought we were losing her.”

You watched something shutter behind his eyes. A flicker of the man you knew, of the truth that hung thick and sharp between you , and then he killed it. Buried it like he’d buried so many other parts of himself.

“No,” Joel said, low and cold and cruel in a way that wasn’t real, in a way he needed to be. “I wouldn’t have done that for you.”

It was a lie. A brutal, deliberate lie.

And you felt it, the way it landed like a blow to the gut, the way it cracked something open in your chest.

But you also saw it. The flicker of guilt in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way his hand trembled against the sheets.

You knew him like the palm of your hand.

He was trying to hurt you. Trying to drive you away.

Because Joel Miller knew one way to survive grief, and it was to cut the people you loved out before you lost them.

He didn’t say it, but you knew. He’d seen how tired you looked every day. How you barely slept, barely ate, how the light in your eyes had started to dim.

He saw you breaking under the weight of loving a man who wouldn’t let himself be loved.

So, he tried to kill it. Tried to make you hate him enough to leave. Because maybe if you hated him, you wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much when the world took him from you for good.

You swallowed, throat raw, the ache in your chest a steady, dull throb. But you didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Instead, you leaned in just enough for him to hear you, your voice rough, scraped clean down to the bone.

“Don’t lie to me, Joel.”

He looked away then, eyes shining with something he’d never let fall. His jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break, then his voice came, low, rough, without looking at you.

“I don’t even know if I still love you.”

It landed like a punch. Like a knife between the ribs.

Your breath caught, the room tilting for a second under the weight of it. Your fingers clenched around your own skin, nails biting into the flesh as the words echoed through you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And then Tommy’s voice broke the quiet, stepping into the doorway behind you.

“Hey— What’s going on in here?”

You didn’t turn around. But Joel did. And when his eyes lifted, he saw it.

The tears. Silent and steady, tracing down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

For a final cut.

And for the first time in days, something cracked in him. Something he couldn’t lie to anymore.

But it was too late.

You didn’t give Tommy an answer. Didn’t spare Joel another word.

You just turned, walked out, your shoulders squared, your face wet, leaving both of them in that heavy, suffocating room.

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the empty space you’d just left; regret was written all over his face.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, then spoke quietly, “You can’t let it end like this.” He pleaded his brother.

But Joel only shook his head, the weight of his own bitterness crushing him. “It’s already broken.”

Outside, the night pressed against the windows like a warning, and somewhere beyond, a threat was waiting, ready to drag them all deeper into the darkness.

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[ateliersss]

Downtime and a Bath

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: Your mate returns from a hunt, in desperate need of a bath. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 1.823 Before the Blooming Family series

⇨ I'm not exactly happy with it, nor am I sure if it's even worth publishing, but anyways, here it is. I had an idea three hours ago and wrote the thing in two, therefore the poor quality. But hey, at least it's out of my head.

⇨ Also. thank you to each and everyone of you for letting me reach a 1.000 followers a few weeks ago!

It was nighttime.

Lounging on your nest, you tilted your head back and looked out of the window behind you. Upside down, the twin moons, twinkling stars, and other celestial bodies you couldn’t name were occupying the bottom of your view while the wildlife with its mountains and forests extended across the top of your eyesight.

You sighed at the inky-black sky. Mi’ytiar had told you hours ago his hunting trip would end today and you had hoped it would be at a time you were awake. But according to the moons, the night was already half over and you knew you would soon pass out from exhaustion.

Maybe you could rest your eyes for a little bit. There was no problem with that, right? You were already lying in such a comfortable position — the cushions underneath you supporting your body just right, the blanket keeping it neither too warm nor too cold, the pillows behind your head cradling it perfectly. You could just close your eyes and listen to the crackling of the fire around your nest. No shame in that.

You were just dozing off, losing the inner battle against the overwhelming fatigue, when you heard a dull thud that was muffled by the closed door that led to the main area of your home.

“Wha…” You mumbled and pushed yourself up with your eyes still half-closed.

Seconds later, the door slid open and revealed the imposing sight of your mate.

So he was finally home. It made you breathe out a happy sigh and a drowsy smile etched itself onto your lips. You felt instantly at ease at having your mate back home and by your side. Not that you ever felt in danger being without him on the grounds of his clan, but you could never know who or what could force its way into your home when Mi’ytiar was gone. However, you doubted that they could make it far to you. Not only did your mate have his loyal warriors who had their eyes on you when he wasn’t able to himself, but the three Hell Hounds outside would rip anyone with bad intentions apart.

You rubbed your eyes until Mi’ytiar became less blurry and you let them wander over his figure, noting the state he was in. He was covered in dirt, grime, and what you hoped wasn’t his blood. As much as off-putting his appearance was, you were pleased to see that he complied with your wish to keep whatever corpse he had kept as a trophy away from your bedroom and instead leave it on the table in the main room.

You were just about to open your mouth when you flinched back at the intensity with which he was stalking towards you, embodying every aspect of his predatory nature, eyeing you like his next prey.

“No, Mi’ytiar. Don’t you dare!” You protested when it became obvious he was about to climb on your nest, dirtying it with whatever disgusting fluids his body was covered in.

But he didn’t listen, his mind hazy with hunger and overcome by the lasting high of his latest kills. Bad Bloods were a nice challenge and he was thrilled when he discovered that three of them were hunting on a neighboring planet. Their heads were now lying on the sleek black surface of the table outside.

You yelped when his bone-crushing weight settled on top of you, successfully covering your whole body with his, and his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. You could hear and feel the greedy intake of your scent through his nose. His tongue licked over every inch of your skin nearby as his hands roamed your body, his claws already ripping on the fabric of your nightwear.

You would have spread your legs for him, would have helped him take off your clothing, offering every part of your body for him to take, to devour, if the fact that he was just ruining the materials you had used for your nest wasn’t the only thing on your mind right now. As well as the disgusting stench that overwhelmed your nostrils and made you gag.

You weren’t the most flexible, definitely not now, but you still managed to pull up your knee and push him away from you by placing your foot in the middle of his chest. You knew you wouldn’t have succeeded if not for a subconscious part of his mind was still able to obey you even though his logical thinking was clouded with primal need.

Mi’ytiar, though very reluctantly, backed down and sat back on his haunches. His claws dug into his thighs and his chest was heaving with heavy breaths, showing how much strength it required for him to hold himself back.

“I’m sorry, my love, but you reek.” You grumbled and eyed him in disdain.

He only growled back.

“Why don’t we take a bath, hm?” You suggested with a head tilt to the door to your right which led to what you would call a bathroom by human standards.

Sliding sideways off the nest, you walked backward, a smirk on your face and your eyes fixed on him as your fingers fiddled with the knot of your robe, a souvenir you had acquired from one of your trips to Earth.

“Are you coming, tanhì?” You asked him, placing one foot behind the other.

The swishing of the door and the different feeling of the floor covering signaled you had entered the bathroom. The first time you had been inside it when Mi’ytiar had shown you your new home, it reminded you of a cave. Despite the usual futuristic and modern Yautja aesthetic, this room had a natural feeling. It wasn’t unlike the bathroom of the apartment you had lived in with your family decades ago. The necessities had been there. Except for a bathtub. Yautja didn’t necessarily bathe. They swam, yes, but bathe?

You didn’t exactly need a bathtub as you hadn’t used the one you had back then, but after a tiring day, it had been nice to relax in the hot water. Someday, you had voiced your displeasure to Mi’ytiar who had scooped you up and taken you to the hot springs not far from the clan grounds but still inside his territory. And although the sight of it was breathtaking — steam rising from the ponds of water arranged like stair steps so the water could run down from one spring to the next like a waterfall — and the surrounding nature was quite romantic, you weren’t exactly comfortable stripping naked where whatever lurking creature could creep up on you.

You didn’t want to complain, of course, and you would eventually adapt to the fact that you had to forego certain human comforts. That didn’t mean you didn’t share how humans lived compared to Yautja with him whenever a difference in their everyday life occurred, be it the bed, clothes, or the bathtub.

Just as you were getting used to bathing in the hot springs, hidden in the rock crevice, you stumbled over the beginnings of what would soon look like a pool when you walked into the bathroom to relieve yourself. It was nestled into the large niche — square, three meters by three meters — of the room opposite the door where the shower-like setup used to be. When you had asked him what this was about, he had only said “Home.” and left it by that.

Standing in front of said pool, you turned your head to look over your shoulder and watched as the door closed behind Mi’ytiar who had just entered the bathroom. You let the robe slide down your shoulders and to the crook of your arms before letting it pool at your feet. When you turned to face him, you revealed the side profile of your body to his eyes, the swell of your breasts, and the small bump your belly was sporting.

When you thought back to your profession on Earth, you looked like any expectant mother in the late stage of her first trimester. Your baby bump wasn’t that big yet, but you still had to give up on certain items of clothing because they already wouldn’t fit you anymore.

When your belly started to grow, you suddenly remembered that your period should have started roughly two weeks ago. The second your brain had fully comprehended that your mate could have possibly impregnated you, that with the highest probability you carried the product of your mutual love under your heart and that you would soon become a mother, you didn’t waste a second to track him down and tell him the big news.

He hadn’t exactly reacted the way you had hoped. Instead of a positive or negative reaction, instead of pressing his forehead to yours while purring or growling at you to get rid of it, he had just stared. He stood frozen in front of you and fixed your hands which cupped the barely noticeable swell of your stomach.

You had just gained a little bit of weight, he told himself. She couldn’t be pregnant, she couldn’t carry my pup.

How could you, a human, be able to achieve something where others had failed?

He needed answers, so he hastily but carefully picked you up and took you to Cahrein who only confirmed your suspicion. You were indeed pregnant.

Only after a quick talk with the tribal healer, something about “not possible” and “how”, he finally showed you how he really felt — overjoyed. And how could he not? Now that you were carrying his pup, you were connected to your mate in every possible way.

“Are you coming?” You asked him again, one foot dipped into the warm water.

Mi’ytiar didn’t waste any more time getting rid of his armor, not caring about any damage he may cause, as he ripped every piece of it off his body, letting it fall to the ground as he walked to the pool. When he stepped into it, your body was already fully immersed and you swam to where you kept the nourishing oils, sweet-smelling soap, and the washcloth. With everything you needed in hand, you returned to where Mi’ytiar had settled on the bench of the pool. You freed your hands by placing everything on the edge so you could lift yourself up on his lap. Mi’ytiar immediately pulled you closer, one hand wrapped around your thigh, the other embracing your bump.

You didn’t talk while you cleaned him up. You stayed quiet, not feeling the necessity to talk, while he relished in your pampering, only voicing how much he enjoyed it with purrs. And when you were done, you snuggled up to him, cheek pressed against his chest and arms loosely wrapped around him. Mi’ytiar later had to carry you out of the pool, dry you off, and bring you to bed, your sleeping form pressed against his body.

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[yoonia]

Sunset Glow | jhs

— As you accidentally stumble upon a reminder of the past that you have been slowly walking away from, you finally get to see Hoseok losing his resolve for the first time. It is now your turn to become his rock, and help remind him the reason why he has always been yours.

— title: Sunset Glow | pairings: Jung Hoseok (J-Hope) x female reader | genre: angst, smut, past lovers!au, lawyer!hoseok, artist!reader, new beginning!au, with a bit of SciFi touch | word count: 13,678 words  

— story note: published as a part of In Bloom Collaboration with @kpopfanfictrash, @kithtaehyung, @syllviere, @leahsfavefics, @suga-kookiemonster, and @cybrsan; this story is also the final instalment/bonus chapter of my trilogy, Spotless Minds. Inspired by the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Minds, this story is set after the events revealed in the previous stories from the series. You can read this fic as a standalone, but feel free to go back and read the previous parts for more context (optional) if you need one!

— fic drop date: May 24th, 2025 | read on AO3 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | mdni divider credit | content creators: visual moodboard by @yoonia

— rating & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves conversations about past relationship, mentions of mental health issues, memory loss, memory alteration—smut warnings under the cut!

smut warnings | this story consists of multiple explicit mature scenes, including: stripping/nudity, groping, making out, clothed sex, mutual masturbation, hair pulling, oral sex (female receiving), finger licking, cum tasting, fingering, breast play, nipple play, clit play, neck kissing, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, nudity, public sex, sex on a beach, rough sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare, post-coital cuddle.

Hoseok feels like a fraud. And he knows what a terrible liar he is. 

For the past year, he has been acting tough for your sake. Despite his struggle in trying to cope with the past that he once lost and adjusting to the present life he is sharing with you, he always puts on a brave face, keeping his head held high and his shoulders straight so he could be the one that you could rely on whenever you needed strength. 

But, as time passes, he starts to feel the heavy weight of his secrets pulling him down. And he is beginning to feel like he is finally reaching his limit. 

Sooner or later, his mask will come off, and he needs to do something about it before it happens and everything that he has built falls into ruins. 

Sighing deeply, he lets his head fall back and looks up to the sky. The warm sun feels heavenly on his face, yet it does little to clear his mind. Something which he has been hoping to find by coming to this place the moment the cold breeze of winter is just starting to ebb away. 

He laughs to himself when he recalls the moment he first brought up the idea to visit this place at the first sign of spring, and your reaction to it. At first, you laughed it off, thinking that he was joking around. This time of the year has always been the busiest for him, after all, and you hadn’t expected him to suggest bringing you to this place when he has a million important things to care about. 

You may have never expected him to bring up taking another trip here until next summer. Or perhaps anytime later when the weather is brighter, the temperature is warmer, and both of you have less stressful matters to attend to in the city that you will be able to escape here once again. 

Sitting back on the sand, Hoseok looks over his shoulder to watch the beach house. The golden afternoon sunlight is reflected perfectly on the glass walls overlooking the ocean, the wooden frames are standing perfectly firm and still against the small hill rising from the beach line, the perfect image that he had pictured for so long. 

It was just last summer when Hoseok brought you here for the first time. 

The beach house of your dreams had just finished getting rebuilt; created based on the fractured memories that you both had of the past that you had once lost. 

Years and years ago, a different beach house stood in its place. The building was already crumbling—slowly decaying after years of abandonment and rough weather—and he had once believed it to be haunted. Still, that old abandoned house was a symbol of the day when the two of you met for the first time. The day he first found you and fell completely in love with you that he was willing to go through all the lengths he needed just to be with you. 

A couple of years ago, the memories he had of the old beach house and his first encounter with you ceased to exist. Then fate played its part to make sure that the two of you would come across each other again in your new paths, and slowly, those missing memories began to make their way back into his thoughts and yours in small fragments—a puzzle that you and Hoseok have been putting back together for the past year. 

Just like how the past between the two of you had dissolved with time, the old beach house that was part of that past had been left into nothing but dust and debris at the time Hoseok found his way back to this place. It took him some time, but he managed to bring the beach house back up, building it from scratch until it became this wonderful place that the two of you could call your own. 

Building the beach house was meant to be a symbol of a new beginning. A new place to build new memories in the future to replace the old, painful ones that you had both lost. And for the past year, that was exactly what you and Hoseok had accomplished. 

But memories have their own way of sneaking their way back in when least expected, even when neither you nor Hoseok had done anything to spark them back to the surface. 

Just like how it has been happening to Hoseok lately. 

With a deep sigh, Hoseok turns to look forward, straight across the widespread of the ocean before him and the warm spring sunlight. The waves are calm, a complete opposite to the ripples forming in his chest as more and more fragments of the memories that he once lost keep flashing in his head. 

Good memories. 

Painful ones. 

Even the ones that he wouldn’t have believed to have been parts of his life once, if only he hadn’t seen trails of evidence showing him that they all came from his past.  

The thing about losing memories is that you should have come out of it like a blank canvas. Only that his canvas was never truly void from the start.

Instead of a blank canvas, what he had gotten was one with fragments of concealed pictures waiting to be revealed. While he spent the past few years painting the new life which he was building with you, hoping to continue until his soul was whole, those little fragments slowly made their way to the surface, filling up the small voids that hadn’t been touched. 

Some of those images fit really well with his present life, adding all the missing reasons why he felt so drawn to you in the first place. While others seem out of place, causing him to start questioning his life—both past and present—and every single decision he has taken which helped him find his way back to you. 

Hoseok closes his eyes. He can still see the golden sunlight under his eyelids. Together with it comes another thought. 

Two years ago, when he first met you—for what he had thought to be the first time—he didn’t even know that he had memories that he had lost. Meeting you again may have triggered this to happen. And now, he is left with doubts lingering inside him. 

Not of his life. Not of you. Nor is it about the relationship that he has built with you. 

It’s the doubt he feels about himself. 

Doubtful of his choices.

His greed. 

“Are you okay?” is what you keep asking him every time you notice him growing silent, getting too deep in his thoughts—in his moments of deep reflection.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay when I have you here with me?” is what he would always say in return. 

A part of what he says to you is the truth. Yet he always feels like a liar. Because he is no longer sure if he is truly doing all right. And he has no idea how much longer he can lie to himself—to you—until the truth reveals itself right in front of his eyes. 

Hoseok has been struggling. 

You can tell as much just by looking at him. 

Despite his constant reassurance, and even when he tries his damn best to hide it behind his smile, you can still see it—feel it—when you are with him. It’s not like he is really hard to read in the first place. He’s always been so open with you. Has always been so transparent when it comes to his emotions, his thoughts, and his desires. But when it comes to his insecurities—

For the past year, everything between you has been going so well. Both of you have been doing fine, regardless of the circumstances. You can feel that you are both growing stronger together, the bond that you have is growing more solid as time continues to pass, and you manage to put the past long behind you.

At least, that is what you’d like to believe. 

Something must have happened. 

You have had this thought for a while now, ever since you noticed the changes happening in Hoseok’s moods. But you don’t have the heart to pry unless Hoseok chooses to share his troubles with you. You have been waiting for that moment to come for a while, yet he has yet to open up until now. 

With a sigh, you turn to look out the window. Ever since this beach house was built, you have always enjoyed standing here at the den, watching the picturesque view of the beach and the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows. From up here, you can see everything. The white sand and the crystal water across the ocean look captivating, although you know that you wouldn’t be able to dive and swim or play with the waves as the season has yet to grow warm enough for it in early spring. 

You look down to the beach to see Hoseok, sitting with a towel beneath him, his eyes looking far away towards the ocean. It was an hour ago when Hoseok mentioned wanting to take a stroll down the beach while the weather is nice. You had initially wanted to join him, but the look you saw on his face made you realise that Hoseok might have needed some space. 

So you chose to stay behind at the beach house, taking your time to prepare dinner while you try to figure out how you are going to bring up the conversation. You can only hope that Hoseok can find some peace of mind while he is out there, enjoying the view of the ocean while basking in the early afternoon sunlight. 

Perhaps, later on, he would feel comfortable and relaxed enough to open up. 

Turning away from the window, you make your way back to the kitchen to check on the meal now cooking in the oven. But you come to a halt when something draws your attention. You turn to the television, which you had left on while you were cleaning and cooking to keep you company. 

Previously, the sounds coming from the TV had only become the perfect white noise, replacing the silence that you were left with after Hoseok stepped out of the house. Right now, the news is on, and what you see being shown on the screen is something that you cannot possibly ignore. 

“…no further development has been made in the court regarding the public lawsuit involving the medical research company, The Eden Initiative, and the people are now questioning the government…” 

Slowly, you move closer to the TV so you can hear more clearly. Your heartbeat picks up little by little as you continue to listen to the news report. 

“The Ventura Project, the main product of The Eden Initiative, rose to fame four years ago with the promise of helping its patients to overcome their past trauma, incurable phobia, and from terrible losses and bad memories, by taking away the patient’s memories, using new technology developed by their experts in neurology and human genetics…” 

Your body sways, and you carefully move to take a seat on the sofa and continue to watch the rest of the news report with a shaky breath leaving your lips. 

“…the public lawsuit was first brought to light when the revelation about the misuse of private patient data was exposed to the public by an inside source, and more lawsuits followed as former patients began experiencing lingering side effects from the treatment, including recurring health problems, both mental and physical, issues with short term memory losses, and former patients who are slowly gaining back erased memories, causing drawbacks in…” 

Exhaling a deep sigh, you slump back into the sofa. The news soon continues with a different report, yet you can barely hear the words being said when your mind has begun to drift elsewhere. 

You should feel relieved that you had at least found out a little bit of what had happened in the past between you and Hoseok before those past memories began coming back to you. At least the shock wasn’t so great when you started seeing the visions that blurred the lines between dreams and reality. But there is always a part of you that wishes you could remain oblivious, to stay blissfully ignorant of what happened to you, of what is happening in the world around you, and all the consequences that came after what you’ve done. 

But it was fate that came to you with mercy, just when you thought life wouldn’t be giving you any more surprises. Just like how it did when fate made it possible for you and Hoseok to cross paths for the first time nearly a decade ago, it had given you another chance to start over with Hoseok by aligning your paths once again years later—when both of you were finally ready to start over without all the hurt. 

Right at that moment, realisation dawns on you. Because you may have had the answers to your questions all along—that the reason why Hoseok has been troubled, why he has been so distant before this trip, and why he has found it hard to talk about his problems, has been you all along.

I caused it. 

I caused this.

It was you who first set everything into motion, to ignite the ripple effect of consequences when you first made the decision to run to that company years ago in search for a cure from your heartbreak, to find the chance to escape from the pain by allowing them to take away the one most precious thing you had—

Your memory. 

The temperature seems to have dropped quite significantly by the time you finally step out of the beach house. The sunlight still lingers, but a part of the sky is already beginning to transform into a warmer hue as the sun is making its journey down towards the horizon.

Hoisting the small basket that you are carrying against your hip, you walk down the stairs going down the rocky hill below the house to reach the beach. You make a quick stop at the small cabana at the foot of the hill to drop the basket and set everything up—a bottle of wine in a cooler bowl, a container filled with snacks and fresh fruits—before turning away to find your fiancé. 

Hoseok is still sitting on the same spot. Still with his towel spread beneath him, his toes sinking into the sand as he stretches out his legs, looking a bit more relaxed than he was before. His shirt has been tossed aside, and you can see his skin growing a warmer, slightly tanned shade from sitting under the sun for too long, despite it not being summertime just yet. Yet he shows little care about it. He doesn’t even seem to notice it, too deep in his own thoughts, his eyes still drawn towards the ocean as if he is seeing something out there that you cannot see. 

Seeing him like this bothers you so much, and you are determined to do something to make things right again. Taking a deep breath, you begin to march your way across the sandy beach to reach him. 

“You know that you’ll need to reapply the sunscreen on your skin if you want to stay under the sun this long. The weather might still be cold this time around, but the sun in this area is a bit strong for springtime,” you gently tease Hoseok as you join him on the blanket, sitting close beside him. 

Hoseok turns to look at you with a warm smile spreading across his face. It doesn’t seem enough to hide the hollowness still lingering in his gaze. “I didn’t notice that much time has passed.” 

“I’m not too surprised. You seemed to be thinking so hard, you probably wouldn’t have noticed me coming out here if I didn’t say anything.” 

Chuckling softly, he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close. “Have you been watching me?” 

Your cheek warms just as he presses a kiss on the side of your face. “You know I’ll always be watching.”

You are just about to lean in and return his kiss when Hoseok winces. His eyes grow wide as he catches sight of his skin, noticing the reddish tone that has grown around his back while he was buried deep in his thoughts. The sound of his laughter makes the inside of your chest stir with relief as Hoseok laughs at himself. 

“Here, let me help. This should calm your skin.” 

Hoseok remains seated on the towel with his legs crossed while you slip to his back. Gently, you rub the cooling lotion that you picked up earlier on his skin. You can feel his muscles slowly relaxing under your touch, his head lulling back as you add a light massage against the knots you find around his back and shoulders. You have hoped that this might help ease his tension, although you cannot help but feel affected by the contact at the same time. Your body warms as you press your fingers into his skin, and each soft hum and moan he is making is starting to make your stomach stir. 

“Does that feel good?” 

He chuckles. “It would be a lie to say I’m not enjoying this.” 

“That’s good,” you whisper softly to him as you slowly press a kiss on his shoulder and sit back with him. “If you’re feeling better,” you start, smiling when you notice his eyes growing a bit brighter when he pulls you back to his side, “Mind sharing your thoughts?” 

Hoseok laughs, and the melodic sound coming from him draws a smile to your face. “So that’s what this is, huh?” 

You give him a sheepish smile and shrug. “I know you’re hiding something from me,” you say, not caring about it if you seem to be too straightforward about it, but it’s better than having your lover clamming up again. “I’m getting worried.” 

The smile on Hoseok’s face seems to dim its light, but it doesn’t seem to carry the same sadness that you have been feeling coming from him as of late. You kiss his cheek, hoping that it can help motivate him to share his troubles with you. 

“Talk to me. Let me in.” 

With a deep exhale of breath, Hoseok closes his eyes and nods. “I’m sorry for making you worry,” he says. His voice is soft, yet it only seems to add the weight in your chest that takes an effort to ignore. “How much more of your memory have you gained since last time?” 

You purse your lips. “Not a lot, and mostly, when I do get some clear visions, they are only good ones, yet nothing as clear as the ones I initially got about us,” you tentatively answer. 

It’s not like you have been trying so hard to remember, or to deliberately find those missing pieces of the puzzle, which would be able to help you understand your past. Even if you wanted to try and do it yourself, your body would fight against you. The ache you feel in your head would be unbearable, that you would often avoid trying to think much of it. 

Considering this, you bite your lips and turn to Hoseok. “Have you been gaining more memories since the last time?” 

Ever since the memories you both lost started coming back, you and Hoseok have always shared everything—the bits and pieces of the past, the visions, sometimes comparing them to recognise which parts of them were real and which ones were not. 

“Not exactly, it’s just—” 

You can feel his hesitation rolling out of him. So you lean into him and offer gentle support by wrapping your arms around his middle. He takes his time to choose his words, though it seems more like he is having trouble revisiting his troubles rather than finding it difficult to share his secret with you. 

“I know that we promised not to let our past haunt us, or to let everything that happened, everything we did, keep hanging above our heads so we can continue living and focusing on he future,” he finally starts, and you nod, remembering the promise you made with each other once you both uncovered the hidden truth behind your relationship. 

The real truth which explained why it had been so easy for you to be with Hoseok, even from the very first meeting. 

Because your meeting with Hoseok nearly three years ago hadn’t been your first, and your chance encounter may not have been such a coincidence at all. 

“Lately, as more memories kept coming to me, I’ve been having some thoughts,” Hoseok continues, making you curious and wary at the same time. 

“What kind of thoughts?” 

Hoseok takes your hand in his and brings it up to his lips. He bids his time, kissing your knuckles before he answers, “Thoughts about how I must’ve failed you.” 

“Hoseok—” 

“No, hear me out,” Hoseok stops you from saying anything with a kiss. “These memories—they play out in my head like broken frames of a movie flashing in my mind.” Again, you nod, because that is exactly how it has been happening to you, too. 

“We may not feel any emotions from it, but it still got me thinking. Maybe the real reason why you had to go through such lengths just to heal yourself was all because of me.” He turns to you with a sad smile as he continues, “because I wasn’t strong enough to help you ease the pain you were suffering.” 

“No.” You start shaking your head. Even your heart is denying it. It was never his fault. It was yours. “That can’t be right. I was the one who made the decision to—” 

“You were hurting, in pain, and there was nothing that I could do to help you go through it.” He keeps talking as if your words don’t matter. “And when I failed, you—” 

You have no idea what comes over you, but as you listen to the tremble in his voice, you slowly lean in, pressing your lips on his to stop him from speaking. 

To make him stop reliving his hurt. 

You have no idea if this would be enough to eliminate his doubts, but you are willing to do anything—everything—to take away his pain. Because, in the end, you do owe it to Hoseok since you were the one who put him in this situation in the first place. 

You remember it well now that everything has come back to you. 

It was never Hoseok’s fault. You couldn’t handle the pain of losing Hana—your estranged best friend, the one who you once treated like your own sister, someone who once was a huge part of your life. You couldn’t handle the guilt of knowing you had a part in her choice to deal with her struggles alone, somewhere far away from the people who loved her. 

All because she had loved Hoseok, and because she couldn’t handle the fact that not only did Hoseok never looked her way, he went chasing after you instead. 

So when you received her things the day after her funeral and found out that Hana was in the process of erasing her memories as part of her ways to return to you, the decision was made. 

That you were going to do it in her place as your punishment. To erase everything about your past life with your best friend and your life with Hoseok from your memory. It was your way to move on. 

It was immature. 

Impulsive. 

Stupid. 

And now you harbour a new guilt of realising the pain you instilled in Hoseok for what you’ve done.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his lips, voice trembling as the guilt continues to wrap its cold fingers around your heart, “I’m sorry for putting us both in this whole situation. I’m sorry for making you go through something like this. I should’ve known how much pain I would’ve caused—I should’ve realised how difficult this whole situation must be for you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It never was,” he answers with a smile. The same smile that you love so much, whether it’s in the present or the past. “My pain and insecurity are something that I need to deal with on my own.” 

You look deeply into his eyes and finally understand. “You’re afraid,” you whisper, once you realise what has truly been haunting him. 

“I’m afraid of failing you again. What if the next time you’re hurting and I can’t help you—” 

“There will be no next time,” you argue, cutting him off before he gets deeper into his sorrowful reflection. Turning to him, you cup his face between your hands and force him to look you in the eyes as you speak, “The next time something major happens, I won’t run away. I’ll turn to you, just like I’ve always been clinging to you, and we solve it together.” 

Swallowing down a sob, you think about how lonely you have been feeling lately, with the distance growing between you when he pulled away from you. “I can’t lose you again.” 

“I should be the one to say that,” Hoseok says with a sad smile. “If there is one thing that my memory serves me right, it is to remind me of how painful it was to lose you. How bleak my life felt to not have you by my side.” 

You suck deep breath and whisper, “You have me. You will always have me.” 

Hoseok’s smile softens. He takes your face between his hands, tenderly brushing his mouth along yours before kissing you with nothing but love and admiration. Everything inside you melts the moment you give in to the kiss; his lips feel soft and warm, breaking every doubt and worry while giving you more resolve. 

“Thank you,” Hoseok whispers against your lips, before pressing another kiss, a softer one, which is filled more with contentment. He pulls away with a soft sigh, yet remains close, keeping his forehead resting against yours. 

“You should’ve come to me,” you murmur to him, “Didn’t we promise each other to be open about this? That whenever we feel lost and afraid, we’ll let each other know so we can work things out.” 

He looks at you with guilt simmering in his eyes. “I know, and I was planning to tell you everything,” he says as he pulls back. “I just needed time to process my thoughts before I could.” 

You keep your eyes on him, feeling wary about him pulling away again. But the look in his eyes doesn’t change, much to your relief, and it gives you the courage to ask him more about his plight. “Something triggered this, and I don’t think it’s as simple as getting your memories back the way you usually do,” you wonder openly while pressing your palm gently on his cheek so he won’t look away. 

Hoseok takes a moment before answering your question. 

“Remember when we decided to destroy all mementoes reminding us of the past?” You nod, wondering why he is bringing this up. “Well,” Hoseok reaches into the pocket on his folded shirt and pulls out two small items that draw your attention. Your breath leaves your lungs in a whoosh. Not in a good way, because you know what they are. 

Hoseok spreads out the crumpled card in his hand to show you, just as you are starting to wish that you are seeing it wrong.

“I was cleaning up my office while looking through some old papers. I thought for sure I had everything cleared out and tossed away, if not added into the pile we burned the last time we were here.” 

Your breath is caught. Your throat feels tight. His voice slowly fades away as you read the content written on the card—

“Dear Mr. Jung Hoseok, Ms. _______ has had Mr. Jung Hoseok and Ms. Min Hana erased from her memory. Please never mention their relationship to them again. Thank you. The Eden Initiative.”

“I suppose we finally have the answer as to why I never received the card.” Hoseok lets out a bitter chuckle, and you remember him revealing the way he seemed to find out what you did—when he accidentally found the card that was meant for his assistant, Wooyoung, to receive back when you first went through with the procedure.

“They did send it to me. I just never found it. Must’ve come in together with some paperworks and got mixed up in them without me noticing.” 

Swallowing hard, you put the card away and turn your attention to the box in his hand. Covered in navy blue velvet, the box looks fancy and slick. This isn’t the first time you've seen it—if your memory serves you right. The first time was the day you visited Hoseok in his office, and that box sat on top of his desk, and he was looking at it with his eyebrows creasing. A question of how and where that box came from lingered on his lips and in his mind, with neither of you ever figuring out how that box had ended up in the box of Hoseok’s old files that he kept from his previous office. 

“Hoseok—”

You didn’t expect him to have that box with him today. Seeing it again now still sets nothing out of you. Not a recollection. Not an emotion. Nothing that may mirror the look that you see in Hoseok’s gaze as he keeps his eyes on it. 

“Have you finally remembered what it was about?” you tentatively ask. 

Hoseok’s eyes are downcast when he lifts the box and gently opens it right in front of you. Just like the first time you saw what’s kept inside, your breath is caught, now more so when the snowflake pendant inside the box sparkles in your eyes, the diamonds catching the afternoon sunlight and gleaming beautifully.  

“I may have bought this right before everything happened.” Hoseok begins to explain, his voice is gentle, slightly hesitant, as if he isn’t completely sure about everything that he remembers to this point. “I believe I was thinking about proposing to you. But the timing wasn’t right, so I bought this to show you how grateful I was to have you in my life.” 

Your mouth feels bitter. An ache forms in your chest. You know exactly what he means. 

It’s hard not to think about what happened then, even if your memory isn’t completely whole. Your heartbreak, your best friend’s passing, your complete meltdown that came when you couldn’t handle all the pain, and then your swift decision to take everything away to put it all to a stop. 

“You’re right. The timing wouldn’t have been right,” you respond with a sigh. It pains you to think about the life that you lost, the hope shattered, leaving this beautiful pendant meaningless. “How did you miss not giving this away?” 

Hoseok shrugs and lets out a low chuckle. “I have no clue. Maybe I was just being clumsy and forgetful,” he says, “Or maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to let this go.” 

You tilt your head. “Because it was too expensive?” you tease him with a smirk, making him laugh. 

“That could be it,” he says, chuckling softly. His reaction to your teasing manages to wipe away the sadness you saw earlier. His eyes twinkle when he looks at the pendant, not with the same gloom you’ve seen, but more with a curious look. 

“What should we do with this?” Hoseok asks you while tilting the box side to side, allowing the gleam to flash across your face. “Do you want to keep it?” 

You have no idea what to answer and bite your lip. The life forgotten feels like a different timeline of your life the more you try to look back, with or without the memories that you lost. A life so unfamiliar with you that you no longer feel it as yours. 

“I already have a ring that says we are in this together for the rest of our lives,” you finally say to him once you’ve gotten the answer, lifting your hand to flaunt the diamond ring you are wearing around your finger. “Let’s release this one into the wild.” 

Hoseok laughs. “It’s illegal to litter the sea, precious.” 

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want it to end up inside the stomach of some random fish or turtles any more than you do,” you argue while rolling your eyes, once again drawing the sound of Hoseok’s laughter, “Let’s bury it somewhere up the hills. Young kids love to stroll out here, don’t they? Maybe someone would dare enough to venture through the cliffs, have some intimate moments and be lucky enough to find it,” 

The corner of Hoseok’s lips lifts to a grin. He knows exactly what you are insinuating, and he knows just the perfect place for it. 

The special place where the two of you made love for the first time right after you met had been one of the first things he remembered. The place where your story with Hoseok began; the perfect spot at the end of the beach, hidden between the rocky hills and the jagged rocks protecting the beach from the intense waves. It would be the perfect place to bury the last memento taken from the life that you both have left behind. 

“Fine. Let’s do that,” Hoseok says, sighing. He leans closer to press a kiss on your forehead. “Shall we do it now while the sun is still up?”

Walking further towards the end of the beach makes you feel like you are walking back in time. 

Eight years ago, you walked down this same beach while holding Hoseok’s hand and getting to know each other for the first time. You hadn’t known it then, but that encounter and the impulsive decision to run away with him towards the rocky end of the beach had changed the trajectory of your lives forever. 

Perhaps it was indeed fate that the two of you met that night. 

Just like how fate made you find each other again once all the hurt was gone, and both of you were ready to open your hearts again. 

Deep in your thoughts, you almost fail to realise it when Hoseok suddenly stops. You turn to ask him if something is bothering him when his arm comes around your back. He holds you against him before bending down, helping you get out of your sandals, before slipping his other arm under your knees and lifting you off the ground. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” 

“I think I remember something like this happening then,” he calmly says to you as he begins walking again with you in his arms, your discarded sandals dangling on his fingers. 

You feel ridiculous, being carried like a child this way, but there is nothing you can do but laugh it off. You do have a faint memory of him carrying you in his arms like this across the beach, only the circumstances had been completely different then. You were both younger, a bit more wild, and were driven completely with lust, that nothing else seemed to matter other than getting to the place where you could hide together. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you cling to his chest. His firm hold on your body makes you feel safe, comfortable, and warm; a feeling that you remember well to have overcome you that night. “Aren’t I heavy?” 

He scoffs. “This is nothing. You may not remember it,  but I think I struggled more back then compared to now.” 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck and giggle softly. “I think I remember, but I didn’t pay much attention then. I got my mind on other thoughts at the time.” 

Closing your eyes, you can almost see yourself going back to that night. Back to the time you felt warmth in your chest for the first time because of Hoseok’s smile, and when that warmth lit up like an inferno when he lifted you up in his arms and took you away from the beach house—not the one you have now, but the old, worn-down building he once believed to be haunted. 

And he wasn’t carrying you in the same elegant way he is doing it now, but rather have you clinging against his chest, your legs wrapped around his body and your arms around his neck, his palms holding you steady while your lips were entangled in a deep, passionate kiss as he took you all the way down to the edge of the beach. 

As if Hoseok is seeing the same memory, he starts to slow down and presses his lips to yours. The gentle kiss he gives you easily makes you melt into him. You ease into it, pressing against him as he laps your lips and slips his tongue to get deeper until your breath grows ragged. But it only lasts for a brief while, because Hoseok pulls away just as he comes to a stop. 

“Here it is,” he whispers against your lips. 

“What?” 

Hoseok bends down and gently lowers you to the ground, your toes sinking into the sand. He turns you around, and you finally get your answer. 

You are now standing at the end of the beach, the jagged rocks standing in front of you, breaking the strong waves before they get to hit the rocky cliffs at the side of the beach. Hoseok slides behind you and wraps his arms around your waist as he points at the spot between the rocks where the water doesn’t reach, and a bed of white sand lies undisturbed. 

A smile plays on your lips when you recognise the hidden spot. A vague memory that came back to you through your dreams once your life entangled itself with Hoseok once more. 

“This is where we first made love.” 

Hoseok presses his lips on the curve of your neck, and your body shudders. The heat rising in your body brings you back to that night; when Hoseok laid you down between those rocks, right at the small patch of sand you are now eyeing on, with him covering you with his body. 

“Do you want to relive that night? Slide between those rocks and have some fun times, without having to fumble around in the dark this time?” Hoseok teases you with a low voice, his lips grazing on your skin, then on your ear, while his fingers are rubbing at your sides. 

Your head falls back as you laugh. His tease not only brings back the heated moment you shared back then, but also the silly things that also happened then; the awkwardness you felt, bumping and crashing against each other while making sure the sand didn’t get into the crevices you wanted safe, and the condom that escaped from your fingers before you got the chance to make use of it. 

“There’s no time for that, silly,” you say to him, swatting his hand away before it gets too close to your covered breast. “It’ll be harder to deal with burying the stuff once it gets dark.” 

You turn to see Hoseok pouting. “Fine, let’s get this over with. The offer still stands while we’re still at the beach,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

You roll your eyes at him and push him on the chest. “I’ll make sure to remember.” 

Hoseok steps back and helps you put your sandals back on before taking your hand in his. Fingers interlocking with one another, Hoseok leads the way to leave the jagged rocks behind and towards the nearest hill. You take one last glance at the hidden spot that becomes the witness of your past, before turning and walking in step with Hoseok. 

Sand clings to your feet as you leave the beach, crossing the narrow path winding up the hill. The ground rises just a tad bit higher than the hill where the beach house is tucked on, with more private villas waiting on top of the rocky side of the cliffs. Instead of getting closer to them, Hoseok takes you on the opposite side of the hill, where the ground is softer under tufts of wild grass tickling your bare ankles. 

“How did you find this place?” you ask him as he leads the way towards a line of rocks bordering the hills. 

“I’m not sure. I’m just following my instincts,” he says with a chuckle, and you recall learning that he used to travel to this place long before he met you years ago. Perhaps his body remembers what his mind is unable to. Something that has also happened to you more than once. “This seems to be the perfect spot.” 

He stops behind some rocks rising from the ground. You look over, and the sight of the hidden crevice between the jagged rocks at a distance below is visible. “Oh, nice,” you comment before you start laughing, “How much would you bet someone was standing here that night and saw us getting it on right there?” 

Hoseok grins at you. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” 

Moments later, after laughing off the fact that neither of you had thought of bringing a shovel with you, Hoseok finishes digging up a small hole fit enough to bury the pendant by using a sharp rock that he found nearby. He opens the velvet box to take a look at the pendant one last time, while you lower yourself to your knees to do the same. 

“One last time to change your mind. Are you sure that you don’t want to keep it?”  

You look at the pendant with a smile on your face. The snowflake pendant covered in diamonds looks beautiful, and you can imagine yourself wearing it one day during one of Hoseok’s lavish events. But what good does it do to have something beautiful when it carries nothing more but painful memories? 

“Positive,” you answer him with a kiss on his cheek. “We promised to create new memories, didn’t we? I think I’m fine with letting it go.” 

It seems so simple, to bury an object that was somehow linked to your past, just to get rid of it. You have talked about taking other options during your walk here, whether to sell it back or to pawn it, but neither option seemed final, and nothing that may symbolise burying a piece of your past—the same way you’ve burned the other mementoes just months ago when you first acquired them back from the company that had taken your memories away. 

No paper trails left behind, just a mark on the ground, somewhere not too far from where you’ve found your beginning.

Hoseok smiles. “All right, then.” 

“Do you think someone will actually find it one day?”

“Maybe.” Hoseok shrugs. “This path isn’t completely hidden, and I remember being a kid, digging through dirt around my childhood home while playing treasure hunt with my sister.” 

You take one last look at the ground once the box is buried and turn away from it, ready to leave everything behind. “Let’s go back and relax until it’s time for dinner. I’ve brought a bottle of wine and some snacks back when I came down to the cabana. Maybe we can stay and watch the sunset for a while.”

“Sounds like a plan.” 

Your steps are lighter on your way back to the beach house. The closer you are back home, the more you can feel each weight, the lingering tension, and the dark shadows of the past haunting both you and Hoseok slowly shredding away. 

By the time you are back at the beach connected to home, the sun has moved slightly closer towards the horizon. There is still enough brightness in the sky to let you enjoy the view of the ocean as you leisurely stroll down the beach, close enough to the waves but not close enough to feel the splatter. 

But the steady waves seem too inviting to ignore, and with the long-winded stress no longer weighing you down, you are feeling slightly playful. Just as Hoseok reaches out for your hand to take you back home, you playfully push Hoseok towards the water, just in time for a big wave to come rushing in.

But Hoseok always seems to know what you are up to; always the one to be able to read your mind. Your push startles him for merely a second, yet he is quick to recover. Instead of falling back, he manages to avoid your hands and grabs your wrists instead. He swiftly turns and, in turn, pulls you back until you are the one standing between him and the incoming wave. 

“Oh my God!” You let out a screech the moment the wave strongly hits your body. The water quickly soaks through your summer dress and your exposed skin, causing you to shiver intensely as you clearly weren’t ready for the water to be as cold as ice as it hits your skin. 

“I told you not to get too close to the water,” Hoseok mocks you, laughing as he pulls you back into his arms and away from the waves. 

You wrap your arms around yourself as you shudder in the cold, but you cannot stop laughing, your head falling back when you scream, “I forgot how cold it would be.” 

“You are a mess. Come here,” he says, shaking his head, before lifting you up in his arms to carry you away. He starts sprinting as he hurriedly takes you to the cabana, hoping that he can quickly help you dry yourself up. 

“You seem to enjoy carrying me so much,” you muse, noting how he has been carrying you around more than usual. “I could get used to this, you know.” 

He presses a chaste kiss on your lips. “I don’t mind it. I like taking care of you,” Hoseok says, with a glint in his eyes that makes you feel giddy. He sets you down once he reaches the cabana and turns to look for a clean towel between the covers. His smile grows wider when he notices the basket that you left behind, with the bottle of wine sitting in the cooler. 

“Cheese and crackers with wine? How fancy,” he teases you while wiggling his brows. “But let’s get you dried up first, okay?” 

Hoseok turns to take a seat on the edge of the cabana and reaches around the bedding to find a clean towel. You watch him move around as you stand at the foot of the cabana, water dripping down your hair and summer dress, while white sand clings to your legs. Your eyes scan across the cabana, studying the white beddings and cushions that have been laid there for your comfort. 

The impromptu excursion you just had leaves you feeling tired and weary, and there is nothing more that you wish to do but to stretch your legs under the shade with Hoseok while enjoying the refreshments that you’ve prepared as you wait for the sunset to arrive. Looking at it now, a different idea crosses your mind. 

As Hoseok turns back around to hand you the towel, you strip out of your summer dress, leaving you covered with nothing more than the pair of bikinis that you had slipped on earlier before running out of the house. You toss the soaked dress at Hoseok, who catches it with a sly grin on his face. A gleam of amusement lights up in his eyes as he sits back, silently guessing what you are up to. 

“Look at how wet I am,” you murmur. You look down at yourself and start running your hands down your body.  

Lifting your gaze back at Hoseok, you notice him watching you with an intense look on his face. There is hunger in those eyes, one that spurs you on to tease him a little bit more. Just a little. 

You move your hands upwards. Your bikini top has gotten soaked, your nipples poking through the thin fabric, and you cup them with your hands. With a gentle knead, you press against your soft flesh, and then graze your thumbs across your covered buds. 

You can feel his gaze following every movement of your hands and fingers, and it’s making you feel hot inside, knowing that he is completely drawn to you. His chest rises and falls, and you can tell that what you are doing is starting to be affecting him; the hard tent forming on his covered crotch shows enough of how much he is enjoying this. 

“You did this on purpose,” he says with a small smirk, his eyes—which had been haunted in his silence—now have a glimmer of his usual mirth in them. 

“Who? Me? And what makes you say such a thing?” You feign innocence while dropping your arms gently to your sides, opening yourself to him before stepping closer until you are standing between his parted legs. 

"Come here and let me help you,” he says, as he pulls you gently onto his lap and has your body turned to face the beach while he holds you still. His bare chest feels warm against your back after basking in the sun for all afternoon, yet it feels calming, allowing you to relax into his embrace, unknowingly awakening something else that is burning inside his chest. 

Every good intention that he had when he first pulled you into the cabana quickly evaporates the moment your body moulds against him and relaxes under his touch. With one hand resting on your knee, Hoseok parts your legs, allowing him to slide his other hand down to your hips. With swift fingers, he tugs the knots tying the small triangle bottom together until it falls off your hips and tosses it away. His hand comes back to your center once he is done, slipping between your folds to find your swollen bud and capture it between his thumb and index finger.  

Almost immediately, your head falls back against his shoulder while you let go of your inhibitions and release a few moans, responding to every circling motion he makes. Hoseok takes it all in, astounded at how easily he can entice the sounds you are making and the tremble surging down your body with just a simple touch right on your bundle of nerves.  

“Nothing ever changes,” he murmurs, with his eyes completely captivated by the sight of you getting wet under his touch, and the way you are slowly writhing against his chest. Your bare bottom starts rubbing against his covered hard-on, spurring him on. “Always so responsive to me.” 

“Because”—you gasp softly—”it’s you.” 

At your words, Hoseok pauses and lifts his gaze to look closely at your face. It feels like time simply stops when he makes no move, no sound, though you can still hear the echoing sound of waves coming from all around you, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat vibrating out of his chest and onto your back. 

You look over your shoulder, nearly losing your breath when you notice how intense Hoseok’s gaze looks. Disbelief is written all over his face, as if he needs a moment to understand your words. 

“It’s always been you, Hoseok. You’re the only one who can make me feel this way.”

Hoseok’s gaze changes. Every bit of doubt, insecurity, pain, and those little bits of despair he carried with him throughout this trip fades into a deep, strong desire that feels so potent that you can feel it emerging from his entire body, and there is the heat you have always felt from him when he is showing you his love. 

As if your words are the spell that he needed to break away from the walls confining him and the shadows of the past that have been haunting him. 

Hoseok places his hand on your chin, turning your face so he can kiss your lips. The kiss is slow and tender, yet needy at the same time. A claiming kiss that is filled with heat and passion, with less hunger than the usual ones you’ve shared before, yet it still makes your heart race.

Slowly, you feel him moving, lifting your body in his arms and turning you together before he lays you down on the soft cushions. A small giggle slips out of your lips, amazed at how easily he is able to handle you. 

Once you are lying on your back, Hoseok follows by moving on top of you; his hips resting between your parted legs, his chest enveloping yours, while his mouth quickly captures yours to continue kissing you until your mind is filled with a blissful fog that makes your cheeks flush with warmth. 

“And it’s always been you who makes me feel—everything,” he sighs as he pulls back from the kiss. His lips are swollen from the kiss and from the light grazes you gave him with your teeth, but it’s the look you see coming out of his eyes that has you breathless, and then he makes the insides of your stomach do a quick somersault when he says, “You’re the only reason I’m alive.” 

“Hoseok—” you sob softly, with your tears threatening to fill the corners of your eyes. 

Seeing this, Hoseok leans down, pressing his lips across your eyelids as they flutter close for him, kissing your tears away before they have any chance to fall. With a hum, you lean forward to him, the sound quickly changing into a gasp when you feel his gentle fingers pulling the knots holding your wet top until you feel it falling off your skin. 

“This needs to go,” he whispers, “Don’t want you to feel cold.” 

Humming softly, you cup his face with your hands and whisper to him, “Then please warm me up, Mr. Lawyer.” 

Hearing your words, his eyes are filled with a flicker of recognition. Your voice, and every word you just gave him, are an echo coming from a small part of the past that he will always remember as the beginning of it all. Then his gaze grows heated, knowing what those words had done to him many years ago. 

With your wet bikini top tossed aside, Hoseok leans down to press his lips on the curve of your neck, while his hand moves to cup the underside of your breast. A gasp slips out of your lips as you feel his fingers pressing on your skin, bringing warmth to ease away the cold. Hoseok traces his lips down your chest, gently capturing one bare nipple between his mouth while his fingers start moving to rub around the other until you feel them both hardening under his touch. 

Your chest arches upwards to chase his mouth and his touch. You feel him humming against your skin, and then his tongue lashes across the hardened nub, drawing the sounds of soft mewls slipping out of your lips. 

Hoseok releases your nipple from his lips with a pop and smiles down at you. “Warm enough?” 

“Not quite,” you groan softly, “I need more.” 

A lot more, because the heat has gone down to your center. You can feel the pulsing blood gathering between your legs, and you wish for nothing more than to have his touch to relieve you from it. 

“Is that so?” Hoseok chuckles, “Then I guess I’ll have to work harder.” 

You open your mouth, ready to beg him for it. His hands come down to your hips just as you start rocking against his body, holding you still. With the words hanging at the tip of your tongue, you open your eyes to look at him. 

And then you see it—the familiar look of hunger and desire coming out of his eyes that does things to your heart and your body. He smiles at you and slowly climbs his way back up. He weaves his fingers through your hair and pulls your head back, and then he moulds his lips to yours. You moan into the kiss, feeling the need for him rising the more he devours your mouth, and the more you feel his heat coming out of his chest. 

Your mind becomes hazy as you melt into the kiss, and you instinctively follow him when Hoseok gently pulls away. You almost whine when you feel him leaving you, taking the heat away as he steps back to stand on the foot of the cabana. But every protest you wish to say to him disappears in your tongue when you see the look in his eyes, knowing that he isn’t done with you yet.

You keep your eyes on him as you lie back down, relaxing against the cushions while trying to control your breath, only to nearly lose it again when Hoseok slowly pulls down his swimming shorts, revealing his hard-on that you previously felt pressing against your back.

Your heartbeat races as you watch him standing there, completely bare, while openly admiring your body while he has a firm grip around his hard cock. His eyes grow darker with need as he starts stroking himself, his hand flexing around his girth as it glides up and down his length. The sight has you licking your lips, wishing that you could have him inside your mouth, that you could lick the heavily swollen tip and have his taste on your tongue. 

Whatever is holding him back from pouncing on you only makes you grow impatient. He seems unable to decide whether he wants to take his place right between your legs or let you put your lips to good use, knowing what you have to offer. 

So you decide to put matters in your own hands, giving him the initiative that he needs to make up his mind. Keeping your eyes on his, you put a finger on your lips, acting as if you are telling him to keep quiet. 

Once you gain his full attention, you part your lips and dip your finger in, giving it a slow, long suck, while he falls into a trance, watching you with his jaw dropping and his hand moving slower, nearly coming to a stop mid-stroke when you pop your finger out. You continue giving him a show, licking the underside of your digit with a soft moan of delight escaping your lips. 

He knows that you are teasing him, giving him a little preview of what you would do to him if he lets you. Seeing him utterly mesmerised pushes you to become a little more brazen.

Leaning back and propping yourself up on your elbow, you move your hand down from your lips, tracing down your bare breasts and the curves on your body until you reach dangerously close to your center. His eyes continue to follow the motion, definitely not missing it when you slip your hand between your legs, your wet finger slipping between your folds, disappearing into your depths with a heartfelt moan leaving your lips. 

As if he has become completely entranced, Hoseok pauses mid-stroke. His eyes grow wide as he watches your finger sink deeper, entering right where he wants to bury himself the most. Then you start moving your hand, sliding your finger in and out, showing him just how much you want him with how slick you have gotten since he first touched you. 

The sound of your slick arousal fills the cabana with each thrust of your finger, while your wetness makes itself known each time your finger slips out, completely coated with your arousal. 

With the sound that he is subtly making, the low grunt that escapes him even as he clenches his jaw to hold himself back, it is clear that he wants you just as much as you want him inside you. 

Another moan slips out of your lips when you touch a spot within you that sends your whole body trembling. It snaps him right out of his trance, and Hoseok moves right back up onto the bedding within a blink of an eye, taken over by his clear desire. His grip around his cock has tightened and he starts giving himself a few hard strokes to ready himself for you. His free hand finds your knee, keeping your legs apart for him before he reaches out to your center. 

One moment you are pushing your finger inside your heat, the next minute you feel a tug that snaps your eyes open, only to jolt in surprise when his finger slides in to take over, substituting your more delicate finger that is now slipping right between his lips. 

“Hoseok—” 

A gasp escapes you when he sucks your finger clean, all while humming as he savours your taste in his mouth, while he pushes his finger in, moving slowly and diving deeper while your pussy throbs and pulses around him. His longer and stronger digit quickly finds your sweet spot and swipes over it, massaging it gently until you are writhing under his touch while he continues to lick the remainder of your arousal off your finger. 

“Does this feel better?” he questions you with a gruff voice as he curls his finger inside you, making you shiver every time the pad of his finger is pressed against your sweet spot. He pulls his hand slightly when you fail to answer, adding another finger to test out how well your pussy is wrapping around him. As he pushes his way back inside, his thumb finds your clit, rubbing it gently until you start rolling your hips and pressing against him, welcoming more and more of the pleasure to ignite inside you. 

“Oh…hmm,” you keep on humming, unable to respond with words when he continues to do all the wicked things with his fingers that render your mind numb. It feels amazing, even if you still have to admit that it isn’t enough to satisfy your need. 

As always, Hoseok seems to be in tune with your feelings. He finally grants your wish as he slowly lowers his head, burying his face between your thighs. He draws your attention back to him when you feel his lips pressing at your folds, and then he brushes his mouth against your clit, capturing it in one slow nip before his tongue slips out and swipes across it, drawing a sharp cry out of your lips. Your hips rise from the bedding when he does it again, nipping and licking, tasting every drop that spills from your wetness while he drives his fingers home, slowly building up the pleasure with his delectable rhythm. 

The sweet hum of appreciation that he is giving you while he remains latched on to your center only makes you tighten your thighs around his head, holding him in place just as your muscles are clenching around him at the heightened pleasure. Your hand slips down to find his hair and tug at him, urging him to move, while your other hand grabs hold of the cushion for leverage. 

“Use your words, babe,” Hoseok hums against your heat, “Tell me what you need from me.”

With a whine, you lift your head to look down at him. “Do you really want to hear me beg?” 

You watch his lips spread into a smirk. “I’d love nothing more,” he murmurs, before his lips return to your heat to give your clit a kiss. 

“Hoseok,” you call for him, your voice rising as his lips reconnect with your core. His tongue continues to twirl around your swollen bud while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you, bringing you closer to the peak. “Please—I want you!”

“Impatient, are we?” he teases you with a deep chuckle, though it is hard for you to answer him quickly when his fingers are still moving fluidly in and out of you, distracting you with the pleasure pulsing with each movement. “Relax, baby. Enjoy this first. I know you’re feeling good right now.” 

You are feeling more than good. It feels amazing, and you can already feel it coming; the coil in your stomach tightening as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of your climax, yet not quite there yet. You want the pleasure to last, but you also want so desperately to feel your final release. 

“Hoseok, baby. I need to cum…,” you cry out to him as you grind your heat against his face. “I’m so close…!” 

“Then come for me,” Hoseok grunts, before he captures your clit and gives it a suck, while his fingers dive deep, pushing you over the edge. 

“Oh, God…that’s it,” you moan as you feel the waves of your release toppling you over. 

“Don’t hold back, baby. That’s it. Good girl,” he hums against your throbbing clit as you rock your hips against his face, his tongue keeps flicking out in between. He repeats it a few more times as he feels your legs quaking around him, swiping across it once, twice, then he captures the tender flesh between his mouth to give it a hard suck, one that is enough to send your body arching off the bedding and your hips pushing down onto his face.

As the tremors of pleasure spread through your body, you clutch his hair tightly and press his head further into your groin, demanding more. He gladly complies with your silent request, increasing the rhythm of his thrusting fingers until you cannot hold back, and your body erupts the moment you let go and allow the waves of your release to come forth. Your hands tug harder into his hair as your body convulses against him, nothing else holding you back from embracing your climax. 

Despite not getting everything you wanted just yet, you cannot deny just how good he makes you feel, just by the touch of his fingers and the sinful work of his mouth. It feels so darn good that it takes a while for you to come down from your high. He is also responsible for making it harder for you to come out of your blissful fog when he has yet to unlatch his mouth from your throbbing pussy. Then he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, replacing them completely with his tender lips, and that helps your mind to focus, noticing the emptiness that not even his delicate mouth could rectify.

“Please, Hoseok—” you beg him when you cannot take it any longer; when you want him so badly that it hurts. “I want you. Now. Fuck me now.” 

Hoseok’s mouth vibrates around your clit as he chuckles softly. He pulls back, releasing your throbbing nub with a small pop before he starts climbing his way on top of you. At first, you are too mesmerised by the sight of his beautiful face, tainted by the wet glow forming around his mouth and chin after he drank every last drop of your release. And then, with a smile, Hoseok starts licking his lips, making a whole show of cleaning himself, even licking his wet digit clean from the remainder of your sweet nectar. 

“You were so bad for teasing me earlier. You made me want to have a taste,” he hums softly, before leaning down over you. He runs his hand down your thigh, coaxing you to relax while he slides into position between your parted legs. “And you do taste so good.” 

“I want to taste you too,” you whisper with a sigh, drawing a soft chuckle from him. 

“Another time,” he groans while quickly catching your hand just as you start reaching down between your bodies so you can touch him. 

His answer makes you pout, and you are just about ready to complain and beg so he will let you take him deep in your throat so you can taste him. But as he shifts to align himself right at your center, you finally realise why he wouldn’t let you. With his hands propped on either side of your head, buried into the soft bedding beneath you, Hoseok dips down, pushing his hips to meet yours, and you are pleasantly surprised to feel his cock brushing against your pulsing core. You are pleased to find that you have worked on him so well that he has grown just as impatient as you have been, when you feel his hard cock pulsing against your heat. 

“See? It would be a terrible idea if you took me in your mouth right now. I need you so badly it almost hurts,” he murmurs with a deep groan as he rocks his hips, his rigid cock sliding between your slit, drawing small tremors through your body. “I need to be inside you, baby.” 

“Then why didn’t you say so?” you tease him as you loop one of your legs around his hips, pushing him down on you, which has Hoseok raising his brows. “What? I’m only trying to help.” 

Hoseok chuckles and says, “Of course you are,” just as he follows your lead.  

“Now get on with it,” you snap at him while lifting your hips, pressing harder against his length. 

“I should spank your behind to teach you a little bit of patience,” he threatens with a taunting voice while his hand reaches down and cups your bottom, making you wiggle your hips when his touch makes everything inside you tingle. 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“It’s a promise,” he whispers with a deep voice as he slowly thrusts into you, allowing you to feel it as the wide tip of his cock parts its way in. 

You can feel every delightful brush and tight spread as he steadily dips inside you, taking things slow as he buries himself inside you. Seeing you unable to respond, when your voice rises to a sharp cry before fading down to a moan, Hoseok halts for a moment, waiting until the pulses clutching around him start to subside. 

A sigh slips out of you when you finally grow lax, and you press your heels right underneath the soft globes of his ass, telling him that you are ready. That is when he begins to move. 

He starts with an unhurried pace, backing out slightly before proceeding again, advancing further and going a little bit deeper with each thrust. He repeats it until he starts getting deeper, and deeper, taking his time claiming you with each delicate inch he gains while teasing you, knowing that you are silently demanding more. 

Wet and coated with your arousal, his cock becomes slick enough to ease his way inside you until he is fully buried deep within you. So deep that you can feel its tip pressing against your depth, and you can almost feel his presence deep in your belly. It feels overwhelming, and yet you want more.

But he still keeps his rhythm agonisingly slow, prolonging the rise of your pleasure as it comes surging through your body. It puts you on the edge, the desperate need to reach the peak of your pleasure overcomes you, and you begin to move, pushing your hips against him so that he starts moving faster. Still, Hoseok refuses to give up control as he puts his weight on you, pressing his hips on yours to pin you beneath him, with no chance to move and take over.  

“Relax,” he whispers with a raspy voice. “What are you such in a hurry for?” 

You look up to him, your voice coming out as barely a whimper when you try to answer him, to start begging for him to move, to start pounding hard inside you. You know that not only is he teasing you, but he is also testing your patience. And it would have worked, if only he hadn’t gotten you so worked up and so needy. 

Feeling defiant, you decide to return the favour. If he thinks that he could restrain you and control everything, then he has another thing coming. With your eyes on him, you focus on clenching your inner muscles around him, putting all the hours of morning exercises you’ve been getting into to good use by restricting him from moving deeper without it being clamped down. 

Hoseok falls forward, unprepared to have you clamping down on his shaft. Grunting against your neck, Hoseok stays still for a moment before he instinctively starts pressing against the constriction, as if showing you that nothing can stop him from getting what he wants and when he wants it to. 

As he starts to push back inside, the feeling of him stretching your tightened muscles and slowly breaking through the constrictions that you impose on him only allows you to feel just how hard he is and how fitting he feels inside you. And it feels so good. So darn good that you cannot resist the moan escaping your lips as he rubs against your pulsing walls. 

As he continues exerting pressure against you, sparks of pleasure begin to rise inside you, building up slowly until you can feel yourself reaching another peak before you realise it happening. 

It doesn’t take long before you give in, unable to resist the temptation that you simply allow him to get his way. Slowly, as the pleasure takes place, you focus on relaxing underneath him, allowing your muscles to grip and quiver around him on their own without you making it happen. Now that he is finally moving, finally giving you exactly what you want, you refuse to allow him to tease you again and make you wait. 

You just got to have him all. 

As he slowly presses forward, you press your feet into his thighs and take the remainder of his length in one fluid motion. With one strong pull, you draw his body into you, and the hard tip of his cock hits the deepest part of your walls with force until your whole body trembles under the pressure. 

Your muscles spasm around him as Hoseok starts moving in a steady pace, your pussy clutching on him as he slowly starts picking up his pace, his thrusts growing harder with each cry you are giving him. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby,” he hisses against your neck as he draws back, easing out and sinking all the way back in. He doesn’t look away as he continues rocking his hips, each thrust stirring up the rush of pleasure inside you, unfolding them like tiny waves that keep building up, more and more as he continues moving in and out of you. 

You close your eyes briefly, savouring the moment and the feeling he ignites within you. Then you start rocking your hips around him, getting a good feel of how he is stretching you nicely and pounding inside you in the perfect rhythm that sends you to the peak of bliss.  

Your body flinches when his cock hits hard into your depth, drawing a strangled cry from your lips. It brings him to a pause, a deep concern written on Hoseok’s face when he looks at you. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Hmmm—more than okay,” you answer him as you buck your hips into his, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. “Don’t stop. Keep moving.” 

With a soft chuckle, Hoseok lowers himself to cover your body with his, then his lips descend so he can kiss your bare shoulder. A moan slips right out of your lips when you feel his cock sliding in and out of you once more, though he proceeds to pick up his pace, steadily rocking with longer and stronger strokes before he starts moving faster. 

You raise your hands, finding his shoulders to hold so you can steady your body against the force as he keeps driving into you with unadulterated passion. Your body shivers uncontrollably as the pleasure keeps rising, building up so fast that you find yourself moulding against his body as you are teetering right at the edge. Just when you feel the first coil of your coming orgasm, the deep sound of groaning and grunting that he has been making becomes louder, and his torso seems to tense against your body, signalling his final release. 

Hoseok grabs one of your legs by the underside of your knee and lifts it up, opening you further as he drives deep. A sharp cry leaves your lips when you feel him hitting deep, his pouncing growing harder, each thrust he is giving you causing intense tremors all over your body. 

You are too far gone at this point, with your body burning hot, and you are panting with short breaths at the quick build-up of warmth that overcomes you, moments before your whole body contracts as you are pushed into a toe-curling orgasm that knocks your breath away. 

Feeling your release pulsing around him sends Hoseok over the edge. You can vaguely hear the sound of his laboured breathing beyond the sound of your pounding heartbeat as he increases his rhythm further, drilling his cock inside you in search for his own relief. You can feel him reaching his peak as he sinks deeper into you, giving you a hard shove that rocks your body roughly beneath him, before the warmth coming from his release fills your insides. 

He continues to move in slow, short thrusts before slowing down completely to a halt, prolonging both of your orgasms for a while longer before he falls over your body, completely spent. 

“That felt amazing,” you hum breathlessly while stroking his sweat-covered back. For a moment, he gives you no answer. The only thing you can hear from him is his rough breath and the sound of his heartbeat pumping against your chest. It takes a moment for him to sober up completely, to finally come down from his high and look up to see your face again. You give him a bashful smile, feeling him still buried inside you and your body still joined together in the most intimate of ways. 

“You are amazing, baby,” Hoseok mutters, while running his gaze down your exposed body, his eyes lingering briefly on your heaving chest before returning to your face. 

He takes this moment to look at you closely, questioning you with concerns lathering his voice, “Okay, baby?” 

With a soft sigh and a breathless chuckle, you simply nod. “More than okay.” 

You can obviously tell that you have a dopey smile on your face right now, but you have no energy to care at the moment. At least it seems to give Hoseok some sense of relief when he sees it. His own smile is spread on his face when he leans down to kiss the tip of your nose before he slowly pulls out of you. A few drops of cum follow his exit, falling into the soft bedding beneath your body and wetting your inner thighs. The sensation you feel of his warm cum oozing out of you and your walls pulsing in his absence seem to light up a new desire, as you enjoy having a reminder of his claim all over your body and inside you, although you are too spent to ask for more than a cuddle. 

“You are such a mess, baby,” he chuckles as he reaches out to grab the forgotten towel, ready to continue his work on cleaning you up, including the mess that he just helped create. 

“You made the mess," you tiredly complain, "And you love it.” 

“That I do,” Hoseok hums against your lips as he kisses you, making you melt into his warmth once again with nothing more than a feeling of contentment. 

Hoseok covers you with his shirt once he is done—once he deemed your clothes is completely unsalvageable. And you remain entangled with each other in the cabana until the sun slowly dips into the horizon, brushing the sea with a soft amber glow while leaving a trace of purple hue up in the sky. 

It’s a magical sight that ignites a myriad of emotions blooming deep inside Hoseok’s chest as he draws you into his arms. 

As Hoseok watches the descending sun, he feels his own light slowly expanding within. As if the sunset represents the departure of the very last bit of his anguish about the forgotten past, allowing nothing else but hope to bloom in its place. 

Tomorrow is a new day, he silently tells himself. 

Both of you may not have gotten a completely clean slate to start over. The missing pieces of the past will no doubt continue to haunt you both as the two of you continue going forward. But Hoseok no longer fears the future that is coming for him. Not after you have managed to bring all of his broken pieces back together. 

Unspoken words fill his mind, and then you manage to steal his words further when you lean back, resting your head on his strong shoulder and let out a deep, contented sigh. “I love you, Mr. Lawyer.” 

Hoseok smiles. The silly nickname that you’ve given him—both in your past life and in the present—has always done things to him. “I love you too. Always,” he whispers, burying his face on the curve of your neck as he holds you tightly in his arms, holding you close as he embraces the present and the promise of tomorrow. 

— ©Yoonia, 2025. all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind, translations, unsanctioned adaptations are not allowed.

[borkunlimited]

Siúil a Rúin

As Take Your Time, Miss Deer, finally comes to an end, I want to reach out to everyone with a note, a thank you for being here in this two month long journey of weekly updates.

I still remember how I decided to write this fic out of a whim, mostly for myself because I want to sharpen my skills as a writer. What started as a whim turn to little snippets, then an outline, and finally, a challenge where I told myself I will complete this fic in a span of 10 chapters.

Honestly, I did not intend to post this at all here in Tumblr, but my beta reader and a friend convinced me otherwise and I am glad I listened to them or else I wouldn't have met each of you today.

This fic was incredibly challenging to write but mostly because I wouldn't deny that numbers still bother me though I still stick to my belief that these shouldn't define my worth as a writer.

One challenge I encounter is actually creating Miss Deer. Sweet characters seemed easy to write when you see them surface level but sweet characters who are layered are more difficult. I want her to be sweet and kind but not the type that she is dependent on other people to live, rather, has her own set of strengths.

I mentioned this several times to my moot (Hi @xiiiaomaiii!) how FLs from Studio Ghibli greatly influenced me and rewatching them all in one go gave me a better idea on how to write her character and how Sylus will play in the story.

I don't want Miss Deer to be completely dependent on him and I want Sylus to be like how every ML is in Studio Ghibli: Supportive and kind.

(Did it work? I like to think I managed to flesh out her character well based on everyone's feedback.)

There are multiple challenges that I have encounter along the way. My worry on ensuring that Sylus, the twins, and even the characters I have isekai'd in this fic (ex. Louis from Beastars) are not OOC. My realization that having an outline is completely different from fleshing it out and there are times I close the doc then call it a day.

Sometimes, I even erase lines of paragraphs. (Bork, do you still have them? No, they are in the abyss now, forever gone haha)

Anyways, I don't want to keep this long! These are just musings, mostly for my future self to read when she looks back.

What's next?

I will focus on drawing art for this fic during my break.

Pick-up what I left off in the side story related to this fic which is about Luke, Kieran, and the sheep hybrid occasionally mentioned.

(This side story is more focused on the themes of coming of age, the twins and the sheep MC navigating in their relationship. I mostly draw inspiration from Skip and Loafer and Horimiya for this. Also, the amount of Luke & Kieran fics is low and I, an upstanding citizen, must do my part.)

Might write short stories and drabbles between Sylus and Miss Deer as well.

Will I write another longfic?

Yes, I already have something in the works but I need to read more about this LI (Who is the LI? Hehe, you'll see), read more books, watch more films in line with the idea I have in mind.

When will you see this longfic?

One day when you wake up (Hopefully on a warm, sunny day), you'll just see the first chapter and you and I will be in another ride where I publish weekly (I pray nothing gets in the way of my life.)

I am happy this story reached you and when you reread it, I hope my intent of making it a cozy story will make you feel better, recharge you, and help you get ready to face what is ahead.

Thank you everyone!

AO3: Take Your Time, Miss Deer: 🦌🐉 Luke & Kieran's Bakery Attack(s): 🐺🐺🐑

Tumblr: Take Your Time, Miss Deer:🦌🐉 Luke & Kieran's Bakery Attack(s):🐺🐺🐑

[eliciana]

Reverse SAGAU: The Weird Door At My Café

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 (here) | Chapter 5 | ...

Masterlist

Blog Navigation

Tw: Reverse!Isekai!Sagau, Normal Au, Café Au.

Reader: Gn!Reader, Adult!Reader, Cafe Owner!Reader

Characters: Reader, Traveler, Paimon

Note: Restaurant to Another World animanga inspired au. There is a taglist if you want to be tagged.

I am also sorry about the sudden disappearance guys. I fell down the stairs and somehow got into a coma. I fear that this is because of the AO3 curse bcs I was going to publish one of my works there so uhh ig I won't now bcs of what happened. Sorry about that guys. I woke up a week ago and I'm now a-okay. }

As a compensation, I am planning to release 3-4 chapters after this week :)

____________________________________

Its been 2 weeks since the Traveler and Paimon had known about the existence of your otherworldy café, and within that time period, you guys have learned that the door only appears on Teyvat at weekedays. Both of them were devastated at the news. Literally. They spent their whole weekdays with you, they were pouting and whining at how they won't be able to talk to you much more or taste your meals, pastry, and refreshments though, the complaints mostly came from Paimon.

Their sincere sadness, pouts, and sorrowful eyes tugged at your heartstrings, evoking strong sympathy for both of them. They seem to clearly love your creations far more than anything they could prepare or purchase for themselves, so you made up your mind to surprise them for their lovely company and advices in making much more better food. You put your very heart and soul into making something special for your dearly beloved friends, hoping that they won't look so down as much as before when it is time for them to say goodbye.

You were so absorbed in organizing and preparing your suprise that the weekend almost passed you by. You looked at the old ticking clock besise the cashier register and saw that it was 6:55 pm, which was only a few minutes before your scheduled meeting time. You hastily cleaned up after hiding the suprise somewhere they can't quite see. You didn't want any people to recognize them because it would cause tons of trouble not only for you but for Traveller and Paimon as well. So you decided to meet up every 7:00 pm after you close for the day.

At exactly when the clock struck 7:00 pm the door you were once so afraid opened, the soft chime of the bell announced the arrival of your guests. Clearing your throat, you called out cheerfully, 'Welcome, dear customers! Feel free to sit anywhere you like!' The sound of the Traveller’s soft giggles reached your ears, and you turned to greet them with a warm smile. 'Hello, Boss!' they responded in unison, their familiar voices filling the room with an air of comfort and familiarity.

"(Reader)!!!!", Paimon exclaimed, twirling around you like an excited cat seeing its owner after a long time of absence. Though, instead of nearly tripping over her, you found yourself feeling quite a bit dizzy with her rapid spins round you. Thankfully, the Traveller noticed and swiftly grabbed Paimon by the collar of her clothing. "GAAHHH!", she yelped, her playful demeanor momentarily interrupted. "Could you stop spinning around (Reader) for a moment? They're getting quite a bit dizzy with your twirls." the Traveller gently scolded her, a hint of amusement in their voice.

“Hehe, it’s okay! But, Paimon, could you keep your spinning to a minimum? I won’t be able to greet you properly if I suddenly pass out from all the dizziness,” you teased, a playful smile on your face. Paimon’s expression shifted to one of shock. “NOOO! (Reader)! You still need to make me delicious foodddd!” she exclaimed, kicking her feet in the air as if throwing a tantrum. “Come on, Paimon. (Reader)’s just joking with you,” the Traveller said with a sigh, rolling their eyes at Paimon’s dramatic antics.

“Now, let’s settle down, shall we? I have a new item on the menu today. Would you like to give it a try? Here it is; you can read the description and decide if you want to sample it,” you said, handing them two menus. Paimon scrutinized the menu intently before shouting, “The same as usual, (Reader)! And also, one order of the new item!”

The Traveller smiled and added, “I’ll have one Cheesy Tortellini and Sausage Bake, one Creamy Chicken and Rice Soup, and one Iced Pumpkin Cream Chai.”

“Oh my! That’s quite a feast! Rough day?” you asked, taking notes of their orders. “I’ll make sure to throw in some extras for you.”

"*Sigh*, yes. It was a really rough day. *mumble**mumble*." You couldn't quite pick up what they said after but it seems that they truly had a real hard time judging by their deep sigh and slumped shoulders.

You went straight to the kitchen to whip up their orders while you kept a close eye on the suprise that you still kept hidden.

After a flurry of activity in the kitchen, you finally finished preparing their orders. With a warm smile, you approached the table, balancing the plates with practiced ease. "Alright, you two, no more frowning," you chided playfully, setting the dishes down one by one. "Dig in! You must be starving by now."

As you arranged the plates, you added with a wink, "Oh, and I threw in some Strawberry Creampuffs—compliments of the house. Consider it a little treat for my favorite duo."

Paimon's eyes widened to the size of saucers, her tiny hands already reaching for the pastries before you could even finish speaking. "Wait, for free?! (Reader), you're the best!" she squealed, clutching a creampuff like it was a treasure. She took a bite, and her face lit up with pure delight. "Mmm! These are heavenly! Paimon could eat a hundred of these!" She floated in the air, twirling with joy, her excitement infectious.

The Traveler chuckled softly, shaking their head at Paimon's antics. "Thank you, (Reader). You really didn’t have to, but we appreciate it." They picked up a creampuff, their expression softening as they took a bite. "These are amazing. You’ve outdone yourself again."

You leaned against the table, watching them enjoy the food with a satisfied grin. Seeing their smiles was always worth the effort.

"Alright, alright, take your time eating," you said with a soft chuckle, stepping back from the table. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." With a warm smile, you turned and made your way to the back, your mind already buzzing with excitement.

You had a surprise for them—a special thank-you gift. Since the door doesn't appear on the weekends, you’d spent the last few days preparing an extravagant feast. It was your way of showing gratitude for their constant companionship and the joy they brought into your life. The portions were enormous, enough to last them for days—or, knowing Paimon, maybe just one. You smirked to yourself, wondering how they’d even carry it all. But then again, the Traveler’s magical inventory space was a blessing in disguise, so you’d gone all out without a second thought.

Your café had been thriving lately, with a steady stream of wealthy customers placing large commission orders. The influx of money was more than welcome, though the workload was starting to wear on you. Juggling the demands of your high-profile clients and the everyday crowd was exhausting. Maybe it was time to hire some help. The idea struck you like a bolt of inspiration, and you quickly pulled out your phone to jot it down in your notes. Hire workers. Soon. 3 workers perhaps.

But for now, your focus was on the present—literally. You glanced at the array of pastries you’d set aside earlier. Paimon’s delighted squeals from the dining area echoed in your mind, and you couldn’t help but smile. Why not add a little more? You had plenty of leftovers from today, and serving them tomorrow didn’t sit right with you. Giving them to the Traveler and Paimon was a far better option than tossing them out. Besides, their magical inventory would keep everything fresh indefinitely.

With that decided, you grabbed a large container and began filling it with an assortment of treats. A half Greek Yogurt Tangerine Cake, eclairs, chou à la crème, flan, lemon tarts, and egg tarts—each one carefully placed inside. The container was soon overflowing with a colorful variety of pastries, each one a testament to your hard work and creativity. You left a little bit to yourself to eat at home later as a good job treat.

You stepped back, admiring your handiwork. This was more than just food; it was a token of your friendship, a way to say thank you in the sweetest way possible.

Stepping back into the dining area, you found the duo slumped in their seats, looking thoroughly satisfied—and perhaps a little too full. Their slightly bloated appearances were hard to miss, and you couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“Oh deary me, you two look like you’ve been through a feast fit for a king!” you teased, walking over to clear the plates. As you picked them up, you noticed, not for the first time, that not a single crumb remained. It was impressive, though not as shocking as the first time you’d witnessed their bottomless appetites. Back then, you’d been utterly floored. Now, it was just another reminder of how much they adored your cooking.

The Traveler’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but they quickly recovered, flashing you a sheepish grin. “Well, what can we say? Your cooking is to die for, (Reader).” Their tone was smooth, almost suave, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at their attempt to save face.

“Thank you, Traveler,” you replied warmly, stacking the plates neatly. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Just then, the Traveler reached into their pocket and pulled out a small pouch, placing it on the table with a soft clink. “Oh, right! Here’s our payment. As always, it’s worth every mora.”

You picked up the pouch, feeling the satisfying weight of the mora inside. “Thank you, dear customer,” you said with a playful bow, tucking the pouch into your apron pocket. “Your patronage is always appreciated.”

“Oh, right! Stay there for a moment—don’t come into the kitchen,” you said, holding up a hand to stop them as you hurried back to the kitchen with the stack of plates. Paimon and the Traveler exchanged curious glances, their usual routine of following you to the front bar momentarily interrupted. Reluctantly, they took their usual seats, waiting patiently but with growing curiosity.

From the kitchen, they heard a faint grunt, followed by the sound of something heavy being shifted. Paimon’s ears perked up, and the Traveler leaned forward, concern flickering across their face. “(Reader), are you okay? Do you need help?” they called out, halfway out of their seats.

“No need, no need!” you replied, your voice slightly strained but cheerful. “This thing’s just a bit heavier than I expected, but I’ve got it under control!” Moments later, you emerged from the kitchen, carefully balancing two large, cloth-covered containers in your arms. You set them down gently on the counter in front of them, your face flushed but triumphant. “Wait, there’s still more. Don’t touch them yet!” you warned, holding up a finger before darting back into the kitchen.

When you returned, you were carrying yet another cloth-covered container—this one filled with the assortment of pastries you’d prepared earlier. Paimon’s eyes widened, and the Traveler tilted their head, their curiosity now fully piqued.

“(Reader), what are these? They smell amazing—and they look huge!” the Traveler asked, their voice tinged with awe.

With a dramatic flourish and a smug grin, you pulled the cloths away, revealing the contents. “Ta-da! This is my surprise gift for you! Are you shocked?” you announced, clearly pleased with yourself.

Paimon gasped, floating closer to inspect the containers. “Wait, these three ginormous things are for us? Paimon loves them already! But, uh… what exactly are they?” She scratched her head, her tiny face scrunched up in confusion.

You chuckled, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. “Well, since we can’t meet on weekends, I thought I’d send you off with enough food to last you a while. Consider it a thank-you for always keeping me company. There’s a bit of everything in there—main dishes, snacks, and, of course, plenty of pastries for someone with a particular sweet tooth.” You shot Paimon a knowing look, and she beamed, already reaching for one of the containers.

The Traveler’s eyes softened, a grateful smile spreading across their face. “(Reader), you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble… but thank you. This means a lot to us.”

“Nuh-uh!” you said sharply, your eyes narrowing as you caught the Traveler’s hand reaching for the pouch of mora at their waist. “It’s on the house! The payment you’ve already given is more than enough to cover all of this,” you insisted, waving your hands emphatically.

And it was the truth. Thanks to the connections you’d built with your high-profile regulars, you’d found a discreet way to convert mora into gold bars, bypassing the government’s watchful eyes (fanfiction logic, of course). Those gold bars had opened doors to even more lucrative opportunities, leaving you with more than enough wealth to afford this generous gesture.

“But—” the Traveler started, their brow furrowed in protest.

“No buts!” you interrupted, placing a hand over their mouth to silence them. “That’s final,” you said firmly, though your eyes sparkled with warmth. “Besides, this is my way of saying thank you—for your companionship, for listening to me rant about rude customers, and for always brightening my day. You two mean a lot to me, and this is the least I can do.”

Paimon, who had been floating nearby with a pastry already in hand, grinned from ear to ear. “See, Traveler? (Reader) says it’s fine, so stop being so stubborn! Paimon’s not complaining about free food!”

The Traveler sighed, their resistance melting away as they shook their head with a soft chuckle. “Alright, alright. We’ll accept your gift—but only because you’re being so insistent.”

You laughed, stepping back and crossing your arms with a satisfied smile. “Good! Now, make sure to enjoy every bite. And don’t even think about trying to sneak mora into my apron later—I’ll know!”

The Traveler simply smiled at you, a look of helpless gratitude in their eyes, and nodded in understanding. They knew better than to argue with you when you were this determined.

The café was soon filled with the sound of laughter and lively conversation as the three of you shared one last chat before it was time for them to leave. The warmth of the moment made the impending goodbye a little easier to bear.

Finally, Paimon floated toward the door, her tiny hands waving excitedly. “Goodbye, (Reader)! We’ll see you again in two days! Make sure to take care of yourself, okay?” she chirped, her voice brimming with genuine affection.

Beside her, the Traveler stood, balancing the three large cloth-covered containers with ease. They gave you a nod, their expression soft but resolute. “We’ll be back soon. Don’t overwork yourself,” they added, their tone gentle but firm.

You smiled, feeling a bittersweet tug in your chest. “Same to you two. Safe travels, and don’t let Paimon eat everything in one sitting!” you teased, earning a playful pout from the floating fairy.

Paimon reached for the door and swung it open, revealing the sprawling landscape of Guili Plains. In the distance, the towering silhouette of Wangshu Inn stood against the horizon, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.

You waved as they stepped through the doorway, their figures framed by the breathtaking view of their world. “See you soon!” you called out, your voice carrying a mix of fondness and anticipation.

The door closed softly behind them, leaving the café quiet once more. You stood there for a moment, the warmth of their presence lingering in the air, before turning back to the kitchen with a smile. Two days would pass quickly, and you already couldn’t wait to see them again.

--------------------------------------------------

Taglist:

@kameyo-kumo @esthelily @haru-tofuu @udretlnea @shining-nebula2000 @ifeellikejumpingoffacliff @resident-cryptid @allblognamesaretakenlikereally @leilakaro @stvrbrighttt @chericia @evaline-ethan @ra404 @mmmhyperfixation @original-person @chaoticfivesworld @lexal-amber-rose @floofeh-purpi @time-shardz @animeobsessed56 @fantasyhopperhea @yuan1819

I'm sorry to those in the taglists whose names didn't tag them. Tumblr doesn't want them. I even double checked your accounts.

[9151967]

Hey, don't cry. 5 Della Van Hise fics in PDF form, saved by the WayBack, all available for download ♡

DVH notoriously had her fics pulled from AO3 and she never uploaded them again. Outside of purchasing the zines she wrote for and created—and given her 14 confirmed pseuds, good luck tracking down everything—finding the odd scan of a zine online or the occasional working archived link from her AO3 is not easy.

(All of these works are linked on Fanlore on the fic's individual pages, but as it always goes with Fanlore, organization is not the best and DVH's main page links to an older version of her site before she offered these stories for free; this is to just get the awareness out and ramble on my blog about it, tiny though it is. As my friend put it went I sent these to her, "This is like Christmas in May!")

For those of us who can't afford to drop $40+ on a zine (average cost; we've all seen higher), lack the space for keeping old zines, or are afraid of opening the door of Buying All The Zines, may this find you well ♡

Front and back cover artwork from Hise's zine Styx and Stones. Left image by Marilyn Cole, served as the inspiration for the fic Styx and Stones; Right image by Jackie Zoost

On Wings of Ice (1987)

"Stranded on a frozen planet when their shuttlecraft is sabotaged, Kirk and Spock share love as they wait for death." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in KSX #1 My 2 cents: I cried with this one and it was worth it. There's phrasing in this one that has me rending my garments.

Collaboration (1987)

"When Kirk points out that their relationship may have become complacent, he and Spock put their heads together to see what can be done to breathe life back into the bedroom. But of course, nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems… A twisted little K/S tale." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Styx and Stones My 2 cents: One part fic, one part meta about K/S and why fans create (yes, really! She pulled it off beautifully), all fluffy feelings.

Styx and Stones (1987)

"Spock awakens in a new land after dying and waits for Jim, who is in a coma following a shuttle crash." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Styx and Stones My 2 cents: I wish I knew what it was like to read this before On Wings of Ice. I'm not saying this was bad or boring - far from it! Hise used a lot of poetic creativity in her depictions - but my brain kept thinking back to On Wings of Ice and that does this story a disservice.

Someone to Watch Over Thee (1988)

"Spock, Kirk, and an ambassador are given aphrodisiacs by the leader of a hedonistic society and itʼs up to the security men to make sure they get who and what they need." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Naked Times #18 CW: rape/noncon elements (your mileage my vary on this, however, I'm noting it out of an abundance of caution) My 2 cents: it's Aliens Made Them Do It but told from the perspective of a Redshirt.

The Gol Letters (1988)

"Apart, Kirk and Spock each write letters to each other, each believing that the other will never read them." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Naked Times #18 My 2 cents: I personally felt like a pumpkin with its innards scooped out but then became a ball of fluff. Heed that as you will.

More about DVH:

She's both a pillar of the fandom for her prolific work as the publisher and editor for the Pon Farr Press (and its many zines) and for her many works of poetry and fanfic, be they short stories, novellas, or novels. In the professional realm, Hise is perhaps best known for the (in)famous Killing Time. (Really, read the link for (in)famous. DVH certainly got screwed over by that contract, although highlight the text here and she's banking on the reputation of it, lol. DVH, I can never hate you. And peep the other link too for a surprise ♡)

She passed away on March 3, 2021 and is survived by her partner Natasha Solten. (Her AO3 for anyone who wants that directly. The bulk of her Star Trek fics are locked to registered users-only.)

[coline7373]

hi, so I kinda fell out of the codywan fandom for a while but I really like your taste based on your fic rec lists I've found. Is there any chance you'd share a couple of fics you liked from last year? Maybe ones that aren't so obvious (like the ones with thousands of kudos are pretty easy to find). If not sorry for bothering you it's not a must of course!

Missile Toes and White Banthas by Ace Raven of Clan Chaos (Music_is_life_2788) (1K)

Lifeday comes once a year, but the trauma of family gatherings is eternal.

A holiday gift exchange written for a holiday gift exchange - it's exchange inception XD

Light-hearted lifeday gift exchange. Rex is out of ideas. Codywan is around the corner and at the end. Sweet and fun!

You be my detonator by Saerus2665 (1K)

“I see they’re just letting anyone on rescue missions these days.” Ben says this as if he’s not currently lying crumpled on his side in a pool of blood in a cold, damp basement. Cody rolls his eyes and does one last quick scan of the room, before stepping around the two bodies on the floor. Or: Agent Ben Kenobi winds up in a sticky situation after a mission gone wrong. Luckily, Cody's there for the rescue.

Spies Modern AU Codywan!!! Not Mr & Mr SMith, they are working for the same side ;) Funny, witty and filled with action. The author makes the most of those 1K

Father War by prouvairablehulk (2K)

We’re damned, after all, through fortune and flame we fall - and if you can stay, then I’ll show you the way (In which 2224 is Cody is Kote is Kote, but more emphatically; or, the Cody-is-Mithras fic that came from being obsessed with my Masters Thesis and Clone Wars at the same time)

Funny. Lovely. And a companion in my mind of that fic in reverse, where it happens to Obi-Wan. But here, it is Kote who gets a little godhood. As a treat.

most things may never happen: this one will by jaigeye (2K)

Cody looks at the bombs bursting overhead. It's friendly fire, and he's beneath it. The heat spewing from it is swift and lacks remorse. It'll melt metal through your hands. Meat doesn't mean anything to light. It goes right through. 

This one isn’t codywan but, by God, if I’m recc-ing any fic, then I’m putting down this one as well. Cody-centric. Fantastic. And I do mean fantastic. About the clones and the droids in Star Wars, and the war and Cody and…

It made me crazy. Crazy.

Must . Read.

half-octopus stewjoni biology no-longer-WIP-now-published-HERE-on-AO3! by passeridae (4.9K)

"Say that again?" Cody pauses, halfway to armouring himself after his checkup, and looks over at Helix. Surely he'd misheard. Helix, eyes rolled towards the off-white ceiling of the medbay as if praying for patience, repeats, "I said, unless you've been having some exceptionally weird sex I don't know about, you've got a prostate tumour." "Weird sex," Cody parrots, his mind helpfully replaying the most debauched trysts he'd had with his General in the past few months. 

The fandom’s usual take for Stewjon is that it’s a hybrid of space!Scotland-Japan and its people are dualsex (even though it’s more often wrongly tagged intersex, which is not the same thing). Not here. Here, stewjoni are half-octopi. They aren’t(?) were-octopi, but half-octopi. Read to find out how. I promise it works. Don’t be frightened by the tags.

What I really liked (other than this little pearl of worldbuilding), is the change to the usual mpreg trope. It’s not Obi-Wan, it’s Cody who carries. It’s not a secret, the main parties involved know about it straight away. Cody is not having A Crisis, the idea makes him happy. Just very refreshing all around.

Medical practices done right. “Normal” pregnancy happening off-screen for a value of normal. “Normal” birth. Started as crack taken seriously then somehow veers sharply off course toward the last part as it becomes bittersweet and happy and joyful and philosophical. Reflection on attachment, the circle of life and all that. Future unknown but ends on a positive note. Loved it.

Dawn by Serie11 (7K)

Obi-Wan had thought of many possibilities, of what his and Cody's life after the war would look like. A child hadn't been among them.

Trans Obi-Wan. Unplanned Pregnancy. Tatooine AU. Heartbreaking. Good ending, though. You don’t stay heartbroken, even if you keep on crying.

Your Smile In Stone by ecarian (8k)

Wooley: can we arrest people for yelling this early? There were two figures standing at the foot of General Kenobi's statue with their backs to Wooley, an adult with a hood, and a child with light hair. The child was pointing at a puddle of Temple tookas who were curled up in General Kenobi’s lap, lounging in the stone folds of his robes, the bend of his knee. Wooley: belay that. Child nuisance.

Clones overthrow the Empire and then… Well.

New Republic and all that.  Sure. They are free, which is nothing to scoff at. But the Senate still voted for the end of the Republic and the jedi are still dead. Aren’t they?

The end… My heart, oh, my heart. Prepare handkerchiefs. By the buckload.

bell tower by smoosey (smooseys) (12K)

In gesture and word and deed, Obi-Wan had made it clear that he saw, in Cody, the same inpollutable, infinite thing that lit the stars. The same Force that had Obi-Wan supplicant his whole life long, luminous under daylight, luminous in the dark, luminous candle-lit, kneeling into the song of the Light. And Cody thinks a part of him has spent the long years since, too, on his knees – in grief, in penance, in duty, in love, and in his memory. But Obi-Wan is alive.

WIP, just once chapter, but what a chapter.

Between hallucinations and dreams, a real communication through the stars with the ghost of his former general or what the spirit of Cody, the purge soldier, concocted to protect himself, a poem, a delirium, a mea cupla screamed at the stars, a fantasy dreamed by a soldier eaten away by the horrors committed by his hands, the State he represents and the atrocities we undertake by ourselves, reality or imagination, metaphor of guilt and forgiveness or real and visceral torture.

PT-2224 made a mistake. Vader makes him pay. Cody is there and not there at the same time. An escape and a voluntary march of his executioner's body towards the final destination.

Incredible. Fantastic. A trip like no other.

Facile Felicity by br1ghtmouth (14K)

Primary functions are supposed to be useful: survive against all odds; shield one’s battalion; fight until the very last breath. Cody would prefer anything besides the bleeding heart he’s been dealt. Or: the General makes plans. Cody follows.

Very fun concept! Lovely characterisation! And, of course, my favorite No-O 66 AU!

True Plain Hearts do in the Faces Rest

by SpaceWall (21.9K)

“We won’t enforce whatever they put forward,” Adi said, “In fact, we won’t fight at all unless they guarantee the clones the right to pursue and refuse soulmate bonds as every citizen of the Republic may. (...)” “You could lose us the war.” “Or we could win it,” Obi-Wan pointed out, “and win it by deserving to, rather than by giving in to that which this order stands against.” Adi’s proposal to offer the senate a bald refusal passed unanimously.

I really liked this one and it’s partly because the codywan is not necessarily romantic. It’s not tagged as such and the connection only happens at the end so I think it’s up to the reader whether they imagine it happening later on or not. It wasn’t necessary for me. 

Cody and Obi-Wan connected on the level of their souls. Nothing, not even romance, can be more meaningful than that.

It was heart wrenching at times and it made me reflect a lot. Not everyone get their happy ending. It’s also a great new take on the soulmate trope and what The Sign is (colorblind vs colored vision, tattooed first/last words, dream/pain/sexual fantasy sharing, ect. And now, A True Smile!!! Because you smile with your eyes, which are the window to the soul. Get it?)

Turn it on to a new kind of bright by rolo_rulu, Saerus2665 (41K)

Someone rolls him over onto his back. “Hnnngh…” Ben blinks his eyes open. There’s a man looking down at him, haloed in the bright light of the sun. (...) “Are—are you an angel?” Ben finds himself saying. He doesn't know if it's the heat or his poor instinctive attempt at flirting that makes him say it. The man squints at him, brow furrowing, clearly caught off guard. “Uh—are you a banana?” OR: The one in which Cody is a hot surfer and Ben’s a biologist who just so happens to be filling in for his brother at his summer job at a perfectly normal, definitely not shady, beachside banana-stand.

Some levity in this recc list!!!! There is no great plot with the Fate of the Universe at stake. This is one of these delightful type of fic that are just… fanfic-y. I don’t know how else to describe it XD

The premise is crackish. The execution is hilarious. The author and artist who work on this (check their accounts out!) were obviously having a hell of a time on this LSD trip together. It also has its sweet moments, its aching moments, moments serious or sad.

Fox is there and amazing. Vos too, stealthily. Obi-Wan is A Nerd and so loveable for it. Cody is so freaking cool. The story keeps throwing you off and making you laugh. The art blows. Uncomplicated and yet rich and varied. Have a grand old time, without becoming anxious about the Meaning of Life Itself.

Just… a cute, funny love story. Happening in a Modern Setting. This is the king of stuff I’m on ao3 for. Gold stars.

Six Months In A Leaky Boat by passeridae (47K)

The year is 1998. Australia is fucked to hell and back, but its neighbour New Zealand is doing surprisingly alright. Well, if it wasn't for the supply shortages, persistent earthquakes, and the government's increasing heavy handed attempts at censorship. Cody, a presenter at Radio Hauraki, is particularly pissed about that last thing. And he knows just what to do about it, too — all they need is a boat. Radio Hauraki started life as pirate radio back in the sixties, what's stopping them from going back on the waves? Also, if his coworker, Obi-Wan, could stop making his life a living hell that'd be great, but Cody is pretty sure the world will end for real before that happens.

Modern Dystopia happening in a 90’s Alternative Universe. Activism. Civil disobedience. The author must be from NZ itself because how else would they have so much knowledge about the slang, the culture, the places? Historical accuracy used like a punch to punctuate the story’s point. Fail gay men. Gay love.

I love the idea of a couple uniting while they are constructing something. This story, though, is less about the boat itself, but the journey they take toward that point. It’s mostly from Cody’s POV while the world, society and democracy is slowly imploding around him. 

At first, he tries to obey the law because he doesn’t want to suffer from discrimination. But as the story goes on, he just can’t follow it anymore because to do so would be to let people die when he could have helped save them. And so he fights.

Various characters take this journey too, along-side him, in the background.

In an extremely vivid New-Zealand setting, with an original format (written, audio, pictures, links to songs…), a story all the more impactful by what we’re currently all living through, two men falling in love and many people rallying for Fairness and Justice.

Amazing.

|vidur viduvasario| by littlekaracan (76K)

There, peeking out from between the grasses, was the glittering and unmistakable head of a grass snake. Cody blinked. Twice. “I – “ he began, and realized he didn’t quite know what to say. “Forgive me, are you – the grass snake, there?” The grass snake’s head twitched – as if reacting to his voice. He saw a flash of its forked tongue, and – “That would be me, yes.”

Between fairytale, folks tale Shakespearean-flavored, and TCW medieval AU. Obi-Wan is not a were-snake or cursed or about to give Cody an apple. He’s just… a snake. And not. I cannot explain too much away without spoiling the story but it was great.

No big, galactic stakes. Just Cody living in a village with his many, many brothers and meeting a snake. That’s it.

Done so well I kept thinking about it for weeks afterwards. Lovely.

|slâfst du, friedel ziere| by littlekaracan (64K)

“Help me,” he whispered, desperate for something he could not understand, and could feel the dirt slowly trickling into the emptiness of his eyes.

A moment of silence, and the voice relented.

“Come to me,” it whispered, and he wanted nothing more. “Come to me, darling, and I will do my best.”

That author decided to slay their readers without mercy and I am here for it. Willing head on the chopping block. Chopchopchop.

2224 is starting to reach the end of his shelf life. Amidst a fevered dream (or a vision?), he embarks on a final mission. That he fails, of course, just like he failed at dying.

Past the reunion of two battered traumatized men, between a journey toward self-forgiveness and the acceptance of the horror of their past and present, a healing of the minds, while Cody’s body is hurling toward death.

Happy ending, of course. I couldn’t stand it otherwise. But boy, there was a knot in my throat the whole while. And that passage where Obi-Wan [insert spolier]... I had to stop to straight up cry.

|keep the wolves away| by littlekaracan (59K, so far)

They saw her around Mos Eisley, sometimes, lingering by the repair shop where her father worked or sitting atop the crates strewn about the street. She had strange eyes - aged and watchful and inquisitive, even more so perhaps than the other children around her, although all of them had grown up too early all the same. (...) There was something important that Reva Sevander had learned throughout the last hours she spent in what once had been a safe haven, lying atop her murdered clanmates and trying not to make a sound as the stench of their deaths grew more and more oppressive - nothing, least of all tomorrow, was ensured.

I have recc-ed this author and I will recc them again! This one is a WIP and it is announced codywan, which is why I gave myself permission to cheat by putting it there since where it stopped, it hasn’t happened yet. But, if it ever becomes finished, I know it will be as brilliant as the rest. 

For someone who had many, many, many, many critics about the Kenobi Show, how they created the character of Reva (who, by all right, should have been awesome) and that hasn’t found a fic where I was able to enjoy her, I was absolutely bowled over by how much it made me root for her.

Yoda and Obi-Wan go to the Temple, before they decide to split to fight Sidious and Anakin respectively. They find Reva. They pick her up. And then, of course, someone has to take her with them when they decide to hide. Spoiler alert: it’s not Yoda.

It’s told from the POV of Reva and Obi-Wan broke my heart as well as made me want to shake him until his teeth rattle. I would be hard pressed to find a child in a fanfic described and characterized so authentically. Obi-Wan goes straight on the Depression Train, like in the show, but he can’t just lie down and let himself starve and stew in his nightmares, because there’s a child who depends on him. Two jedi in a post-jedi world. One who should be starting their journey, but didn’t, and one who should be passing the flame to the next generation, but can’t. Jfc.

The End!

That’s it folks.

When I received the ask for a codywan recc list, I was in a waning enthusiasm period for codywan fics (not the ship itself!).

Because I’m very picky and I have dozens upon dozens of criterias for codywan “fics I loved so much I bookmark them and recommend them to everyone”. I could read literally all week sometimes and not find one fic that meet all these (very subjective and personal, mind you!) criterias.

It’s not ungratefulness for people writing fics (are you kidding?), it’s a matter of taste. Without new canon being produced, fandom/ship tend to stagnate a bit in terms of narrative after a while. It happens to literally every fandom I have been a part of and is no critic of anyone or anything. That’s just the nature of things.

But, well. Then, the number of fics that scratch all my itches and that I haven’t read yet start to get smaller and smaller until, to find new gems, I have to plow through hundreds of fics first.

But I considered it a challenge to myself and my habits and accepted it gladly! To shake things up and find actual new stuff, I put the restriction on myself to look only for fics last updated between 2023 and 2024.

Because I already made a recc list in 2022 and I wanted to give what I hadn’t seen yet a chance.

As you can see, some truly amazing stuff came out of this! If with this list I manage to make you discover new fics, I will consider it worth it!

At the time I am writing this, there’s still plenty of fics downloaded and waiting to be read on my e-reader. But we’re reaching the end of the year so I’m stopping it there so that people can enjoy the fics over the holidays.

If I find new things, I will edit it ;) As always, suggestions are always welcome too!

Meanwhile, enjoy, leave kudos for the authors, and happy reading!!!!

[madsgotmadagain]

Writing Love letters:Yandere! Marko x Reader

Summary: You, a hopeless romantic, start to receive anonymous love letters in your mailbox. How sweet!It becomes less sweet, however, when your secret admirer starts to admire you a little too closely. And creepily. And may or may not be human but hey whose to say-

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: Stalking, feeling watched/paranoia, yandere behavior, blood, forced blood drinking/forced vampire turning, death of nameless characters, being held/pinned down, Marko cuts himself to feed you blood, mean Marko (he loses his temper, sort of apologizes?), cops being useless and snarky

If you catch any i may have not mentioned or tagged properly, let me know and I'll add them! I think this is mostly it though

Other important tags: Yandere/obsessive Marko, Italian Marko (uses of Italian pet names), reader uses she/her pronouns but body is not mentioned, oneshot, 8.3k words, this work is cross published on Ao3!!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You thought the first couple letters were sweet, really. If anything, the first few were just the tiniest bit. They showed up in your mailbox one day alongside the other bills and ads shoved in there by your mailman. You figured whoever was sending them wasn't using the postal service, however. The letters were anonymous, no name or return address or even a stamp on the back. Just “mi amore” written on the back of the envelope, and a wax seal keeping it shut.

You didn't see them all until you got home from work that night though. Waking up late left now time to collect your mail before you scrambled off to work. It was all too perfect for him, though.

"A wax seal. How fancy,” You thought when you saw it. Flipping the letter back and forth before you walked back into your home with the rest of your mail. Tossing it all except for the letter onto the coffee table, flopping down onto your sofa. Despite the exhaustion from work that day, this little envelope was sparking your interest. Thus, feeling the all consuming weight of curiosity, you carefully lift up the seal and take out the paper inside. Feeling the toothy grip of sketchbook paper on your fingertips as you pull it out, starting to read.

.……..……..……..……..……..……..……..……......................

“Mi Amore,”

“Seeing you working on the boardwalk has become the highlight of my nights. Passing by you fills me with emotions I haven't touched in a long time. Seeing your smile as you deal with whatever customer is talking to you, even when they don't deserve it- Dio mio, what I would give to get you to smile at me. A real, genuine smile in my direction. I would actually die right then and there.”

“I'm writing to tell you I love you. You have become my sun, the light of my life, my purpose - Mio Sole, I am helpless to my heart. Impossibly attracted to you, struggling to hold myself back from trying to sweep you off your feet and take you right then and there. I need an outlet. So I thought, hey, letters.”

“I need you to know how crazy I am about you. Even if you don't know me right away, or don't feel the same right now, you should know. I would kill for you. I would die for you. And right now, I live for you, my love.”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

“... Oh, wow,” is all you can think to say. Your face flushing red, a small smile on your lips. You couldn't believe what you were reading. Sure, you had gotten a love note or two in school, but it was always the typical, ‘Do you like me yes-no-box’ note. Never had you ever received anything like this. A confession of pure, unfiltered admiration. It was so fantastical, a plot plucked straight out of a cheesy rom-com, or some modern day period film. And for a single, hopeless romantic, it was an absolute dream come true.

You had no idea what this would bring. You had no idea that, as you sat on your sofa, giddily re-reading your letter, making sure you hadn't misread anything, someone was outside your windows. Smiling to himself as he watches you, greenish-grey eyes bore into you, past your body, staring at your soul.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

And so, as time went on, you got more letters. Each as romantic and lovingly crafted as the next. You even got to learn more about your secret admirer; for example, he was a bit of an artist. Small doodles scrawled into the margins of the pages, little hearts and doodles of whatever he was talking about scattered around the poetic lines of devotion. Once he even stuck in a whole separate paper in the envelope; a portrait of you.

“I tried to draw you last night,” He explained at the end of his writing. “It came out alright, I think - better than I thought it would. You can only do so much when your only references are memories. Still, one day, I'll get to see you up close, and I'll find a moment to sit you down and draw you as well as I know I could.”

He told you small stories about him and his friends, who you learned he lived with, though details beyond that were obscured from you. You had no clue where they all lived, just the assumption that it had to be here, somewhere in Santa Carla.

He admitted at one point that he started telling them all about you. “I want them to like you too,” he had written. “Not in the same way, of course, but I want them to like you. And for you to like them. I don't know what I'd do if I introduced you all and you wouldn't get along. You're all way too important for me to give any of you up.”

You also learned that he wasn't one of your coworkers. Given you only really went on the boardwalk for work, you thought maybe your secret admirer worked alongside you. But after asking around, nobody had any idea what you were talking about, not letting out even the tiniest slip that could hint they were lying.

For the time being, you decided to just let it be. Reveling in the affectionate lines and messages thrown your way. Basking in the possibility of a blooming romance, positively smitten for someone you hadn't even met before.

But then things started to get a bit… strange.

The letters kept coming, yes, with their wax seals and poetic declarations of love. But alongside them, other sorts of lines were written. Small phrases or comments that made you read again, their context causing slight confusion or concern.

“I saw you dealing with some creep last night,” He wrote once. The words starting to indent themselves into the paper, signs that the author was getting heavy handed. “It took everything in me to not go in there and deal with him myself right at that moment. Make sure he never looked at or talked to you like that ever again.”

You remembered the guy he was talking about. Just another punk from a gang prowling the boardwalk, looking to start up trouble. Trouble just so happened to mean bothering you at work, trying (and failing) to flirt, looking at your body like you were a slab of meat. It was definitely uncomfortable, but you managed to deal with him fine enough until he and his gang left the store. Praying he'd move on and you'd never have to see him again.

And that's just what happened, miraculously. The punk never came back into the store. Hell, none of them did. After that night, it was as if they never existed.

You couldn't help but think about the letter when you walked past his missing poster. A part of you suspected if your anonymous admirer had anything to do with it - but you quickly brushed it off, chuckling to yourself.

No, it couldn't be, you insisted to yourself. People went missing all the time in Santa Carla, it was nothing new. The guy probably just got into some stuff he shouldn't have and shit went bad. Still, the idea amused you whenever you'd think it at the time. Your secret letter writer, a guardian angel, batting away creepy boardwalk men so you didn't have to deal with them.

If only you knew your guardian angel had fists and fangs coated in blood that night. Laughing violently as the punk’s screams muffled into choking on his own blood, then started to stop. Watching with glee as the life faded from his eyes, while the rest of his gang picked off the others. Really, he would've kept him around longer if he had more time. Make him really scream, break a few extra bones, rip off just a bit more skin- But the rest of the boys were already finishing up, and this guy wasn't going to last much longer anyways. Thus, he sunk in his fangs, sucking the delinquent of every drop of blood.

Dinner had never tasted so sweet.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Yeah, no, this was definitely getting weird. Like, really weird.

The letters frequency slowed a bit; you went from a letter a day to one every few days. You wouldn't really think about it too much if that was it. Unfortunately, it wasn't.You felt like you were being watched. Particularly, at night, though it didn't matter where. You'd feel eyes on you at work, walking to your car, driving back home - even your house wasn't free from the creeping feeling that you weren't as alone as you thought you were.

You tried to brush it off. Justify it as you just being too alert after that creepy conversation with the punk. But still, that was weeks ago, and you were still feeling eyes blasting into you everywhere you went. It felt like as soon as the sun went down, the eyes were back. Night was no longer just a time of day for you; it meant constantly being on edge, waiting for something - or someone, even - to take an opportunity to try something.

The letters weren't helping either. Small bits that made you tilt your head had evolved past just being peculiar. Now, the words on the page were just plain creepy, and definitely not helping your anxieties.

He talked about things you hadn't mentioned to anyone. Intimate details about yourself and your life you intentionally kept under wraps. Writing about your friends outside of work, about the places you drive past on your way home (you tried a new route the other day, the letters started mentioning the new shops and streets you drove past).

The letters you once saw as a comfort, a distraction from long nights at work, we're now furthering your fears. What started as a cute little way to work up the courage to talk to you morphed into what felt like stalking you.But it wasn't until this incident that you were positive that something was very, very wrong.

..……………………………………………………………………….

"Mi Amore,”

“I really missed seeing you at work yesterday.”

(You had called off sick the last few nights. Your fears got the better of you, so you told your boss you couldn't make it. She was disgruntled, but she took it, so you had been keeping yourself at home for a bit.)

“Walking by the place and not seeing you just- felt wrong. Hopefully by the time you're reading this, you're back to work and I'm seeing you normally again. Not that you not going to work is stopping me much."

"Regardless, just rest up, amore. You're going to need it once you're back in the swing of things. In the meantime, I'll just settle for having to take the ride out. But I do have to admit, you look really cute like this - wearing those baggy shirts and pants, your hair all messy and tangled, all sleepy all the time. Eventually I'll get to wake up beside you and see you all disheveled like that. Everyday. Forever. It'll be perfect.”

“Get some rest, amore,”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

You reread the last paragraph about ten times, confused and a bit anxious. You hadn't gone out in your pajamas since elementary school. Especially not to the boardwalk of all places. Where you worked, where people you worked with or god forbid your boss could see you? Absolutely not.

He shouldn't be able to describe your pajamas.

You tried to calm down a bit, think through this logically. He probably just assumed, right? I mean, plenty of people wear baggy clothes to bed - you weren't special for doing that. Especially considering right now, everyone you knew thought you were sick.

Still, the feeling of being observed still hangs in the air, definitely not helping your nerves. Trying to calm down, you walk over to the window, figuring some fresh air would calm your nerves. Maybe you knew you really just wanted to check for something. To be positive everything was fine and you were thinking too hard about a few dumb lines in a somewhat strange letter.

But it wasn't. You open your curtains, then your windows. Taking a breath, tired, half lidded eyes look over your yard. Moving them across the land, into the woods that surrounded your home.

That's when you see it.

It's only there for a few moments. You saw it, blinked, and it was gone. But it was there. Even but for a fleeting second, it was there.

A figure stood in your yard. A human figure, a person was in your yard, standing in the trees. Despite being covered in shadows, the pale moonlight managed to barely illuminate their face. Just enough for you to catch the knowing smirk on their lips and the dangerous glint in their eyes, which almost seemed to glow a sickly yellow.

Your heart stops, your skin paling as you quickly slam your windows shut. Running around your house, doing the same to the rest of them. Then drawing all the curtains. Then checking your locks.

That was the nail in the coffin for you. You called your boss again, asked to switch off the night shift. Again, she was annoyed, but she said she'd look into it. You may not get your full paycheck, though, since you were running out of sick days. You told her that was fine, and you'd be there once you got your new hours. You hung up.

Once you checked to see whoever was there wasn't there anymore, you calmed down a little. Enough to realize all this started happening after you started getting the love letters. That everything was getting creepier and creepier alongside them.

Thus, you stopped picking them up. At first, you wouldn't even touch them, letting the papers all pile up in your mailbox. But then they increased in frequency again, and it turns out letting mail build up wasn't practical when you still had bills and other letters coming in. So instead, you just threw them out as soon as you got them. Got all your mail, leafed through to find the important stuff, then tossed everything else in your garbage bin.

If you weren't reciprocal, he'd lose interest. That was the thought running through your head as you tossed envelope after envelope in the trash. That's what you thought when after a few weeks, the letters stopped coming.

If only you knew what you were doing.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Marko was fucking pissed.

That's all he could feel as he wrote yet another letter; anger coursing through his veins. His grip on the pen so strong it felt as though it could snap in half at any moment. Considering the residue of dried ink on his fingers, it wouldn't be the first time tonight.

When you first saw him, he wasn't that upset. Easing you into his stranger ways of showing love was definitely the hardest part of his plan to get you to be with him. It made sense that you were a little freaked out. He just never thought you'd be this reactive.

You weren't at the boardwalk anymore. He and the other boys would walk past it on their way to cause havoc, and you weren't there. At first, he assumed you were sick. He sent his condolences for that. Went to make sure you were alright from a distance.

But days turned to two weeks, and you still weren't back. Eventually, Marko got up the courage to go inside and ask for you. And the cashier at the front desk (your work friend, he recognized), told him you weren't doing night shifts anymore. That you asked to be switched to the normal 9 - 5. Much to his confusion and slight betrayal.

Weren't doing night shifts? You asked to be changed? Excuse me? He thought he made it clear he wanted to see you at work. To you, he only got to see you in person at work.

He wrote to you about it. Vented his frustrations in the decision. Basically demanded you write something back this time, an explanation. Stuck it in your mailbox, along with several other letters you hadn't gotten yet (still faking sick, he guessed. You little liar.). And he waited. He waited a while. He waited until he got bored, cracked, and wrote another letter. Chuckling to himself as he drove to your place. God, look at you; cracking open his stubbornness with your own, baiting him into apologizing. God, he was whipped.

Then, he decided to hang back a moment after delivering your new letter; poke around a bit, see if anything interesting was happening around your home. It was night anyways, you were probably asleep. You wouldn't catch him. He had taken ‘poking around’ to mean, that night at least, you mean opening up your trash bin to see if you had thrown out anything neat. His usual smirk disappeared right off his face when he saw dozens of unopened letters staring back at him from the top of the bin.

You weren't replying because you were playing sick. You didn't know he wanted a response. Because you hadn't been reading his recent letters. You were throwing them away.

To say Marko was mad would be an understatement. He was livid. Fuming when he came back to the cave, quickly making his way to find a pen and paper. These past few weeks, he assumed you were just playing sick, but no. You were intentionally tossing all of his efforts and affections into the trash. You weren't even bothering to read them! You saw who sent it, and didn't even give him the light of day. After everything he said, everything he did for you, this was the thanks he got? The nerve! The fucking nerve you had!

“God damn…” he muttered, scribbling out the last few words before rewriting them. Not noticing the presence behind him until a hand is on his shoulder.

"Whatcha up to bud?” Paul's voice rings out throughout the cave, snapping Marko out of his rage-filled writing. Groaning, still upset, he turns to look at the other vampire.

"Writing to her,”

“Again?” Paul asks. Sitting down next to the curly-haired blond, tilting his head a little. “Didn't you, like, just get back from sticking one in her mail?”

“Took it back,” He huffed, looking back down at the envelope beside him. Then to the paper in front of him, glaring down at the words. “Changed my mind about some stuff. Got something else to say to her now.”

“Oh,” Paul starts. Sensing the tension in the air, he pulls out a cigarette, an offering. Marko's gloved hand pushes it away, shaking his head. “... did something happen? Your kinda-”

“I'm fine,” The shorter blond huffs. Finally setting down the pen as he reads over his paragraph, once, then twice. Satisfied, he stands up.

"You wanna come help me out with something?” He asks, back to smirking. Sensing the slight improvement in Marko's mood at the thought of this ‘something’, Paul nods. Watching Marko's smirk grow.

“Great, I'll go get David and Dwayne. Start up your bike. It'll be fun.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You woke at the sound of rumbling in the distance, confused and a bit grumpy. Glancing at the alarm on your nightstand, you concluded it was about two in the morning, which only added to your annoyance. What the hell is making that noise at two am?

It was bikers, you concluded. The sounds of revving and engines and wheels on the ground hinting at what was happening. Probably just some drunk bikers, going for a joyride too close to your house. Groaning, you just turn on your side, shove your pillow over your ears, and try to go back to bed.

But then the noises got closer. Then closer. Until the screeching of wheels and bike engines were ringing in your ears, and behind all of it, you could make out the howls of laughter from whoever was driving.

Your heart starts to race as you listen. What was happening? Why were these random bikers right outside of your house? You locked the doors before you went to bed, right?

A crash interrupts your anxious thinking; The shattering of glass. Followed by more hollering. Your blood runs cold.

Panic racing in your bones, you freeze. Listening with slight relief as you hear the engines and laughter fade into the distance. Unsure of what exactly just happened to you.

Cautiously, you move again. Rushing out of your room, making your way to where you heard the crash; the living room. Stopping, shivering when you see what was in there.

One of the large, main windows had shattered. Millions of tiny glass pieces litter across your carpet, and in the middle of it all, was a brick.A brick with paper tied around it.

You can feel yourself shake as you grab the brick. Pulling the string loose, you set the brick down on your coffee table, holding the paper in your hands as you make your way to the couch. Starting to read.

..……………………………………………………………………….

“Ok, that's it. I'm getting sick of your shit, (Y/n).”

The mention of your real name makes your stomach churn. Before this, he had always called you by a nickname, some term of endearment; mi amore, mio Sole, the whole shebang. The sudden use of your name is startling. Alongside the change in tone from the last time you had read from him.

“It was kinda cute at first. Seeing you all nervous, all jumpy - I liked seeing you squirm.”

“What isn't cute is ignoring me. Don't even deny it. I saw your trash.”

… shit.

“After everything we went through - everything I do for you - you think you can toss all my letters away? Like they all meant nothing to you? Like I meant nothing to you? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You don't get to do that. You don't get to just walk away and pretend nothings been because I came on a little too strong and freaked you out a bit. I've been very clear about my intentions with you from the very start of all this; you're mine. I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

“I'd do anything for you. You know that. I would die for you, I've lived my life every night for the last months thinking about you. Hell, I fucking killed for you! And you wanna back out now? No way in hell.”

“Obviously, we need to figure this out. Now. I'm done waiting for you to ‘be ready’. We tried playing this your way. Now, it's my turn.”“If you have plans tomorrow night, cancel them. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk about this.”

“ - Marko”

..……………………………………………………………………….

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You're screwed. Your actually fucking screwed. You have a crazy stalker who knows where you live, he's pissed at you, and he ‘wants to talk’.You're dead. You're actually, legitimately dead. He's going to come find you at home tomorrow, and he's going to kill you.You stare at the floor once you're done. The glass is still scattered across it. It's a miracle you haven't gotten cut yet.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

"What do you mean there's nothing you can do?!” You say, glaring at the officer across from you. The man sighs, taking another sip of his coffee as he looks you over.

“ma'am, for the last time, we don't exactly have a lot of evidence to go off of-”

“What more evidence do you need?! My window got smashed in! With this brick! The guy's name is on the note attached to it, for fucks sake!”

The cop just scoffs again, watching you slowly inch closer and closer to snapping. You had come to the station once you got off work, the safety of the sun calming your nerves enough to leave home. Assuming you'd just have to tell them what happened, fill out some paperwork, and the cops would catch your stalker so you could sleep easy.

Unfortunately, you forgot that the Santa Carla police force is utterly incompetent. You've been here for hours, and literally nothing has changed.

“Ma'am, we already looked for Markos in your system, we looked the paper and the brick you brought in,” the cop starts, his own voice indicating he was also on his last nerve. “And we've got nothing. Nobody named Marko, and the only prints on anything of that stuff was yours. There is literally nothing we can do with any of this information except maybe question you.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I shattered my own windows right now?!” You hiss out. Regretting it when the officer starts to glare back at you. Picking up a pen from his desk.

"Of course not. But I am telling you that unless it happens again, or you have more evidence, we have nothing to go off of. And as you can see,” He grunts, gesturing to the mountain of papers next to him. “We're a bit busy right now. Dealing with missing persons. Real threats to people. So I think you should see your way out so we can get back to work, Ma'am.”

And that was that. You stormed out of the police station, cursing the justice system as you made your way to your car. Unsure what to do.It was ten o'clock at night. You were tired. But the idea of going home was absolutely the question. He would be waiting for you there. That was absolutely not safe. But neither was staying here, a sitting duck if he discovered where you went. If he was serious about seeing you (as you assumed by his writing), this was the one of the most obvious places to look. So, you drove out of the parking lot, unsure where exactly you would go.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Finally clocking out of work, the officer made his way to his car, cursing the name of the woman he was forced to speak with earlier. Sighing with relief once he was inside. Goddamn, that took way too long.

"God, women..” he groaned, leaning back in his seat. If that damn girl could just take no for an answer, he could be at home right now. Eating his microwave dinner, watching TV, going to sleep. That's all he wanted, but no. Good lord, did he regret his career choices. He signed up to solve crimes, but instead he was stuck leafing through inevitable cold cases and listening to random people complain about pranks.

As freaked out as she seemed, he doubted it was a real emergency. Just some punks she pissed off screwing with her, he decided. It would all blow over, just like every other crime in Santa Carla did.

Unfortunately for him, the officer never made it home to his microwave dinner. He never even started his drive home. Just as he took his keys to the ignition, the roof of his car was ripped off. The cop himself was lifted into the air, the sounds of screaming rippling through the empty parking lot.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You don't know why you came here. You just drove wherever your instincts told you, and they took you here, to where it technically all started. Maybe it was the fact that the boardwalk was always crowded, the proximity to people a strange comfort.

Regardless, you're still not calm. The boardwalk was practically an all-night funfair, and it would eventually close. You didn't really know where you'd go after that; maybe you'd drive to a friend's house and ask if you could spend the night. Finally admit what you've been dealing with, get some actual help.

Sighing, you walk around, gazing into the windows of the various shops. The wood underneath you creaking as it always has, as it always will, forever. Carnival music floats around you, followed by laughter and then screaming.

Looking up, you find your legs have carried you over to the roller coaster. Watching the carts speed across the tracks, some people throwing their hands up, howling with joy. Others grip the steel handlebars until their knuckles turn white, eyes shut tight, maybe even trembling a little. Eventually, after enough staring, you find yourself walking into the line. Deciding to try and get your mind off of the letters and stalkers. Trying to ignore the paranoia haunting you.

Only to find that, once you reach the front, you need another person to even get on the damn thing. Apparently, going on carnival rides required friends now. Sighing, you roll your eyes, deciding to just go drown your anxieties in five dollar hot dogs and cotton candy, when a hand lightly grabs your shoulder.

“I'll ride with her. I'm alone too, anyways,” a voice pipes up next to you. Turning your head, your breath hitches at the sight of him.

He had curly blond hair, a small ponytail on the back of his head, not really serving any functional purpose. Greyish-green eyes and a smirk that would have anyone swooning, his manner relaxed. Hell, even his jacket had your attention; patches and pins and buttons and even fishing lures adorned the coat, eye candy for anyone who looked.

By god, he was gorgeous. Practically a living statue, like he was sculpted by pygmalion himself. Your cheeks flush, and you can hear your heart in your ears as he tightens his grip, looking at you before he lightly pushes you ahead. Before you know it, you're sitting next to him. Buckling up and gripping the bar designed to keep you in place.

“So, you come here often?” He asks, looking at you. Still smirking, giving his full undivided attention.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you manage to croak out. Trying to keep your cool, to not humiliate yourself in front of the hottest guy you've ever seen. “I work here.”

“You do?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks at you, still smirking. A voice rings over the speaker system, reminding people to fasten their belts and not be stupid on the ride as it starts to move.

Smiling, you nod. Brushing hair out of your face as you look ahead of yourself. Watching as the mechanics of the ride pull the carts up a hill.

“Yeah. At this little tourist shop by the carousel.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I've seen you in there a couple times,” He says. Still giving you that knowing smirk, sending a shiver up your spine. It was strange, almost familiar. Like you've seen that same face before. Before you can question things too much, he goes on. “Me and my friends are kinda over there a lot. Caught a couple glances at you in there sometimes.”

That lets you relax a little bit. He's familiar because you've probably subconsciously caught glimpses of him every now and again. Much less weird.

The ride keeps pushing up the hill. You can feel your cheeks burn as you listen, feeling a little silly. “Ah, that makes sense. You recognized me from just a couple quick looks?”

"How could I just forget the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen?” He asks, making you burst out in laughter. He seizes the opportunity to wrap his arm around your shoulder, making your face somehow turn more pink. God, this guy, what was he doing to you? You were almost hypnotized by his charms, every move you'd brush off as cheesy and cliché feeling perfect in the moment. Every touch you'd be weirded out by a stranger doing not feeling creepy or perverted. Rather, it felt right, like his arm belonged on your shoulder. Strange, but for once, a good strange. And after the night's you've been having, you needed a good strange.

“Seriously, though,” he keeps going. Rubbing your shoulder a little, his other hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know this seems sudden, but I feel like I just have to get to know such a pretty face. Let me get you a hot dog or something after this, yeah?”

Again, you're chuckling. God, this man was turning you into a giggling schoolgirl. It was so unlike you. “Already? I don't even know your name.”

He scoffs a little, looking into your eyes. “Sure you do, (Y/n). You just gotta think a little, don't you?”

His words make you pause, looking at him. Still smiling, though a bit confused now. Did you give him your name? You can't remember, your memory under the high of a hot boy flirting with you. “What?”

You watch as he throws his head back and chuckles, the noise coming out a bit more wild than the last few times. He looks back at you, but this time, it's different. The way he looks at you sends an all too familiar shudder down your spine. One you've gotten used to feeling when the sun went down; the feeling of being watched from the shadows. Except it's not hidden in the darkness anymore.

"God, you're really gonna be stupid tonight? Or are you just that Oblivious? It's Marko.”

“What?” The words slip past your lips again. The air grows more tense as your eyes go wide. Realization hitting you like a freight truck.

The ride stalls its movement as it reaches the peak of the tracks. You're high above the rest of the boardwalk, dangling on the edge of the drop. Marko just laughs again, each time he does it becoming more and more unhinged as he just smiles at you. Pulling you in a little closer.

“Hi Amore.”

The cart dives over the hill. You scream.

Marko just cackles, joining you with all too familiar cackling as the ride speeds on. You keep screaming in terror, watching him as you try to get as far from him as possible. Leaning onto your side of the cart, only for the speeding, winding turns to whip you both around into each other. As the wind blows against your face, your eyes water. You're not sure if it's from the ride or the fear in your body.

By the time it's over, your entire body is trembling. Marko just chuckles, re-wrapping his arm around you as he practically drags you out of the cart. “Aw, what's the problem, babe? Not a fan of roller coasters? You're shaking like a leaf…”

You don't reply, both because you already screamed your voice horse, and you're terrified of what he'll do to you if you do. He just keeps smirking as he helps you off. Ten minutes ago, his smirk was making you giggle and blush like a madman. Now, it was tainted. A brutal reminder that you just flirted with and rode next to your stalker, the guy who had been tormenting you for months before all this.

Before you can truly process what's happening, he re-wraps his arm around you, walking you away from the coaster. Rubbing your tense flesh, he keeps talking, almost as if he was taunting you.

“You're such a quiet thing, aren't you, Amore? Well, that's fine, I guess. Better for the moment, I think, anyways. Don't scream, don't try anything. I'm not gonna hurt you, you're fine. I'm just gonna take you home now, alright? We're just going home.”

His voice rings in your ear, whispering. You think he's trying to imitate comfort, but it just fills you with more dread. Holding you tight against him as you walk across the boardwalk. Back over to the carousel, across from your store, to the bike racks. He lets go for a moment, and you debate running. But he's already revving the bike, looking at you expectantly. “Get on, babe.”

It's not a request, and it's not an order. It feels closer to a threat. ‘Get on my bike or so help me god, i will hunt your ass down’. The expectant look in his eyes exemplifies this. Thus, slightly intimidated, you get on the bike. Begrudgingly bringing shaky hands to wrap around his bare waist, not wanting to touch him, but almost not wanting to fall off.

"I drove my car here,” you finally mumble. The only protest you've let out at this point, and you're starting to question why you've only just started. Was he somehow fucking with your brain? Maybe you were just too scared, too complacent. Marko just chuckles again. Taking a moment to rev his bike up loader, the motors screaming in your ears before he replies.

“You won't need a car where you're going, babe. Now hold on tight, don't fall off. I don't want to see your pretty little brains splattered on the ground.”

And as he starts to speed off into the night, you take his advice. Not wanting to have reckless driving on the fault of your stalker be the cause of your death.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

All things considered, this place was nice. The cave served as a much needed break after racing around the boardwalk. And the woods. And almost over a cliff. A part of you thinks he did that last bit on purpose, scaring you into grabbing onto him tighter as he cackled. Made you feel even more helpless as he took your hand and led you into what looked like, and what Marko mentioned to be, an abandoned hotel lobby.

You ended up on this stuffed couch in the middle of it all. Old and worn, yet simultaneously one of the comfiest surfaces you've ever sat on. Under different circumstances, this would've been the most comfortable you've felt in a while.

Unfortunately, you're only here because of him. And he's right there, next to you, staring at you with those piercing green eyes. You managed to keep some distance, leaning over the right arm of the couch while he leaned back on the left. After a moment, you feel a tapping on your shoulder, and glancing over, he's behind you. That damn smirk still plastered on his face.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asks, breaking the silence that had fallen over you both once you were in the cave. A Chinese takeout box in his hands, holding it out to you.

Cautiously, you peer into the box, half expecting another cheap scare tactic, like for the thing to be full of worms and maggots. But no, it's just rice. Plain, unseasoned, white rice and a spoon. He chuckles as he watches you, like he's finding your apprehension to take food from your stalker amusing. “Aw, don't gimme that face. It's not like its poison or anything, babe. Just some rice. Here, look,”

When he speaks, he lifts the spoon and brings it to his mouth. Eating a bite before holding the box back out to you, sticking the spoon back in. “Only rice, amore. Leftovers from the other night, it's perfectly fine. C'mon, eat. Have some dinner. You know you should.”

Slowly, you wrap your hands around the box, taking it. Sticking the spoon deeper into the box before getting some rice on it, putting it in your mouth. A small wave of relief washes over you when it doesn't taste like anything was wrong with it. It doesn't last long, still feeling his eyes on you, and then he starts talking again. To your pleasure, he stands up.

"Thirsty?” He asks, walking off somewhere. His voice continues, a subtle reminder he's still too close for you to make a run for it. Sounds of things clinking together intertwining with his words. “I'd imagine if you're hungry, you're probably thirsty. Luckily for us, we never seem to have a shortage of drinks around here.”

He comes back a minute later, two glasses in hand. Handing one to you as he sits back down next to you.

Once again, you into your cup. The liquid was red and thick, almost syrupy. The longer you looked at it, the more uneasy you felt. Something about this all was just… so wrong. You got taken to an unfamiliar location, alone, with the guy who's been stalking you for probably months now, and you're sitting around having dinner with him. Like some sort of fucked up date night.

"Um, I'm fine…” You mumble. Thinking about every opportunity he had to do something to your glass.

Again, he just chuckles as he looks at you. “Geez, you're somehow both the most and least trusting person on the planet, babe.”

“Considering your current track record, I think I have a good reason to not exactly trust you right now.” You say, scoffing a little. Staring at your reflection in the cup, cringing a little. God, you looked more stressed than you had first thought. One look at your face and somebody could instantly tell something was amiss.

Too bad there was nobody around to look at you. Nobody but him.

“Okay, I guess,” he shrugs, sighing a little, leaning back into the plushness of the couch. “But seriously, it's fine. I have no reason to hurt you now. Trust me, if I wanted to, I would have already. You're here, and you're mine. So stop stressing and just take a sip already.” Once he speaks, he drinks, shutting his eyes as he swallows. A satisfied smile on his lips as he does so.

Looking between your cup and him, you sigh. Cautiously, you lift the cup to your lips, taking a sip of the mystery liquid.

The realization and regret sinks in almost instantly when the drink hits your taste buds.

Your eyes shoot open as you cough the drink back into your cup. Choking and sputtering as you drop the glass, watching the dense red liquid sink into the carpet. Marko's hands move to your shoulders, rubbing, looking at you. “Woah! Hey, hey, you good? What's wrong? Does it not taste good?”

“... what is this?” You ask, looking back at him. He blinks, staring at you, then shrugs.

“Uh, wine? Some random bottle I found back there with the others. Why?”

You shake your head, leaning out of his touch. He's pretty good, for a liar. There's no way he didn't know. The taste of it is too distinct, that tangy metallic taste on your lips- you shudder at the thought. “I know what blood tastes like, you freak.”

The words hiss their way out of your mouth before you can think. And by the way his confusion falls into dark realization, you're right. A deep chuckle rings through the room, and he grips your shoulders a little tighter. “Well, guess you can be smart when you actually think, huh? Damn, guess we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way-”

He's interrupted by your elbow shoving into his guts. As he groans, his hands loosening, you take the opportunity to stand up. Running back, away from him, towards the entrance of the cave. Your brain on auto-pilot, only thinking about easy ways to get away from him, from this total creep who just tried to get you to drink blood.

However, just as you get to the stop of the steep entrance out, a pair of hands grab onto your waist. Making you slip, pulling you back down into the fray. Ending up with you on the ground, and Marko overtop of you, sitting on your hips to keep you there. He's different now, though.

The grey-green eyes are replaced with yellowing orange ones, with dark circles around them. His nails grew longer, now closer to claws than normal, human hands. And when he smirks, seeing you below him, you notice something in his mouth. Fangs. Among his teeth are now sharp, pointed fangs.

The very same eyes and teeth you saw all those nights ago, staring at you from the trees.

“Oh, you must be feeling real fucking clever now, huh?” He asks, head tilting before he laughs. His voice is more gravely, almost like he's hissing out each word, and his laughter sounds closer to howling, like a wild animal. “Too bad you're too slow. But don't worry, amore. I'll fix all of that right here, right now…”

You try to get up. You really do. Yelling and flailing around your limbs. He just grabs your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head, laughing harder. Your kicking is rendered useless with how he sits on top of you. The same terrified, helpless feeling from the roller coaster returning.

You watch as he shrugs his free arm out of his jacket. The fabric falling off his shoulder, laying against his back as he raises his free arm. “C'mon, quit moving. I'm doing this for you, babe. For us.” He says, staring into your eyes, that damn smirk coming back. It's terrifying how quickly he can switch up, from being livid one moment and all cocky and smug the next. “I love you. I've loved you since the moment I first saw you. And unfortunately, my patience for your shit has run very, very thin.”

As he speaks, he brings his wrist to his teeth. And you're left to watch in horror as he sinks his fangs into his own flesh, ripping a gash into his flesh. Licking his lips as he pulls away, the red liquid already beading at the opening.

“I need you, Amore. I need you like I need the air I breathe. The night I live in,” Looking at you, he tightens his grip. The smirk widening into something more sinister. “The blood I drink. And soon, the blood you'll drink, too. Now open up.”

The moment you process those words, the fight all comes rushing back. You scream, thrashing your head around, desperately trying to buck him off and wiggle away. He just groans and curses under his breath, gripping you harder, shifting his weight on you to get closer to your face. Before anything else, it's clear this interaction is just annoying to him. Like your refusal and protests to him trying to shove blood down your throat is nothing but a minor inconvenience, a bug he has to squish, a chore he has to finish before he can leave the house.

“Goddammit, (Y/n), don't- Stop fucking squirming and just let me-” He says, his voice laced with venom as he continues to try, shoving his open wound towards your face. You keep avoiding it, eyes shut tightly as tears well in them. Scorning yourself for ever leaving the house tonight, for not burning the letters, for even opening the first one he ever sent you-

“- Gotcha!” Marko smiles wickedly as he thrusts his wrist into your open, screaming mouth. The blood is coming out faster, thanks to the gravity of your head on the floor. For a second, you think of bite him. Only to end up with a steadier stream hitting the back of your throat due to the pressure, making you gag. Tears flow down your cheeks as the warm, metallic taste flows into your mouth. A sick feeling forms in your stomach. You want to throw up. Needing to get this syrupy shit out of your mouth, out of your body.

He stays like that for a few minutes, mumbling and smiling to himself. “Yeah, there you go, there's my girl… It's much better from the source, right? You don't want that nasty bottled stuff, sitting out for weeks… Don't worry, from now on, if you want a drink, you can just come to me and we'll get you some…”

Eventually, he pulls his wrist from your mouth. A few moments later, he gets off of you, instantly pulling you to his side. Hugging you, holding you as you both sat on the floor. Tears run down your face, the screaming having turned to soft sobs. He wipes your face, much softer than before. It somehow is just as scary, but you think you'd grow used to that.

“Aw, c'mon, babe, don't cry, you're alright. Look, I'm sorry I got a little mean back there, I just - I got frustrated,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Like that will make any of what just happened any better. “...This is just something I had to do. I had to make sure you can really be all mine forever, okay? Can't have mio sole getting old and dying on me, right?” He chuckles, rubbing your shoulder while he hugs you.

You don't respond. He sighs, moving to stand. Picking you up with him, cradling you in his arms as walks deeper into the cave. “... You're just tired, you need to get some rest. Your poor body's gonna be put through the ringer pretty soon… Don't worry too much, babe. You'll like being a vampire.”

“Vampire?” You mumble, staring ahead as he brings you to a curtain. Pulling it away to reveal a mattress coated in blankets and pillows. Setting you down in one corner of it, chuckling a little.

“Yeah, babe, vampires. Wasn't kidding around drinking blood. And soon, you'll be, too,” he says, pulling a blanket overtop of you. You shiver at his words. Again, he just laughs a little. “Don't think about it too much right now. We can deal with it tomorrow. Just get some rest, love. You're gonna need it.”

And with that, he presses a final kiss to your head. Watching as your eyes grow heavy, your body tired and loopy. The rush of everything catching up to you, all you can think to do is pass out on the cushiness of the bed. Sure, whatever. You'll deal with all this in the morning.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

And Woo! There it is! Its done!

Thank you everyone who waited patiently after I announced this fic and read to the end! Sorry it took kind of long, i kept getting stuck and getting busy and overestimated how fast I could work 😭

Overall im pretty happy with this! Somehow dispite being a oneshot its the longest thing I ever wrote? Ive spent so long on it, I cant help but to not hate it. Sorta just happy I didnt give up halfway through lol

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!! have a good day/night! :3

[bkgexe]

rotary devotion

caleb (love and deepspace) x reader ✾ part 1/2 ✾ 15k (35k total)

✾ info! “I wish I could see into your head,” you murmur, freeing one hand from his grasp and tapping a finger against his forehead, right between his eyebrows.

“You don’t,” he says, because god, you don’t. He’s the exact kind of man that he wants to protect you from. But he’s also the only man that can protect you right.

✾ tw! yandere-adjacent activities typical of caleb... like he's doing that already and he's not even sorry about it. f!reader referred to w/ gendered language and she/her pronouns.

✾ notes! ohhhh man. this is just an exploration of how they exist together. massively angst with a happy(ish) ending. smut in part two, published now. read on ao3 if u would prefer!!!!

When you were younger, Caleb loved your hair. He would detangle it for you, dry it after a wash day, braid it when you wanted any specific style. He was careful with you always. If he accidentally pulled to the point of pain, he would massage your scalp with his fingers until the ache went away. He would apologize and ask you to forgive him, even though he already knew the forgiveness was assured.

The first thing you do when you get home from Skyhaven is cut it off. 

You wanted to do this when you joined the Hunter Association. You’d been growing your hair out since the Chronorift Catastrophe—most of it had gotten burnt off. As you aged, it grew long and healthy and Caleb was fixated on it, always patting your head, asking to help style it, keeping stray strands out of your face with gentle fingers. But it was long and you needed it out of the way for work, so cutting it was the most obvious thing to do.

And then Caleb died, and it didn’t feel right. To lose him and then cut away the memories of him sitting with you while he took the time to braid it carefully from scalp to ends, of bickering with him and laughing with him and reveling in the feeling of his strong hands turning gentle just for you.

You want to scream. You want to cry for hours and hours. You want to kill him and make sure he’s actually dead, to validate the grief you went through and the grief you’re still experiencing.

When you’re done, the floor around you is carpeted with hair, so much that you can barely see the tiling beneath. It’s just longer than shoulder-length now, enough to tie up so it doesn’t get in your face. You’ve been back home from Skyhaven for maybe an hour. You can still see Caleb on the airway saying goodbye, certain that you hate him for everything he’s done, everything he’s kept from you.

You should hate him. You should. You look at the forgiveness coupon that Caleb slipped into your belongings where you’d set it on your bathroom counter upon getting home. You should, and you sit on the floor in the pile of hair you’ve left behind because you don’t know what else to do.

You should and you can’t. 

You see him again a couple of weeks later and it’s still painful. It’s like seeing a ghost, like you’re hallucinating something you’ve wanted for months. But it’s wrong because it’s real. It’s wrong because it’s not him, somehow, even though it is.

“Pip-squeak—what did you do?” he asks.

You didn’t think you’d run into him here—you’re helping a shopkeeper empty out her store before sale. You were a regular as a child, and you remember her vividly from when you used to coyly ask for a caramel before leaving even though you didn’t have the allowance to pay for it. She usually relented. If she didn’t, Caleb would buy one for you anyway. “Don’t call me that.” 

The nickname is so ridiculous. You’ve always hated it but you hate it even more now, because it’s this new Caleb that’s using it as if he’s anything like your Caleb. He’s a sick imitation at best.

He says your name like this is all a joke, as if you’re just pushing back to push back, as if—surprise!—he’s been fine this whole time and now everything is okay. “Too grown-up for nicknames, huh?” he teases.

You continue your task of packing left-over merchandise into a large box, deciding not to respond. There’s a lump in your throat that’s too thick to swallow around.

“Your hair was so pretty.” He sounds so nostalgic that your brain stutters, your hands stilling for a moment. “Well—still is. Of course you’d look good with any hairstyle,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world, and he reaches out from where he leans on the counter, watching you, to pull at the ends of your hair.

You flinch back, instinctually moving to push his hand away, but he catches your wrist. You haven’t forgotten the way he held you down in Skyhaven—the things he said. How he wants to keep you, protect you in his odd, twisted way. He managed to hold you completely still without bruising your wrists, and his hold is very similar to what it was then. Firm and unyielding, but not punishing. Not yet. There’s an edge in his eyes that tells you it could get there.

Here is something terrible and secret: as much as you hate him for leaving you, for treating you the way he has since he’s been back in your life, there is some small, rotten part of you that loves it. When you confirmed that he was alive—that he was alive , and you grieved him for so long —your instinct told you to hold him in your jaws and bite down hard. To make sure he could never leave you again without leaving a sizable chunk of flesh behind. It’s a relief to see that mirrored in him. It makes you feel less insane. 

You’ve loved Caleb for your whole life. Of course you have. He’s been everything to you.

You loved him every time he asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend so he could complete his studies in peace. You loved him past his graduation, where you’d kissed his cheek in front of the entirety of his graduating class to stake some sort of claim on him. You loved him when he worked for the DAA, when his hours were so frantically busy that you barely got a phone call from him once a week. You loved him when he was on leave, when he came to visit you and Gran and smiled so brightly at you despite how exhausted you could tell he was. You loved him when he died. Past that. You loved him when he reappeared in your life, when he refused to explain how he survived, why he hadn’t contacted you, the terms of his new employment with a shady agency.

Being touched by him now is hard because it makes you remember this. It makes you remember the way you feel and the way you should feel.

His grip on you loosens, that odd gleam in his eye petering down to only a spark. His thumb, careful and soft, swipes across the inside of your wrist. You pull away before he can realize he’s given you goosebumps. “Why’d you cut your hair?” he asks.

You resume packing the box in front of you, and you hate him. You hate him. You hate him. You remind yourself of this until it feels true. “What are you doing in Linkon?”

“You wanna do a question for a question?” he asks. “That was the only way I was ever able to get any info out of you when we were kids.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” you say, but what you really want to tell him is to stop reminiscing all the time. Stop bringing up the fact that you shared a childhood, that he was the most important person in your life before he died. You had just figured out how to live without him. Only some days. Only some hours, more often than not. You could go a little without thinking about him before you remembered and that same awful feeling of emptiness crept back in. “I cut my hair because it needed to be cut.”

In your peripherals, you see him lean further across the counter. His arms are crossed, fingers of one hand drumming against a toned bicep—he’s still wearing those god-awful sleeveless shirts, even now, as if nothing has changed—and you remember how working out with him had gotten more distracting as you’d gotten older, how you couldn’t stop noticing the way the rest of his body finally began to match his height, how you used to rest your hands on his shoulders before he gave you piggy-back rides and how those same shoulders used to be much less wide than they are now. 

“You seem to be awful deep in thought,” Caleb says, and your hands hadn’t been moving this whole time. “Something you wanna share?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Your ears are burning. You hate that he makes you feel like a kid, like you’ve done something wrong.

“Oh, so we are playing,” he says, and you don’t have to look to know the grin he’s wearing. You know him like the feeling of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. You know him the way you know a shirt you’ve been wearing beneath a sweater all day. “Would it be a bad thing if I said that I came just to see you?”

“How did you know where I’d be?”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Nuh-uh. You have to answer my question first. That’s how it works.”

You give up on the box you’re packing and stand, turn to look at him. You hadn’t realized how little room was behind the counter. It seemed like such a large place when you were little, the glass jars filled with candies bigger than your whole body. Now, you pick the jars up with ease. Now, the space between you and Caleb is basically infinitesimal with the way he leans towards you, coaxed in like a moon.

You consider his question. “It’s a waste of a trip,” you tell him. “I’m busy. I can’t babysit you today.” You don’t say it’s a bad thing that he came to visit because you’d be lying. Or, in reality: it puts into perspective that it’s actually a terrible thing, because it makes you realize just how badly you want to see him.

“You don’t have to worry about babysitting me. I’m pretty self-sufficient,” he says. “Besides, I’m here to worry about you . Don’t they say that people only cut their hair this dramatically if they’re going through a crisis?” He eyes your hair, fingers curling against his bicep as if to stop himself from reaching out again. To stop himself from wanting to touch. From wanting at all.

Maybe that’s wishful thinking, but you’ve wished for much worse in regards to him. You’ve wanted him to want a lot more from you. “No crisis here,” you tell him, your voice betraying you in its hollowness. “You can go back to Skyhaven.” 

There’s frustration beneath his veneer of good humor. You’ve always been good at pushing Caleb’s buttons—he makes it a competitive sport to push yours. But the difference between the two of you is that he likes when you push his buttons. You’re not doing that right now. You’re not playing. You know from experience that he hates it when you refuse to engage. “What do you want me to do, pip?” The question is exasperated. Wheedling. Genuine, beneath that.

“Do not,” you repeat, voice hard like a coin, “call me that.” You cross your arms, staring a hole into the wooden counter. You hate the fucking nickname. Looking at him is hard. His favorite color is red and you hate making him sad. “And you didn’t answer my question. How did you know I’d be here?”

He shrugs, but now it’s him that won’t meet your eyes. “I have notifications for the neighborhood. I saw the post about this place shutting down and asking for volunteers to help. I figured you’d respond to it.”

It feels too neat. Too simple. You know he’s no longer a stranger to lying to you. But you want to believe him so, so badly—and truly, smothered under layers of common sense, you know that if it was something a little worse, you wouldn’t even mind. If he was keeping tabs on you. The thought puts electricity under your skin, makes you feel heavy the way you did when Caleb used his Evol to keep you in place back in Skyhaven. 

“Answer mine now?” It seems like he didn’t want that to be a question, but something in him is a little broken, a little loose. He can be demanding. You’ve seen it firsthand. But in this scenario at least, he’s aware that you can deny him what he wants. “What do you want me to do?”

“You used to tell me you’d never lie to me,” you say. “You promised me.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

“You’re not telling me the whole truth.”

“I’m protecting you,” he says, and the emotion behind those words is so emphatic that you get that heavy feeling in your stomach like you want to cry but can’t. It’s the way you felt the entire time you were in Skyhaven, reeling from the reveal that Caleb had never died. He reaches across the counter, forearm resting on the varnished wood, hand hanging off the edge as if waiting for you to catch it. “You know I’d tell you everything if I could.”

You don’t know that. You would have taken him at his word a year ago. Now, you’re not so sure. “If you’re not going to tell me what I want to know, then at least help me finish packing everything up.”

He nods and steps back from the counter. Gets this complicated look behind his eyes, the same look he used to get when you got older and told him you didn’t want to hang out with him as much. It wasn’t true—you just wanted him to prove how badly he wanted to spend time with you. “As you wish,” he says, back to grinning. The expression is boyish, charming, nothing like the person he was a few moments ago when he claimed to be protecting you. The sudden change gives you whiplash. 

There’s a stack of unfolded boxes leaning against the wall behind him, and he does as you ask—picks one up, folds and tapes the bottom, begins to pack up merchandise. There is only the sound of both of you at work for a few minutes, until Caleb clears his throat. “One more question.”

You try to bite back your sigh and fail massively. “Fine. What.”

“Did you think about me? When I was away?”

Your hands start shaking almost immediately. It’s all anger, all frustration and rage and a deep, cloying sadness that feels like his fingers against your scalp, that feels like him whispering sorry and meaning it. A summer night: you’re nineteen and Caleb is carefully taking apart your long braids during sunset on the porch at Gran’s house, fireflies dotting the sky, the smell of a bonfire and his sweat from playing basketball with his friends from the neighborhood, and it was the first time you ever wanted to kiss him. You felt so guilty, then. You feel the same way now. “Away,” you repeat.

He has stilled entirely. He’s that same boy that sat with you that night and noticed you looking at his lips when he got a little too close, who looked at yours right back, whose grip tightened on your hair enough to let you know that there was something there like want, even though you were never fully sure. He’s that same boy grown up, and at the same time he’s not . But he reacts like that boy would have—his face falls, and he knows he used the wrong words, and he opens his mouth because he always has something to say to fix a situation, to make you feel better.

But you don’t let him speak. “Caleb, you were dead . Do you understand that?”

“I—”

“Look at me,” you say, “and tell me that there is any possible way you could understand what I went through.”

He doesn’t speak.

“You were in Skyhaven becoming a colonel. I was…” You were reeling from the loss of your best friend. The man you quietly loved. You went to work every day and you fought Wanderers and took on missions but you weren’t really there . You weren’t awake. Everything was a dream, something you’d eventually wake up from, something you’d tell Caleb about after you went to his room to curl up in his arms. And he would reassure you, I’m not dead, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere but you can still hold onto me tight if it makes you feel better , and you’d fall back asleep and never dream about this terrible reality again. 

“Of course I thought about you,” you say, and you don’t want to be telling him this. He doesn’t deserve to hear it.

He says your name very quietly, like an apology.

You can’t look at him. Your hands are still shaking. “You need to—I think you need to leave.”

He hesitates for a moment, seemingly torn between moving towards you to comfort you and keeping his distance because he knows that’s what you need. He’s so easy to read. He’s done the same thing since childhood, his protective instincts warring with logical reason. He settles on quietly asking, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you spit, the word a little more venomous than you mean it to be.

“I’m sorry,” he says. You know he means it. He always means it.

You nod. You can’t say anything else or you’re going to break. All you want is for him to hold you right now because nothing has ever calmed you down like his arms wrapped around you, his face in your hair, his big hands curling around your sides. 

He leaves. You sit there for a moment with the weight of his absence, and then you get back to work as if nothing happened. The same thing you’ve done every morning since he died.

˚✧ ﾟ.

The thing you don’t understand is that he really is sorry. Truly, completely, wholly.

When he woke up after the explosion, you were the first thing he thought of. The blood on your sleeve—how did that get there? How did you manage to get hurt when he was looking away for less than a minute? And why were you lying to him about it? He wouldn’t look away again. He wouldn’t let you out of his sight.

And then he felt the pain, and he wasn’t able to think about much else.

He sits in his office. There’s a small picture of you on his desk—now that he’s a colonel and he’s allowed personal effects at work—that he’s had for years. Summer, high school, when he had just graduated and you were about to be a sophomore. You in a pretty yellow dress he’d bought you with his allowance, lace at the neck. Too pretty for you to wear with anyone but him. He’d made you promise him. Only for special occasions with Gran or times when he came back to visit. The bottom right corner is notably matte against the gloss of the rest of the photo, faded from all the times he used to pull it out of his wallet just to look, stroking his thumb across the ruffled material of the knee-length skirt.

You’re at home. He has only one tab up on his computer that’s not Fleet business—the CCTV stream from the camera across from your apartment building. He made sure you got home safe, and now he’s just monitoring. Making sure no one shady shows up. 

You haven’t called or texted him since the last time he saw you, and he doesn’t want to text first to pressure you into coming back to him before you’re ready. He knows that you’re dealing with a lot. Knows that him coming back was hard on you. He’ll let you have the space you need. He just wants to make sure you’re safe.

And it’s not as if he’s watching you all hours of the day. He’s being reasonable. He just makes sure you get to work safe, get back home okay. Checks the messages you send to your colleagues with your post-battle reports to make sure you haven’t been hurt. Really, the messages shouldn’t be sent over an unprotected server, even if the documents themselves are highly encrypted. The Hunter Association should expect people to intercept and decrypt their documents if they’re going to operate with such low security standards.

He doesn’t look at anything personal, obviously. Doesn’t check your messages with other people, even though he sees a lot of suspiciously male names in your inbox. Doesn’t go through your drafts on any social media, even though he could. He wants you to have your privacy. (She would be so scared of you if she knew about this.) He doesn’t want to scare you.

Waiting is difficult. Especially when you post something for the anniversary of Gran’s death and don’t mention him. He understands, though—it’s complicated, now that you know he’s alive.

Gran wasn’t supposed to die that way. It wasn’t how the plan was put to him. It would have been later, when you’d gone back to the Academy, when he was at the DAA. You weren’t supposed to see it, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to get caught in the crossfire.

For a long time, he was so angry that Ever changed the plan. That they [                                    ]. [                                                         ] the trauma it must have inflicted upon you. [                                                                                          ] to help you, but [                                                                                                   ]. 

They had their reasons, he guesses. If you thought he was dead, if he wasn’t allowed to contact you, things would go smoother. He would’ve appreciated some heads up, but that’s not how things shook out. They needed Caleb to uphold his end of the bargain as quickly as possible. Of course, they’d let him see you again—he’d just have to reach a certain rank within the Farspace Fleet first. Attain a position of power so undeniable that the only people who could control him would be the very people that put him on this path. Living under Ever’s thumb.

Whatever they needed him to do he would do. Because you were going to die, and they were the only ones who could fix you.

The position itself doesn’t matter to him. He never cared about being in power. People usually do what he asks regardless. There’s a language to the way people move through the world—they look up to certain personalities, react well to certain stimuli. You used to call it charisma. Caleb would call it something worse, but you had always been the one to see him in a more positive light. 

He didn’t care that they needed him to do whatever was necessary to climb the ranks of the Farspace Fleet, which he did with brutal and vicious speed. He didn’t care when they made him [                                                                                                        ]. He didn’t care that they replaced his arm with cold metal, that they put a chip in his brain that steadily made him lose parts of himself that were deemed too caustic, too empathetic. 

Sometimes, though, he wonders. What’ll be left of him in a year? Five years? He knows there’s a lot missing, things he’ll never get back. He knows that’s the point of the chip. A perfect weapon can’t be appealed to like a human can. 

But if he’s going to be a weapon, he wants to be yours. He seals parts of himself away, constantly using his Evol to protect his brain against Ever’s technology. They don’t know he’s doing it, he doesn’t think. He’ll become whatever they need him to be—but he’ll never become something that could hurt you. He doesn’t care about anything but you. 

He didn’t care that Ever needed to tear him apart physically to turn him into what he is now, and he didn’t care that they wanted Gran dead. He was well aware that the two of you were little more than scapegoats for her, her guilt assuaged by your upbringing. She was the reason you were going to die, anyway. The experiments she and her group of scientists performed to augment the aether core in your heart did something unalterable, nigh impossible to fix. You’re a star on the edge of implosion, ready to rip itself apart with its own terrible power.

Your heart will give out in the next ten years, they told him, unless the aether core within is stabilized. Ever had the only scientists, the only doctors that could help you. They just needed a weapon in return. 

And Josephine hadn’t only created you, the angel that you are.

Sometimes he considers what he might have been like if he’d grown up unaltered by Gran’s experiments. If he’d have been able to crush a man’s heart, leaving no external wounds behind. If he’d have had the ability to flatten a spaceship in orbit. If his body would have been built to withstand the kind of G-force that could fatally pressurize the organs of a weaker man. 

Would you have liked him like that? Physically smaller, altogether weaker? (She only deserves the best. You have to be perfect for her.) Do his looks matter to you? Do you like him now, as he is? When other boys, looked at you at school, he [                                                                                          ]. [                                                               ] wouldn’t hurt them—for you. You wouldn’t want him to. But [                                                                                                                                           ]. He would walk you home and you would put your hand in his and he would always think: so beautiful. Of course he would protect you for the rest of his life. 

He sees the light in your apartment go on. Your bedroom, he thinks, but he really tries his best not to look. He wants to learn the layout of your apartment on your terms, when you invite him there yourself.

The report he needs to finish before he leaves the office sits in the same state it has for the past twenty minutes. He should finish it. He should go home, where he doesn’t have access to you like this. Where he can’t go through official channels and use the power he clawed into his own hands to assure your safety.

Because you wouldn’t like it. He knows you wouldn’t. (You’re going to scare her.) He should finish this report and go home and leave you to whatever it is you’re doing with the lights on in your bedroom this late. There’s a car outside the building, one he didn’t see pull up while he was zoned out, thinking about you. And now you’re awake, the light on in your bedroom. Potentially with someone else.

[                         ] your [                                                                 ]. You [                                                                                     ] your home [                                                                       ]. [                                                                   ]. [                                                                                                                 ]. [                                                                                                    ] treat you like you deserve. [                                                                                                                                                     ]. [                                                                                              ]. [                                                                 ] yours. Just yours. [                                                                                                                                                                        ]. [                                                 ] because you were pretty when you were younger but now you’ve grown into the kind of beauty he wants to feel on his tongue, and if [                                                                                                                                      ].

He’s on his knees on the floor of his office, lungs burning. His metal hand has rent a chunk of splintered wood from his desk. Breathe. He knows. This is what he has to do. Slowly, deep. Until he can feel the air touching the bottom of his lungs. He brings a gloved hand to his face, wipes away tears. This always happens when the neurons are burnt away. It’s an autonomic reaction, the way eyes water when the nose is hit hard enough. 

Sometimes the memories come back. Usually they don’t. Either way, he always feels a sort of emptiness in his head, a heavy weight of nothingness that will always remind him that he has masters he must answer to.

When his breathing evens out, he stands. Clears his throat. Places the jagged piece of wood torn from his desk on top of the void left in its absence, as if he could slide it back into place. As if his mistakes could be fixed that easily. 

His phone rings. He considers not even checking who’s calling him, but old habits are hard to quit. And he’s glad he listens to his gut—because your face is on his screen. The reason for the habit. His contact picture for you is from his graduation, when you’d worn the yellow dress he bought you and he nearly lost his mind watching other people notice you in it. (You have to keep her away from men that stare too much.) You’re standing next to Caleb, your arm looped through his, his uniform hat on your head. Looking up at him, smiling. And the way he’s looking down at you—he often doubts that there’s any way the people around the two of you could have been blind to his feelings. He wore them plain, looked at you like there was nothing more special in the universe. Because there isn’t.

He’s spent a long time in the Deepspace Tunnel. He knows the ins and outs of this universe better than many others. Nothing is as beautiful or precious as you. And you’re calling him after weeks of radio silence.

No one else is at your apartment. Just you. Calling him.

It doesn’t matter that parts of Caleb are being cleaved away like rotten meat. It doesn’t matter that he’s been stressed, barely sleeping, staying at the office much too late to keep an eye on you. It doesn’t matter that you needed so much more space than he thought you would. 

You’re coming back to him. He’ll take whatever pieces you allow him to have. Eventually, all of them will fall back into place—with him, where every part of you belongs.

˚✧ ﾟ.

When Caleb was at the DAA, you would call him when you had nightmares. You used to get them a lot—regular stress from everyday life compounded with the PTSD from the Chronorift Catastrophe. When your grandmother sent you to a therapist and you were diagnosed, you always secretly believed they were lying. Sure, your entire body locked up during thunderstorms because the cacophonous sounds reminded you of a Wanderer’s roar, and sure, you sometimes couldn’t feel comfortable in crowded places because of the increased vulnerability to attack, but those were regular anxieties that everyone had. They must be.

When Caleb left for Skyhaven, you realized how right the therapist was. Caleb’s familiarity granted you a sort of security blanket that kept you from the worst of your trauma, and you hadn’t realized that. You hadn’t understood how necessary it was to you that he was there, just one room over, in case you needed to sleep in his bed next to him when you were scared. Without him at home, things got exponentially worse.

You woke up one night heaving, sobbing at the memory of it all. At the feeling of your own broken bones, the sight of scattered limbs and the sound of screaming—the sound of burning. You’d never known that burning could be so loud. 

Calling Caleb was instinct, even though he was at the DAA. He had an exam the next day. You felt awful. But he stayed on the phone with you until you could breathe normally, until the tears stopped. He offered to fly home to be with you if you needed him, despite the fact that he was in no way allowed to do that.

And you had needed him, but you knew there were limits. You couldn’t need him right by your side forever. There was going to be a point where you would have to let him go. And you’d thought, then, that you would one day reach that point. That it wouldn’t hurt. That it would be logical and reasonable and your heart would allow you to follow the logic and reason as it usually did.

But things were different with Caleb. Logic and reason never won out. It was always feeling, instinct. 

This nightmare is different. It’s Caleb right before the explosion, looking at you and telling you that he isn’t going to cover for you anymore. The blood on your sleeve, your wrist held in one big hand, like when you were kids. Except you’re not both coming home from the store, like you were in real life. It’s you and he on the porch after he undid your braids, after you turned and looked at his lips for too long and he stared back. It’s after he let himself hold your face gently, as if he could want the same thing you did. What’s going through your head, baby? he asked. The first time he ever called you that. You were thinking about him kissing you.

But he didn’t. He didn’t kiss you then because he didn’t want to. And then you both went inside.

In the dream, it’s you in that house with them. It’s the explosion sending Caleb’s body flailing back, completely aflame, hitting the wall of the house loud enough to crack most of the bones in his body. It’s your name croaked out, hoarse and broken, by the remains of his throat. And the sound of burning that’s a constant in your memories. You know it the way you know a song you've heard too many times. An earworm, your Grandma used to call them. Burning, burning, burning.

Your phone is in your hands and dialing before you’re fully conscious, realizing it’s too late to undo what you’ve just done. He picks up on the second ring, says your name confused, his voice too close to the way it sounded in your dream for comfort.

“Caleb?” you ask, and it’s a plea and a question and something so much more than that. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the confusion stripped from his voice when he realizes you’re calling for something important, that you’re calling in the middle of the longest silence there has ever been between you two barring the absence after his death.

It doesn’t matter what Caleb he is right now—yours, or this new, strange man you feel so distant from—it’s still somehow him. “I had a nightmare,” you say, but you can hear the receding tide of panic that still steals its way into your breathing. “Can you talk to me? I know it's... it's childish. For me to ask.”

“It's not childish. We can talk,” he says, because he always makes time for you. “Or—you know what? Give me twenty minutes. I can fly down there. We can stay on the phone.”

There are about sixty airspace regulations that would make it extremely illegal and impossible for him to fly his personal plane down to Linkon and park anywhere near your apartment. And yet, for a moment, the thought tempts you. “No, you don’t have to do that. Please, just—talk to me. About anything.”

“You know I’m good at that,” he says. You hear him lean back in a chair and you wonder what part of his house he’s in. Whether you woke him from sleep or not. “I was actually just thinking about when I graduated from the DAA. You remember that?”

“It wasn’t that long ago,” you tell him.

“You have a famously bad memory, pip.”

“Remember when I called you dirt-boy when we were kids because you couldn’t stop getting food on your shirt every time you ate?” you ask. “That’s still very vivid. I can go back to doing that, if you want to carry on with the nicknames.”

“There it is. Second only to the famously bad memory: the famously bad attitude,” he teases, and he doesn’t have to be here for you to see the curve of his smile, the way his eyebrows quirk upwards in delight, the way his whole face lights up when he’s having a good time talking to you. “Guess even a rude awakening can’t dull your tongue.”

You see: Caleb’s body, the house burning, blood and ash on your hands. His hands on your face. The first time he called you baby. “I guess not.”

The line is quiet for a moment. You wonder if, in the weeks of silence, he’s been laying in the bed where you slept during your brief stay at his home. You wonder if he’s washed the sheets, whether or not they smell like you. “It was a pretty bad one, huh?”

“They’re all bad,” you say.

He’s quiet for a moment. You hear the shifting of clothes, a door opening and closing. “I’m coming down there. If I’m on the phone it’ll take twenty. If I’m off I can make it in fifteen. Can you be patient for me?”

“Caleb—it’s not a good idea. You know it’ll be a pain.”

He chuckles, brushing it off. Endless confidence. “Nothing’s a big enough pain to stop me when you’re involved,” he says. “Besides, the colonel gets some privileges.”

“And he’s going to use them to come see me after I have a nightmare?”

“What else would I use them for?” he asks—and he sounds so achingly sincere, like there’s nothing else he could think to do with his ability to bend the rules, to slightly abuse his power. “Fifteen minutes. I promise.”

He makes it in thirteen.

You meet him in the living room after you hear him let himself inside. He must still have the spare key you'd given him when you'd first reunited, before the questions started creeping in. When he pulls you to his chest, you follow automatically. A big hand cradles your head, fingers curling into your hair. His arms are so firm around you, just like they always used to be—he has a solidity to him that can’t be denied, a strength he carries in every line of his body. He’s in his uniform, strangely enough. 

You wrap your arms around him, fingers tugging at the starched material of his long coat. You want to bunch it up in your hands, stretch it out, leave an undeniable mark that he came here, tonight, to comfort you, just like he would have when he was at school and you still lived with your grandmother. He even smells the same—like worn leather and mineral oil from maintaining his plane’s engines and sharp, clean aftershave.

He rests the side of his face against the crown of your head, breathes in deep. You wonder if you smell the same too, just how he remembers. You wonder if you can both pretend that nothing has changed, if you could let him back into your life and forgive the time he spent away from you and overlook his lies and everything else he’s done to you since returning that hasn’t sat right. His fingers tug at the newly short strands of your hair—the only thing that truly ruins the mirage of your perfect, happy life with Caleb. 

Things have changed. They always will. You pull away from him.

He still keeps you in his arms, giving you distance but only so much. He gets more reluctant to allow space the further you pull away. “Thanks for hanging in there for me,” he says.

You nod because you don’t want to acknowledge out loud that you’ve done anything for him. It doesn’t matter whether he showed up or not. You would still be here, awake, thinking about things you wish you could forget. Your hand fists the material of his coat, tugging its starched lines into a wrinkled mess. “I hate that you’re wearing this.”

Without a word, he steps back from you, takes his coat off and throws it across the back of your couch. The metal armband, the badges and chains of rank, the embroidered sigil of the Fleet—all cast aside to reveal the man underneath. Caleb, in a dress shirt and slacks and tall boots. Caleb as he could have been if he’d stayed with the DAA, coming home to you after a long day at his normal job that he loved so passionately.

Not that he’d be coming home to you. It’s an odd way for your brain to put it. But the thought sticks there, push-pinned to the way you currently feel about him. Warm at his insistence on being there for you. Relieved that he’s alive, as if after the last time you saw him the universe would fess up to its tricks, reveal that it was all one long hallucination, and the Caleb you knew is still buried in the graveyard where you left him. The pieces of him that they were able to find.

Parts of him are still there. Buried, even now. Sometimes you don’t recognize the man in front of you. 

He lifts a hand to your face and you lean into his touch—it’s instinctual. Something you’ve done a million times. He takes this as permission to get closer to you again, to wrap you up in his arms, and this time you give in completely. This time it’s just your Caleb, the Caleb you love so dearly, protecting you from your bad dreams. 

“Let’s sit you down on the couch and I’ll make you some tea,” he says, a gloved hand cradling the back of your head. “That sound okay?”

You hate the layers keeping him away from you. You pull away from him, take his hand in yours and peel his glove off. Make him give you his other hand, do the same to that one. Then you just hold them, your palms against the backs of his hands, his fingers slightly outstretched, as if allowing you to scrutinize fully. He still has calluses from lifting weights, from handling guns so frequently. You curl his fingers and look at his nails, all uniformly cut, cuticles slightly overgrown but healthy. The same scars from growing up with him: a puckered circle on the knuckle of his right thumb from a nasty fall on the basketball court, a long line down his left ring finger from knocking the absolute daylights out of a kid that tore out a chunk of your hair on the playground.

It had been your stake on him. The finger where most people wore jewelry to state that they belonged to someone else. You had done him one better, despite the fact that his actions were his own. A scar instead of a ring. A claim that couldn’t be taken off and hidden in a drawer somewhere.

“I want to be in the kitchen with you,” you tell him. If you say it quietly, you think he maybe won’t hear the slight panic at the idea of being apart from him right now. 

He smiles, the expression quieter than usual but just as effusive. “We can make that happen,” he says, and before you can stop him, he loops an arm beneath your thighs and lifts you, makes you wrap your arms around his neck in surprise. He must have used his Evol to make it so easy, but you didn’t even sense it. “My tea service comes with complimentary delivery. And if I’m not delivering the tea to you, I guess I’ll have to deliver you to the kitchen.”

You let him carry you. Play with the ends of his hair, where it’s slightly longer in the back. He places you on the kitchen counter next to the electric kettle and gets to work. He’s never been to your apartment before, but there are things he intuits easily. The fact that you’d still have an electric kettle, like you used to at Grandma’s. The fact that your tea is kept in the cupboard above the sink. He narrows his eyes, tentatively points to the cupboard next to the fridge before asking, “...mugs?” And he’s right, because that’s where they used to be at home, too.

Moving out was hard—another layer of familiarity stripped away, another safety blanket removed from the pile. You tried to keep things as close to normal for you as possible, as if you could turn this new, unfamiliar apartment into a simulacrum of the house in which you grew up.

None of it brought Caleb back, which is what you’d really wanted. But now here he is. Making tea for you again, like he used to when you were younger. Carrying you around like nothing’s changed.

When the tea is done, it’s nearly two in the morning. You know how military organizations work—know how early he’ll have to be back at it tomorrow morning. You’ve got it bad, too, but at least you’re home. He hands you the steaming cup—chamomile, because maybe it’ll help you fit a good night’s sleep into a couple hours —and finally allows himself to relax somewhat. Stands in front of you and takes off his tie, the metal ring that fits under his collar. Undoes the first two buttons of his shirt.

You look. The edge of his collar bones, the divot in between, the long line of his throat. Steam touches your face. There was a point where you stopped being able to look away from him like this. After that moment on the porch, your first vacation from the Hunter Academy. Caleb’s hands on your face. What’s going through your head, baby? You wish it hadn’t been a part of your nightmare. Even though he didn’t kiss you—made it clear that he didn’t think of you like that—you still look back on that memory fondly.

The closest you’ve ever gotten to what you want. 

Your skin feels hot. Your eyes dart upwards to his and he’s seen you looking. Something dances in his gaze—mirth, maybe, though it’s hard to tell with him. It could be something darker. You used to be able to read him like your favorite book, the words etched into your brain so deeply that you barely needed light to follow along the page. 

He gets closer and your breath shallows, stops. Puts his big hands against the countertop on either side of you, leans in gently. Still tall enough that he’s looking down at you. “Take a sip,” he tells you. “I wanna know if it needs anything else.”

You’re sure it’s perfect. He’s made your tea for decades now, knows how picky you are about brewing time and sugar ratio. You do what he asks regardless, bitter and sweet crossing paths on your tongue. There were nights like this where he would make you tea and you would drink it and cling to him after, not content to go to sleep unless it would be by his side. You’re so close to him that you can imagine yourself feeling the heat of his body, as if it’s unconsciously radiating outwards to comfort you. To wrap you up, keep you safe. You finish about half the cup before saying, “It’s good.”

“Sure you don’t want anything else?” he asks. When his voice gets quiet like this, it’s always a little more nasal, a little more hoarse. You used to find it endearing before you got older and started feeling something entirely different deep in your gut whenever he spoke this way. “The name of the tea service is misleading. I can do food, too. Massage, if your shoulders are stiff. Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

What you need is for him to stay. Sleep next to you, like he used to when you were both kids. But maybe—more than that. When he talks to you like this, acts this way with you—it’s confusing. You swallow audibly, nervous, not willing to think about why you’re feeling so on edge this close to him, trapped on all sides. “Don’t you have work pretty early tomorrow?”

“Why?” he asks. “Do you need me to stay?”

Of course he knows. Just like he was your favorite book, you’ve always been his. He probably knew that you wanted him to stay from the second he got here—from the second he answered your call. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it until you asked. Giving you control, in a slight way, even though he already knew how this evening was going to pan out. 

“No,” you say. You both know you’re lying. But since he died, you’ve dealt with your nightmares all on your own. He wasn’t there to turn to. He left you to exist by yourself, to figure it all out without his hand there to take. “No,” you repeat, with more resolve this time, “but it was nice of you to come all this way.”

He looks—disappointed, maybe. His eyes narrow slightly, mouth pulling tight, but it’s such a small expression that it could be missed by someone that doesn’t watch him the way you do. He’s smiling again before you know it, easy and wide. Something about him seems farther away even though he’s still got his arms on either side of you, so close that you could reach out and put your entire palm on his chest. “You needed me,” he says. “Of course I was gonna come to you.”

You needed me . Had it been need? Or was it a want so bone-deep that the two feelings could easily be confused, switched out for one another? “Stay while I finish my tea.”

The laugh this receives is small, warm. Pleased at your command. He raises two fingers to his temple, flicks his wrist in a lazy mock-salute. “Yes, ma’am. Permission to move you to the couch so you can sit comfortably?” When he lowers his hand, it doesn’t return to the countertop. He spreads it across your thigh, graceful fingers splayed down the side, thumb lightly moving back and forth across the top. Skin to skin. You only really wear shorts and large shirts to sleep—his shirts. You hadn't even thought about it. It's just something you started doing after he died, after all of his surviving belongings from the DAA were parceled up and sent to you. His hand is so big that you feel a little breathless looking at it against your leg, swallowing up space so effortlessly. 

There’s no way he doesn’t feel this too. You know that. You know it more now than you did at nineteen, with his gentle hands holding your face. There’s something there, undeniable, that sits between the two of you. You love him. Of that much, you’re sure. But you don’t know what it means coupled with the heat you feel underneath your skin every time he touches you, with the heaviness of his gaze when he looks at you this close.

He could want everything from you. He could want nothing. You really wouldn’t know. He’s always kept his cards too close to the chest, even when you were begging him to show his hand.

“Permission granted, soldier.” You don’t do a very good job of hiding the way you’re feeling, but he doesn’t call you on it. Just smiles, smiles, smiles, quiet and smug and satisfied. 

The hand on your thigh loops beneath your legs, and he gives you a squeeze, as if to say: this is what the touch was for. There was a purpose to it. I knew you were going to let me carry you. Innocent, see? Just like everything else I do. Like the way he pulled away from you when you were nineteen, leaning into his touch. His Evol takes the mug from your hands, steadily allows your tea to follow the two of you to the couch. He floats it back over to you when you’re comfortable, the tendrils of his power slick against your hands.

It used to scare you when you were little. The feel of it—like oil floating in water, and your hands passing through it. But you got used to it after a while. It was comforting, gentle. His Evol, in its iridescence and its softness, was something you considered beautiful. Something you still consider beautiful. You would never tell him this because it’s maybe the oddest thing you can think about an innate, intangible power.

“Sit,” you tell him. Pat the couch next to you. He does as you ask and you melt into his side, comforted by his familiar scent, his gentle warmth. His dress shirt is scratchy beneath your cheek. You wish it wasn’t there, that your face could lie against his chest skin-to-skin, that you could feel his heartbeat solidly in the place where you’re connected to him.

His arm curls behind you, hand smoothing down your hair. With his long, graceful fingers, he traces your hairline, the curve of your ear, the line of your neck. Then his touch trails back up the way it came. Again and again, until you could imagine that there was nothing more to existence than this. “Sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“You work early.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Presses his lips to the crown of your head, breathes in deeply. His voice is serious, but the serious you like—where he wants to express that he cares. Needs you to know that even though he teases about a lot of things, he doesn’t tease about this. “If you don’t mind me leaving early, I’m all yours.”

It’s selfish, you know. But Caleb has always seemed to encourage that. Has always seemed to want you to be selfish with his time, with the things he can give you. “You can’t take up the whole bed,” you say. A decision. An easier thing to say than yes, stay here, and since you’ll be here, please hold me while I sleep .

“I’ll shrink myself down,” he tells you. You can feel him smile against your hair—or maybe you’re imagining the feeling, but regardless, you know it to be true. He always smiled when you asked him to sleep next to you. Grinned wide before telling you that there’s nothing he’d like more.

You love the feel of him next to you in bed. Taking up so much space, his power evident in the size of his body, the packed muscle of it. “I want you pocket-sized.”

“What if you crush me in your sleep?”

“Too bad,” you say. “Shouldn’t have been so big in the first place. Then we wouldn’t have to shrink you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he teases. “You like it.”

Your skin feels hot, clammy. Somehow both. You don’t like how easily he said that, and how easily he’s letting it sit in the silence between you. “No I don’t,” you say, because contesting everything he says is an instinct, something that resides in your bones.

Easily, he plucks you from your seat, Evol carrying your tea to the coffee table. Situates you on the couch between his legs, facing away from him. Allowing you, at least, the mercy to not have to look at him right now. He wraps his arms around you, pulls you back against his powerful chest. His arms are so long that he can loop the width of you with just one. Your head slips easily under his chin, and you’re so contained—so protected by him that you feel like you could suffocate. One hand comes up to cup your face—the one you haven’t claimed with your ring-finger scar. It’s colder than the rest of him, even though you keep your apartment at a pretty reasonable temperature. Or maybe it’s your face, burning, too hot against his unflustered touch.

“I said don’t lie. You like that I can hold you like this,” he says. Brushes his thumb over the skin right below your bottom lip. “Am I right?”

When you were younger, he’d wrap you up in his arms like this when you were having a panic attack. Held you so close that it felt like you were a part of him. No longer an external body—his veins connected to yours, your hearts beating in tandem. You loved it. Sometimes you asked him to do this when you weren’t even having a panic attack—you just wanted him so close that it felt like your edges were blending together. You stay quiet, because there’s no way you can tell him this. No way you’d want to.

“You don’t have to say it.” He holds you for a few more moments, arms firm yet gentle. The way he breathes out makes it sounds like he’s relieved, like there was something weighing on him that he couldn’t let go of until he had you in his hold. “I couldn’t do this if I was pocket-sized, though. So maybe we skip the shrinking for tonight?”

“Fine,” you say. “Take me to bed?” The way you say this—is it on purpose or not? You couldn’t tell him if he asked. You won’t even let yourself know. It has an effect, though. 

His arms tighten around you slightly, a little too firm to be classified as gentle anymore. His breathing goes from relieved to something heavier. “How could I say no to that?”

You wonder if he sees it too. The weight beneath the words. No, that’s not right—it’s not a case of whether he sees it, because it’s impossible to ignore. You’re not nineteen anymore, and he’s not twenty-two. 

The weight is there. The feelings are there. And you’re terribly sure that there will come a point, sooner than later, where you’ll both have to decide what those feelings are.

˚✧ ﾟ.

It’s not until you’re sleeping that he allows himself to really let his mind wander. He tries to be good—really, he does, but you make it difficult. He just loves you so deeply that some days he can’t breathe, the feeling taking up so much space in his body that there’s no room for air. 

So many things are endearing about you. Your first instinct after a nightmare being to call him. His clothes all neatly folded in their own drawers in your closet, like you’ve been keeping a space for him to come back to all this time. The way you wanted him to stay so badly that he could hear it in every word you said, even when you were telling him to go home. 

Sometimes you say things that make him so hard he can’t see straight. He could take you to bed, just like you asked—he could lie you out and worship you, he could show you just how much he loves you with actions instead of words. 

He thinks about the way you taste so often that he could be jailed for it. Would you like that—his head between your thighs, praising you? For him to be gentle, loving, to ready you with his tongue before he does something even worse? He imagines you saying his name while he’s inside of you and he has to pull away from you a little, hold his jaw tightly with his mechanical hand. 

A little pressure, a little punishment. (You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting.) There’s a nonzero chance he could finish untouched just from thinking about you like this. He feels so guilty when he gets this way, especially when you’re in such close proximity, basically still in his arms. It’s a betrayal of trust. 

If you woke up and he was fully awake, ridiculously hard in nothing but a pair of sweats—how would he even justify that to you? He could make you feel so good, though. He could learn your body so quickly, figure you out like he always does—but he doesn’t know if you would want that. And the guilt, the idea of you trusting him to be a good man, and him beside you, thinking about the things he would do for you if you’d just let him—

More important than anything physical is the fact that he doesn’t want you in that way only. If he were to finally have you, he’d need to have all of you. A taste isn’t enough. He wants you to be his and happy about it. He wants to be the only guy you text and the only person you come home to and the only man to whom you ever say I love you . 

Your brow furrows in your sleep, delicate. He moves his hand from his face to yours. Cold metal and grafted skin. Another part of him, gone. This and all the gaps in his head. He doesn’t feel like the Caleb that was yours anymore and it scares him because that’s all he wants to be. 

Despite the fact that he can’t feel your skin against his palm, despite the inorganic nature of what he’s becoming, his touch seems to quiet you. Your face evens out into an expression that’s so serene that it manages to calm him, too. He could kiss you like this and you wouldn’t even know.

He won’t. He won’t. He’s not a good man. He [                                                                          ]. [                                                                                                                  ]. But he won’t.

Those are the bad thoughts that he can’t control, the ones that sometimes leap out of nowhere. He doesn’t know if he had them before, but even if he did, they were never this bad. Never this [                                                                                                 ], intent on breaking your trust so he can take something he wants. 

What he really wants is you safe, always. Even from him.

He settles for cradling your head with his hand, pulling you closer so he can kiss your hairline, smell the shampoo you use, feel the texture of your hair against his lips. It’s enough. So much more than enough when he’s almost positive that he’ll never be able to have what he actually wants.

He’s not unaware of your feelings. He sees the way you look at him, sometimes. Notices the way you react to his touch, his words when he speaks to you in certain tones. But if he tried something and found out you only wanted him physically, he thinks that he would die. 

You breathe out deep, melt further into his embrace. He would die for sure. He can’t live without you. He can’t do this without you. He thinks of what he has to do for Ever, the [                                                                                        ] and the people he’s killed and the [                                                             ]. Guilt is something he knows the way he knows his favorite gun. Muzzle to his temple, finger on the trigger. He would die. You wouldn’t forgive him if you knew some of the things he’s done since leaving you. You’re barely forgiving him now. 

It’s all for you. He just wants you to live. 

There are tears on his face again. His head aches so painfully, so deeply that it feels like he’ll never know a reality where it doesn’t. His breathing is too shallow, and his hand is maybe a little too tight on your hair, and he can’t [                                                          ] he can’t, he can’t, it’s [                                                                                                                          ] and he hates it, he hates [                                                                                   ], [                                                                                          ]—

“Caleb?” you ask, groggy, and he fucked up. (Don’t swear in front of her. Be a good example.) Thought too much. Burnt up too much of his brain. Woke you up when you need rest, when all he wants to do is provide you with what you need and he failed even at that. “Hey—oh my god, Caleb —what’s wrong?”

Your hands are on his face and you’ve felt the tears. It’s dark in your room. The lighting outside isn’t great—something he’s noticed while taking care of you, something he doesn’t like about your apartment. He doesn’t have the breath in his lungs to tell you he wasn’t crying, that there’s nothing to worry about. (She’s gonna think you’re weak.) He hates that you’re seeing him like this.

“Look at me. Hey, please—please look at me.” You’re sitting up now, both hands on his face urging him to look at you, and he can’t.

He can’t. You shouldn’t see him like this. His head hurts so much and you shouldn’t know that he gets like this. Because he’s here to comfort you , to protect you , and now you’re worried over him , and what if you don’t call him next time? “I’m okay,” he says, and the pain is still splitting him apart. His vision is blurred at the edges.

“You’re not,” you say, voice gone a little hard. “Caleb—this is an order. Look at me.”

There’s not a chance he can ever disoblige when you order him to do something. When you tell him plainly: I’m commanding you, and you’re in a position where you’re supposed to listen. It’s addicting, hearing that solid edge to your voice. It’s irresistible. 

You’re worried. He has worried you. His vision feels a little more solid when he looks at you, his breathing suddenly evening out. His brain still pounds against his skull, but he can bear it. You’re so gorgeous when you’re worried about him. All the time, in fact. He’s never seen anyone prettier—doesn’t believe it’s possible.

His hands go to your wrists. They’re so small in his grasp. He can wrap a hand around one and still have room in his grip to spare. Taking a deep breath is easier in your hold. It makes him feel infinitely more grounded. “I’m fine. This looks way worse than it is.”

“What happened?”

He debates telling you. Debates it heavily. Before, he didn’t because it was for your protection. Close to the Farspace Fleet, close to Ever. If they got their hands on you, found out you knew too much about the chip in his head, wiping out pieces of him in a steady stream—he doesn’t want to know what they’d do to you. (Remember what they did to her when you were younger? When you didn’t protect her?) “Bad dream,” he lies. Tries to laugh it off, despite the way light pulses in his vision along to the beat of the drums in his head. “What are the chances, huh?”

You’re primed not to believe him, and he can’t blame you for that. There’s so much he’s keeping from you. He was dead for months before he was able to come back to you. Of course your first instinct would be to not trust him.

But it’s a palatable excuse, something that makes sense in context. It’s not like he doesn’t get bad dreams. He rarely sleeps anymore without something terrible projecting itself in his mind—and alongside it, you: the way you looked at him right before he walked back into the house, before the explosion cracked his body open like one of the pomegranates he used to buy you every year in early autumn. You loved the taste, hated the way the seeds got stuck in your teeth.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask. Your hands go from his face to the sides of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. A reassuring caress. He’s going to think about this touch for weeks— months to come, and you have no idea.

In another life, you could be his, and this could be you about to kiss him. In another life, you both could have avoided the trauma of your childhoods. In another life, he could simply be yours in any way you would have him, and it would be so much more than enough.

“No,” he says, but kindly. You understand. The dreams sometimes feel more real if they’re spoken aloud. He pulls you back to him so you’re once again in his arms—and this is the most unbelievable part of his lie. Because how could he ever sleep poorly with you beside him like this? “You need your rest. And I’ll be okay. Just gotta hold you tighter.”

You don’t respond—instead snake your arms around him, hold him close against you. (Closer. Please get closer.) As if wordlessly promising that you won’t let it happen again. That you’ll protect him from his bad dreams.

He’s the one that’s supposed to protect you. You should never have to worry about him like this. But it’s late, and he’s tired and his head hurts, and you’re so warm against him.

“Love you,” you tell him, and he knows in what way you mean it.

“I love you, too.” The way he says it to you is different, because it always has been.

˚✧ ﾟ.

Your hands are shaking the entire train ride to Skyhaven. The past hour: Caleb returning home after a reunion lunch with Gideon, his roommate and co-pilot at the DAA; the Wanderer attack on the Coelum Express that almost ripped the entire train apart; calling Caleb ten times back-to-back and only getting voicemail.

There were no casualties. That’s what the news report said. But he wasn’t picking up his phone, so he must have been injured, and that’s what made you call Gideon. All you really took from that phone call was badly hurt, wouldn’t go to the hospital. You were on the next train to Skyhaven without thinking.

You have to pay for a private passenger plane to take you to Caleb’s home, and everything is taking too long. It’s been nearly an hour since you and Gideon talked on the phone. By the time you make it to his house, you can’t sit still—you’re vibrating out of your skin, you’ve texted Caleb more times than seems sane.

His home is empty when you let yourself in. Quiet. You immediately switch to investigative mode—your hand drifting towards your holstered gun as if you’re going to find a threat in his home that he’s been hiding in closets, in the wedges of darkness behind open doors. Maybe it’s not a Wanderer lurking within his home, but he’s definitely been hiding something from you—in his living room, one panel of his wall is slightly ajar, and from your vantage point, you can see a room inside. The soft glow of machines, the sound of pained breaths.

What you find makes you feel sick. 

Caleb, sitting on a table in the middle of the room, his arm—a mechanical limb, metal and bunched wires and deep red lights—plugged into the machines you could see from his living room. It can’t be right. You saw him today. You touched his skin today, pinched the meat of his palm hard between your fingers. Real and rough and a little clammy. Nervous from you being so close, you had thought. Hoped, more like.

“What’re you doing here, pip?” he asks—not even turning to look at you, not even offering you an expression asking for forgiveness—and he has the gall to sound bashful. Oh, this? Just my prosthetic arm. Don’t look, it’s not proper. 

You’re going to kill him. You’re going to kill him.

You’re so angry you can’t speak. Your hands are balled into uncomfortable fists at your side, and you stalk across the room, your body moving faster than your head can keep up with. Your face is hot, everything bubbling up inside you, feelings rolling into a boil. When you’re standing in front of him, you get a good, full look at what has replaced the arm he used to carry you with, that even today he used to pull you into a hug. Fingers that tugged at the ends of your hair, still obsessed with its new length. His skin had felt so real. “What is this?”

He laughs, a little self-deprecating. “Not my best look.”

“Your best look?” You’re going to kill him. You’re going to strangle him with his own fucking arm. “You’re worried about optics right now? About whether you’re—” You have to cut yourself off, have to put a fist in front of your mouth in case you need to bite something. “I can’t believe you.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he says. Which means he knows he should have, knows that you wouldn’t appreciate something like this being kept from you. But he did it anyway.

You’re so tired. So tired of being angry at him. So tired of finding out something else and having everything you’ve built between you since his death crumble. How many times are you going to have to restart with him? Fatigue fills you like lead, your body heavy, your legs so exhausted that standing feels like effort. Your face is hot, your eyes welling with tears—and you hate that it’s not even because you’re still grieving. It’s not because you’re sad. You’re tired . You’re so tired you want to cry.

He panics when he sees tears, like he always used to. He unplugs his arm from the machines, reaches towards you. You can hear the metal joints clink against each other when he moves. “I’m sorry. Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Come over here—please?”

It’s hard to resist him when he calls you that. A weakness planted within you when you almost got everything you had ever wanted at nineteen. You let him wrap you up in his arms, the metal cold even through your clothes. So at odds with his overly-hot skin. He’s always run warm. You loved sitting on the porch with him in late summer, watching the leaves turn, listening to the cicada-buzz that would soon quiet once it got too cold. That’s what you think about when you think of warmth—his arms around you, holding you just the way you liked, and the way you felt close but never felt that it was close enough. 

“I’m not crying because of you,” you tell him.

He’s quiet for a second. “It’s okay if you are.”

“I’ve cried over you enough. This is just—I’m tired.” And maybe it’s the exhaustion that allows you to relax into him. To take the comfort he offers you so freely. Nothing you’ve felt since his return has been small. Everything has been so large: relief, anger, fear. Too big to process quickly. Your body is tired from trying to keep up. Your mind has been tired since he closed the door behind him and left you outside your childhood home. “Tell me why you kept this from me,” you say. “At least that.”

He’s quiet. Keeps holding you, his large hand cradling the back of your head. “It’s complicated.”

A strangled, frustrated noise comes from your chest. “I don’t care if it’s complicated.”

“It’s dangerous for you to know too much.”

You try to pull back but he doesn’t let you. You know you could turn this conversation your way if you could just look him in the eyes. When you were little and Caleb said no to you, all it took were some strategically placed pouts and extended eye contact to get him to break. 

Unfortunately, he knows your tactics just as well as you. He’s not going to let you have the upper hand without a fight. 

“You can’t keep telling me it’s dangerous without telling me who I’m in danger from,” you say. Maybe appealing to logic will work. “Is it the Fleet? Is it the DAA? At least let me know who my enemy is so I can protect myself.”

“I’m protecting you,” he says, “so you don’t have to worry yourself about all that. No one’s gonna put a hand on you unless they want to lose it.”

The words make you shiver. There’s a warmth you feel at his insistence on protecting you—but also something a little more hair-raising. The sensation of being one step removed from control, like you’re in the cockpit but don’t have a say in where the plane is taking you. 

When you pull away this time, he lets you. Because he thinks you’ve accepted his protection, thinks that you’re done asking questions. You’ll stay away from the big ones for now. You can catch him at a time when he’s less emotionally guarded. Less prone to defend because he’s been caught in a vulnerable position. You reach out to his new arm—pause, checking his reaction, waiting for him to stop you. 

He doesn’t. It seems like he wants you to touch. Wants you to reconcile that this is a part of him now that he can’t remove. 

The metal is cold, even as there’s a slight buzz when your fingertips ghost across exposed wiring. The touch is a caress. You can’t help it—even with the unfamiliarity of the metal, the shock that came with seeing it, you can never touch him with anything other than love. This is a part of him. “Can you feel this?”

“No,” he says, and he sounds devastated at that fact. He captures your fingers with his metal hand—cold and constricting. Nothing like the touch of the boy you knew in childhood. “I can feel pressure because it’s necessary. I can feel pain.”

Metal fingers the color of tungsten bullets. Darker than regular steel. Better for large artillery weapons because it can shred other metals easily. “...is that necessary, too?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, moves your hand over his heart, presses your palm to his chest. The way he closes his eyes and breathes out when he can finally feel your touch again—you couldn’t call it anything other than relieved. “Couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow to see me?” he asks, teasing. Deflecting. “Missed me that bad?”

“Caleb,” you say. Will calling him on his hollow defense make anything better? Will it make him tell you anything you actually want to know? It would have, before. He would have crumbled in an instant, told you everything.

Or maybe that’s what he tricked you into thinking when you were younger. Part of you has come to believe that he’s always kept secrets from you. That he’s always been very good at convincing you that he tells you everything.

Instead of asking what you want to know, you say, “Your arm was… normal earlier.”

He nods. “Go wait for me in the living room. I’ll show you. And then we can go to bed, okay?”

If it’ll give you any sort of answers, you’ll easily do what he asks. You only sit for a few minutes before he comes out and joins you, still shirtless but different—his arm as it was when he came to Linkon to see you. Flesh and blood, by all appearances.

He joins you on the couch and your reaction is instant, your hands wrapping around his forearm, pulling him closer to you. The cold—you still feel it, but it’s muted by the skin. Everything feels so real, so soft beneath your fingers. His arm still has a fine layer of dark hair that it always did. You turn his hand in yours, palm up, and trace the vein that runs from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. You can feel the ridge of it, the slight warmth—but not his pulse, you realize. 

You drop his hand, pull away. The difference makes you feel lightheaded. 

“It’s a skin graft,” he tells you. “They grew it from my cells.”

“So you have to… put it on?”

He grimaces at that. “Yeah, it’s not pretty. But don’t worry. Not gonna make you see that.”

You can’t help yourself—after your brief dizziness subsides, you take his arm between your hands again, turn it over for inspection. He still has a scar on the knuckle of his thumb. A bad fall on the asphalt of your neighborhood park’s basketball court. You remember him coming home bleeding, promising you he was alright even as he looked close to tears. He must have been twelve, maybe thirteen. You smooth your thumb over the scar just to feel its smoothness, the way you used to when you were younger. “How do you still have this?”

He shrugs, then must notice how much this response seems to frighten you—the idea of someone creating this elaborate sleeve of skin for him and somehow knowing his scars as intimately as he did. As you did. “I asked for it,” he tells you. “I wanted everything to be… right.”

“Right how?”

“I liked the way it was before,” he says. Shrugs too nonchalantly, enough that you know he’s lying. One of his bad tells. “Call it vanity.”

There is a stone in your throat. “Did you want it to be identical because you wanted to keep it a secret from me?”

He shakes his head emphatically. The way he used to when you were younger and you asked him the important questions. Do you think my bad dreams could come true? Could I die in my sleep if I get too anxious? Are you ever going to leave me? 

He lied about the last one. He could be lying about this. 

Thoughts can never be your own when you’re with Caleb. He knows you too well. Can see it clear that you don’t believe him. “No. I was always gonna tell you. I wouldn’t have—no.” 

His large hands curl around your upper arms—an embrace from afar. Not pushing his luck. He considers his words, a pained expression on his face. How much should he reveal? That’s always the framework for how he answers you now and you hate it. You want him to tell you everything because he wants to. Because he can. 

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he finally says.

“I wouldn’t,” you say. You can’t stop yourself. You can’t even truly parse that he thinks your opinion of him would change over something so far out of his control. “I don’t.”

He laughs at that, but it’s hollow. You both know why. Of course you see him differently now. Not because of the arm—but everything else. It’s impossible not to. His hands tighten on your arms just a little, and you wonder how careful he has to be with his prosthesis. Whether its power matches his natural strength, or if its capabilities go far beyond. 

“I would’ve known, anyway,” you say. Touching him feels paramount to everything else. Your fingers have to keep running up the expanse of lab-grown skin to find all its incongruencies with the Caleb you once knew. 

“Yeah?” he asks. Keeps his eyes on your fingers and their hesitant touch. A trick of sound, maybe: his breath coming shallow and shaky. 

The skin of his shoulder is smooth under your hand. There’s no seam—no obvious place where the grafted skin meets the natural—but the curve just above his underarm is soft in a way it hasn’t been since early childhood. “Your stretch marks are gone,” you say, and you sound like you miss them because you do. Because you liked the evidence of him growing up beside you, of his skin struggling to keep up during his initial growth spurt, and then later, after high school, when he started putting on muscle at the DAA at a rate that seemed too fast for you to comprehend. One winter vacation, he came home and he was suddenly big. Shoulders wide in a way you wouldn’t have associated with Caleb before then.

“Didn’t realize you were paying such close attention,” he says. Takes your hand in his once again, moves it from inorganic to organic. The stretch marks on his other shoulder, jagged white lines that spear up to the curve of his arm from the very top of his bicep. Proof that he’s real. “I still have these ones.”

There’s a long moment where you just allow yourself to touch him. Where his hands around your arms go slack, feeling you instead of holding you. The both of you sitting together, mesmerized by skin touching skin, by details that prove you’re still here. Still the person you’ve always been. 

Your hands go to his face like instinct—because you need to see him. You need to look him in the eye. And he lets you hold his face, nuzzles into your touch, closes his eyes and breathes out heavy and slow, a sound that screams relief. Comfort. He takes one hand in his, skin warm and real against yours, and burrows deeper. Like he can live in your hold, a ship come to dock. He looks up at you from beneath his thick lashes, sunset eyes gazing at you fondly. 

It’s like the moment between the two of you on the porch in reverse. Caleb’s face in your hands. His eyes dropping to your lips like he can’t help it. And that same feeling—a deep longing, something you didn’t understand at nineteen but that you can define now. You love him in a different way than you loved him growing up. 

Your breaths come shaky, just like his. Standing at this precipice is frightening but familiar. Comforting the way only a freefall can be: regardless of what happens along the way, you’re going to hit the ground. 

But not now. Maybe you’re a coward for pulling away, for creating a little more space. Maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe one of those things is innate to the other, and whatever category you fall into has a piece of both.

He understands, like always—now is the time to diffuse the tension. Now is the time for things to go back to normal. He allows your hands to slip from his face—but does do one thing differently. He holds your palm to his cheek for a moment longer than normal, and before he lets it go, his lips ghost across your palm. A small kiss. A token of something like affection. 

Your hands are shaking when you get them back. Balling them into fists in your lap makes this easier to ignore.

“Why’d you come visit, pip?” he asks. Pulls at the ends of your hair, annoying, with a little grin on his face. The spitting image of the boy you grew up with, now a man with secrets. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I heard about what happened on the Coelum. There were injuries, and you weren’t picking up your phone…”

“I’m sorry,” he says, genuine. Like always. Even if he lies to you, no matter how bad things get, you’re somehow positive that he would never apologize to you if he didn’t mean it. “I should’ve sent a text, but I didn’t think you’d hear about it ‘til tomorrow.”

“It was on the news. But I probably wouldn’t have known for sure it was your train that was attacked if I didn’t call Gideon.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Sometimes you forget that Caleb is a trained weapon, that his body looks the way it does for more than just his own aesthetic reasons. The way he tenses puts you on edge, similar to how you feel when someone holding a gun turns the safety off—but you know he wouldn’t hurt you. You’re just surprised that his reaction is this. He clears his throat, like that’ll displace any of the strained emotion you can hear in his voice when he speaks. “You have his number? I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

“We’re not,” you say, shrugging. “We—after you… died, we—he was at the funeral.”

“After I died, you… what?” This is the kind of cold you hear when Caleb is being the Colonel. Not the kind of cold he is with you. Well—the kind he never was with you. He’s always been the warmest person you know. A ray of sunshine, an endearing dork with a handsome face, the life of whatever party he was invited to. 

It scares you when he’s like this. Whatever might have physically changed about him—his new arm, the replicated scars and the ones left only in memory—if it was to placate you, it would never work. Not when he’s capable of being like this. Talking to you with this tone of voice, the way he never used to.

“We talked a little,” you say. “It was hard to deal with alone.”

He rubs at his temple with his inorganic hand—the pressure turns his skin white, leaves a small red mark behind on his forehead after. He swallows, seems to calm himself. “I’m glad you had someone that understood,” he says, and his voice is almost back to normal. Like he’s forcing himself to get there but not quite reaching. “Gideon’s a really great guy. And he’s always known how important you are to me.”

“He told me the way you used to talk about me at school.” There were so many things you’d never known. That Caleb kissed the tag of the necklace you’d given him before every flight, that he kept a framed picture of you on his desk and a polaroid of you in his wallet, that it got to a point where he would talk about you so much at parties that it would scare girls off for the other guys, that they started begging him to stay at the dorms or shut up about you just for one night. “It helped.”

“I’m glad he didn’t forget about me when you guys were talking.” He still sounds tense. Still sounds cold. 

And maybe this is too much of a presumption. But you know it’s not. Really, deep down, you know that even if Caleb doesn’t want you in the way you want him, he wants you in some capacity. He’s a man, despite everything. Quietly, you say, “Caleb. I didn’t sleep with him.”

He inhales sharp, quick. His jaw tightens. He looks cornered, so surprised and alarmed that you’ve breached this territory that neither of you are brave enough to cross into. Slowly, he unravels himself. Loosens his muscles, becomes more like a man than a weapon. “And you didn’t…?”

“We didn’t do anything. He was just looking out for me because you weren’t there to do it yourself.”

Slowly, he nods. More to himself than you. Leans back against the couch and presses his thumb and index finger against his eyes, like he’s trying to block out everything. Or keep everything in. “I don’t know what we’re…” He shakes his head. Bites his lip. Then says your name, quiet and heavy.

You can’t do this right now. You can’t confront your feelings. Can’t confront his feelings. Because when it’s finally, plainly revealed to you that Caleb doesn’t love you in the way you love him, you think something within you will dull forever. “We should go to bed.”

When he looks at you—you know what it looks like when Caleb is in pain. You’ve seen it enough in your lifetime. But never pain as deep as this. He says your name again. More insistent.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?”

This stops him, like you knew it would. He can never deny the opportunity to be close to you. To hold you in his arms when you sleep. And it’s more than a bribe to get him to stop moving things into territory you’re not sure you can handle right now. 

You want him close. You want to hold him and know all the parts of him that are holding you. You want to run your fingers over the smooth skin where his stretch marks are supposed to be and allow yourself to come to terms with it.

But you can’t say that out loud. Instead, you gaze up at him—give him that look that always wins arguments. That gets you whatever you want when it comes to him.

You know you’ve won when he sighs and rolls his eyes, unable to stop the corners of his lips from turning up. Maybe he likes it when you ask him for things, or maybe he’s just happy at the prospect of sleeping beside you. It’s something you can’t ask him to tell you. Instead, you follow him to his bedroom and allow yourself to dream of the many things you can’t ask for. The things you’re afraid he’d tell you and the things you’re afraid he wouldn’t.

part two!!

[thecouchsofa]

You might be thinking, Tee, in your 2023 AO3 wrap up post, you said you wrote a ridiculous amount of HP fic this year - but what about reading? Well, thanks for asking, imaginary audience – as a matter of fact, I did indeed read a lot of Drarry fics this year. A fucking horrendous number of Drarry fics, in fact.

Below the cut are some of my favourites that were published in 2023, arranged by word count.

But first, a note: there is truly an overwhelming amount of talent in this fandom and this list only scratches the surface. These fics all gave me something that I was looking for and were my favourites for a number of different reasons. I hope you can find something new to love here (or reconnect with an old favourite), and that you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

If there’s a fic from 2023 that isn’t here but you really enjoyed, chuck it in the replies section so we can all see it!

🌸 AITA for being "obsessed" with my childhood nemesis? – @rainstormradish (4k, M) 🌸

Alrakis I [24M] attended a small boarding school in the UK. There was a boy in my year, a couple of months younger than me, and he became my nemesis after we developed an intense rivalry. My friend [25F] told me recently that our dynamic was "weird back then" and that "it’s even weirder" that I still think about him today. She argued that I talk about him all the time, but I believe the amount I talk about him is reasonable. AITA?

prongymcprongface i completely get what you mean. i had a nemesis (like a school one, separate to my other nemesis) and we had a dynamic super similar to what you are describing. having a nemesis is a very cool and normal thing dw about it. NTA

In which Draco asks the internet if he's being reasonable. Only one commenter is sympathetic. They start talking.

Read for: unique fic idea with a cool layout, humour, boys being idiots

🌻 Snug – @moonflower-rose (6k, E) 🌻

Potter can't keep his hands off himself. Draco can't look away.

Read for: Draco being Obsessed with Harry(‘s cock), Humorous Writing Style

🪻 Birds Behaving Badly – @peachpety (10k, E) 🪻

For eight years, Draco has been content living a quiet life of anonymity in Brighton, dodging pesky seagulls and enjoying the ephemeral boys of summer. And if these summer blokes just happen to resemble Harry Potter, it’s a mere coincidence—despite what his friends say.

But when a repeat one-night stand challenges him to face his desires, Draco thinks he’s finally over his years-long crush.

A seagull named Kevin thinks otherwise.

For: Unleashed!Fest 2023

Read for: hidden/mistaken identity, summer vibes, Kevin the seagull

🌸 Under the Confetti Mist – @azalealarae (12k, E) 🌸

Harry and Draco stay up late working on a Potions assignment in the poorly ventilated eighth-year common room, unaware that disinhibition is a side effect of the elixir’s vapor.

Read for: Sex Pollen, Drarry as Potions partners

🌻 Hellos, goodbyes, a thousand midnights – newskyillusion (13k, M) 🌻

The world, as Harry knew it, has ended.

At least he has a garden.

OR

Harry and Draco live through the apocalypse

For: Drarry Let’s Play Fest 2023

Read for: body horror, cosy vibes (just trust me, lol), Harry gardening, Powerful Harry, Harry and Draco relying on each other.

🪻 Amorous As This Lovely Green – @annanother-thing (14k, E) 🪻

Harry hates being a celebrity. Draco cannot find a single model that fits his vision for his latest line. They both make the debatable choice of trusting one PA extraordinaire/best friend, Pansy Parkinson.

For: Harry/Draco Career Fair 2023

Read for: Harry modelling lingerie, Hot Harry

🌸 Help! I'm a Hopeless Romantic! – @peachydreamxx (14k, M) 🌸

Draco turns from the bar, eyes latching onto Harry. He surveys him, one brow lifting, and Harry, like a deer in headlights, throws his hand up with the world’s most awkward wave. Draco just weaves out of sight, and Harry’s face burns as Ron pats him on the shoulder, then steals a chip. “He gave you a look, didn’t he?”

~ how to get over your crush

~ places that sell cake after 11pm near me

~ how to tell if someone is playing hard to get

A year in the life of Harry's shared moments, and private thoughts

For: Wheel of Drarry Mini-Exchange Secret Santa 2023

Read for: Harry’s Google Searches, Humour

🌻 Cool About It – @oflights (M, 16k) 🌻

Harry is so excited for his first date with Draco. But what follows isn't so much a date as it is an all-night odyssey including a malevolent lift, a Gringotts heist, a Sleeping Curse, a trip to the kebab shop, a lack of dancing, a Muggle drug, a rooftop pool party, a black eye and, eventually, a sunrise over a Quidditch stadium.

Read for: Humour, idiots in love, first dates

🪻 The Eighth Sin – @thehoneybeet (16k, E) 🪻

When Draco is sentenced to five years of house arrest, without magic, alone, the only person to visit him is Potter. But Draco’s beginning to doubt whether Potter is really there at all.

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: dreamy/sad vibes, caring Harry, a beautiful exploration of a relationship

🌸 What’s Mine is Yours – @fluxweeed (17k, E) 🌸

Harry loses something important. Malfoy helps him get it back.

Read for: smut so hot it’ll light you on fire

🌻 O Come, All Ye Faithful – toomuchplor (19k, E) 🌻

Aunt Petunia died, that was what began everything.

Or rather, Aunt Petunia was dying. In the act of dying.

In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.

Read for: Vicar Draco, Harry’s Vicar Kink, Beautiful Writing, Draco’s Hard Sanctified Cock

🪻 The Boys of Summer – @saxamophone (19k, E) 🪻

It's summer, and they're spending it at a lake, far away from everything. There’s swimming and a floating dock, cracked and warm in the sun. Fizzy drinks and fireflies. Sticky strawberry ice lollies and beach towels tangled under them.

Harry’s golden skin and love for The Grateful Dead and Fleetwood Mac.

Draco Malfoy is doomed, but what else is new?

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: delicious pining, summer vibes, beautiful romance, nostalgic vibes

🌸 Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage – @goblinmatriarch (E, 21k) 🌸

Lord Draco Malfoy may be a young man spending time in Dumbledore’s summer court, but that does not mean he needs to succumb to its licentious frivolity. He carries the burden of his lineage, the shadow of rumours, and the dignity of his betrothal to a good match. He is certainly not fool enough to be distracted by the dark curls and ready grin of the court’s stableboy, who seems to have taken up with every courtier who looks his way.

For: HP Bodice Ripper Fest 2023

Read for: Historical AU done right, Draco in a codpiece, more riding euphemisms than you can count

🌻 True Love Gave To Me – @epitomereally (23k, E) 🌻

It’s the first of December, and all Draco wants to do is make Christmas lovely for Scorpius. But then Harry Potter shows up, asking him to save the world, and it turns out they’ve almost saved the world a couple of times before. One-hundred and forty-four times, to be exact.

Or: what happens after the time loop?

For: H/D Erised 2023

Read for: time loop shenanigans, cosy vibes, adorable Scorpius (and his geese)

🪻 Nothing But You On My Mind – @moonflower-rose (29k, M) 🪻

Potter has been in Australia on an internship for almost a year, and Draco cannot wait for him to get back home. They'll finally have a chance to talk about their feelings for each other. What could possibly go wrong?

Loads, as it turns out.

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: Angst, Draco/Ron/Hermione Friendship, idiots in love

🌸 who will receive you in love's offices – @jtimu (30k, E) 🌸

A year in the life of Draco Malfoy, increasingly derailed by Harry Potter.

In the aftermath of it all, Draco opened an antiques shop. Sort of. Mostly, though, what he did was repair work. People brought him their grandparents’ charmed silverware or a pocketwatch which was meant to show the stars at your birth but now only held the time, and he would fix them. It was quiet work, a little lonely, but for the repeated intrusions of one Harry J Potter.

Read for: brilliant deep dive into magical theory, smarty pants Draco, enemies to friends to lovers (emphasis on the middle step), poetry references by the bucketful, a version of Draco that lives rent free in my mind

🌻 Half Sick of Shadows – @starquestingfordrarry (39k, E) 🌻

Harry and Draco have been sleeping together for months, and it's fine. It's enough for Harry.

But when things finally start to feel like the more Harry's been hoping for, a strange tapestry project has him worrying he won't ever get the chance.

Or: the one with sheep, dragons, and a whole lot of weaving metaphors.

For: H/D Career Fair 2023

Read for: Alvin the ram, Harry carving wooden dildos, magical tapestries, atmospheric vibes, an artfully created world

🪻 Now I Know In Part – @dodgerkedavra (39k, E) 🪻

Harry Potter is the savior of the Wizarding World. Draco Malfoy is a reformed Death Eater turned Ministry Curse-Breaker. Five years after the War, they're brought together by another mysterious curse.

Only this time, Harry's the one who needs saving.

More specifically, he needs Draco.

They have one month to break the curse, and the clock is ticking.

Read for: Draco taking care of Harry, Cottagecore vibes, bucketfuls of sweetness, great smut

🌸 Nothing Gold Can Stay – @moonflower-rose (40k, E) 🌸

One summer evening, Harry Potter vanished in the middle of dinner with his friends. Four days later he came back. Sort of.

Draco Malfoy is on the case.

For: H/D Erised 2023

Read for: Alternate Universes, Married Draco/Harry, Non-Painful Angst

🌻Sharper than a Sea Serpent's Tooth – @goblinmatriarch (40k, T)

Draco expects his research trip to Crete to focus on the ecology of ward design, with perhaps some cheeky visits to the elusive sea serpents and the odd sleepy beach day. Instead, he encounters a Past he's spent over a decade trying to outrun, and a familiar scowl under glasses and a scar. Featuring just so much imagining being on a hot, sunny beach for your winter pleasure.

For: H/D Erised 2023

Read for: Magical Creatures, Greek Mythology, International Location (Crete), Atmospheric Writing

🪻 LA, Who Am I To Love You? – @epitomereally (42k, E) 🪻

Harry’s summer in LA is not going as expected. Pansy Parkinson keeps inviting him to parties in the Hollywood Hills and harassing him to finally go to the physical therapist, Blaise Zabini keeps slipping new strains of his company’s magical weed into Harry’s pockets in hopes of an endorsement, and Draco Malfoy keeps having sex with everyone but Harry.

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: Werewolf Harry, Incubus Draco, Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Interesting Location (LA)

🌸 A Pulled Down Shade – fast_brother (43k, M) 🌸

Harry does not like Draco Malfoy, not even one bit. Never did and never will. That is, until he finds himself married to him.

For: HP Soulmates Fest 2023

Read for: HUGE Grounds for Divorce vibes! Angst, Harry working through trauma, Harry fighting for Draco

🌻 The Waiting – @oknowkiss (43k, E) 🌻

It’s been almost ten years since Draco Malfoy disappeared during a routine Curse Breaker training exercise. Harry, his partner in more ways than one, is determined to figure out why. As the past resurfaces and the present fades into confusion, Harry discovers the only thing more unreliable than memory is love.

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: Curse Breaker Partners, Angst, Secret Relationship

🪻 The Unplottable Time Conundrum – @writcraft (45k, E) 🪻

When the past starts bleeding into the present at Grimmauld Place, an old academic article pulls Draco Malfoy out of his life of luxury. Haunted by the memory of a fleeting post-war kiss and thrust into the ghostly spaces inhabited by Unspeakable Harry Potter, Draco’s easy life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

For: H/D Erised 2023

Read for: House Magic, The Order of the Pheonix, Haunted House vibes, Drarry in their 30s

🌸 Our Objective Remains Unchanged – @citrusses (46k, E) 🌸

Harry Potter, returning member of the Oxford University Boat Club, has two goals for the spring of 2005: beat Cambridge, and beat Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not in that order.

Read for: Muggle AU, Sports AU, Competitiveness, Damn good writing

🌻 Everybody Hates a Tourist – @wolfpants (51k, E) 🌻

On a stag do in sunny Brighton with the Gryffindor lads, the last person Harry expects to run into is Draco Malfoy. After a glimpse of Malfoy’s Muggle life in Britain’s gay capital, Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself returning to the seaside again and again, drawn to the city, drawn to this new version of Malfoy that Harry barely recognises from school.

Meanwhile, Draco’s just trying to live his big and best queer life: working for the weekend, chasing hot men, getting lost in Brighton's nightlife, and making friends with the neighbourhood cats. Why does his former school rival and crush have to show up and spoil everything?

For: HD Wireless 2023

Read for: beautiful relationship building, Harry finding himself, Draco living his best life. I won’t lie, I’d read the back of a cereal box if wolfpants wrote it – do yourself a favour if you haven’t already

🪻 from love, obviously – bizarrestars (52k, M) 🪻

"I just mean, doing the right thing because it's right is better than doing it because…"

"What?" Draco challenges, amused. "Better to do it because it's right as opposed to doing it because it's not wrong? Please enlighten me on what the difference is."

"You're the difference," is Harry's answer.

(Or: Draco Malfoy comes up with a plan, drinks a lot of tea, and fails to fix a clock. Somewhere along the way, Harry Potter falls in love with him, which wasn't a part of the plan at all.)

Read for: Unhinged Draco, Harry being resigned to Draco’s antics, Weasley family feels, fast pacing

🌸 Terrible People – @getawayfox and @wolfpants (52k, E) 🌸

What happens when Harry and Draco end up on the same Muggle gay cruise? They certainly didn't plan for it to happen (but their friends might have). They're stuck with each other for a week, they might as well make the most of it, right?

Featuring a holiday-long game of Truth or Dare, a very ill-judged FWB proposition, decades-long pining, lots of gin, and a small pair of green swimming trunks.

Read for: Gorgeous Art , RomCom vibes, Gay Cruise, Friends with Benefits to Lovers

🌻 Nights With You – @the-sinking-ship (58k, E) 🌻

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend.

Now all Draco has to do is convince him.

Read for: Fake dating, mild size kink, international location (Italy), mildly unhinged Draco, hot Harry

Note: This is the fic that made me set up a Doc for everything I’d read to make sure I wouldn’t lose it to the wide realm of the internet.

🪻 Rookie Moves – peu_a_peu (75k, E) 🪻

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case.

Read for: Humour, Enemies to Coworkers to Lovers, Unhinged Draco

🌸 How To Train Your Malfoy – @fencer-x (93k E) 🌸

Good manners dictate that, when one’s best friend Apparates onto one’s doorstep holding the unconscious, haggard body of the schoolyard bully and begging for sanctuary, one ought to invite the two of them in for a cup of tea. Harry Potter sometimes wishes he weren’t so polite.

For: H/D Erised 2023

Read for: Dragon Animagus Draco, Harry taking care of Draco, brilliant writing, a funny as fuck premise – I wanted Draco to stay in his unhinged dragon form forever

🌻 Symptom of Your Touch – NoxNoir (115k, E) 🌻

St. Mungo's Healer Draco Malfoy is used to being pushed to his limits when providing aide to the ailing, but when an unexpected encounter with an out of character Harry Potter throws his life out of balance one night, he is forced to ask himself how far he's willing to push his own levels of discomfort to be of aid to a man in need of help that only he can provide.

Read for: Draco taking care of Harry, Pining, Unrequited love, buckets of sexual tension

🪻 Recursion – Tessa Crowley (132k, E) 🪻

A process is recursive when it defines or contains itself; e.g., the Fibonacci sequence, which determines the next number as the sum of the previous two.

But not all recursive processes are mathematical. Recursion can happen in a temporal context when, for instance, the powerful magical force that is true love drags you back in time so it can create itself, endangering the fate of the Wizarding World—not to mention the very fabric of space and time—along the way.

Read for: Canon Retelling/Divergence, time travel, Slytherin Harry, a truly insane amount of physics/magical theory/intelligence. This fic was too smart for me in the best way. If you liked Chaos Theory read this – it’s even better!

🌸 Cut From the Sky – @mallstars (150k, E) 🌸

"I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving November 2nd. This is the 111th time I've lived through today."

Draco stilled. His moody eyes, the tension in his hands where he gripped onto his umbrella, the careful mask of blankness flickering over his face — everything about him was so difficult and so very dear to Harry.

"Ah," said Draco, "and?"

Note: no rec list for this year could be considered complete without including this one.

Read for: Harry at his most loveable, a relationship story told a hundred different ways, atmospheric worldbuilding, Trans representation.

🌻 In the Blood – BiscuitBrunch (225k, E) 🌻

Harry Potter thinks Draco Malfoy is a slimy git of a defense lawyer, who couldn't care less about doing the right thing.

Draco Malfoy thinks Harry Potter is a filthy pig of an Auror, who couldn't care less about doing the right thing.

They fight, fuck, fall in love, and fight some more.

When they're on the brink of getting their shit together and starting a family, a blood curse surfaces that threatens the lives of Draco and their unborn child.

Read for: badass lawyer Draco, deep exploration of a relationship, working through trauma, slice of life, mpreg

[amelie-sama-blog]

so i read this shota itachi x naruto x sasuke fic (with clear warnings literally on the front page) just now, and i've been really starting to see a pattern in ao3 comment sections.

there's always old comments, from when the fanfic was first published (in this case 2013), all mostly very normal, appreciative, and aware that this is merely HTML text on an internet archive. I only found a single old comment that was cussing into the void about pedophilia this, child pornography that. (seriously, "CP" is not the right word, it's CSAM/CSEM, at least get it right if you're gonna complain).

and then boom, from 2020 onwards, somehow suddenly a rise in accusatory anti comments. it's almost as if the rise of tiktok and the pandemic suddenly got everyone's panties in a twist:

"i'M jUsT trYiNg tO gEt yOu tO hAvE cOmMoN sEnSe :)" 💀 (eri_sama is me btw)

"straight up illegal shit".... no. molesting children is illegal. and even if it wasn't, it's horrible. this though? that's just some text. strings of letters next to each other in some kind of order.

and as a closing note, here is some positivity ^^ :

remember guys, and i quote, "it's just a frigging story xD".

you're not hurting anyone by reading an HTML text composed of letters stringed together in some kind of order on an internet archive.