#...I’m NOT tagging every character. (maybe later)

[sharieb]

Hello 👋 I had a funny idea for non mc and lads bc I'm a suckered for jealous men. Okay so let's say this is pre relationship and non mc thinks the lads boys like mc so she's flirting with others and going in dates trying to forget the boys. Meanwhile, the boys are giving signs that they like you and are livid by this news. And MC just slaps them on the head and is like "you're dumbahh better confess instead of waiting then!!". And who knows maybe the boys do grow a pair and confess and the mc and I get married and have a happy lesbain marriage blah blah

That's all I got ✋️🙃

Keep up the amazing work 👏

Stay Jealous or Get a Ring, Your Choice, Dammit.

Setup: You thought they liked MC. So you try to move on, triggering five separate, very uncasual meltdowns and a tired MC, who's sick and tired of watching her emotionally constipated friends spiral into disaster.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC reader

Genre: Crack, Fluff

Writer's note: The moment I saw this request, my mind went straight to doing a crack fanfic (sorry to the request if that's not what you wanted). I've been cracking for who knows how long. I left a little bonus for the MC lovers here, I made her section non-gen so more of you lovelies can enjoy it. Content warning: characters ooc, implied attempted murder

The dramatic artist who believes no one deserves you.

Rafayel tried everything.

He painted you into morning skies and painted you out of every conversation with another man. He started hanging around the edge of your gallery visits, always just nearby, just waiting for you to ask what he was working on. He left you anonymous compliments on your pottery pieces, wrote you poetry disguised as art notes, and even installed a light fixture above your favourite sculpture so it glimmered just right.

You thought he was just being theatrical, as usual, and figured he must be trying to charm MC.

Until you mentioned you had a date that evening.

He smiled. Then didn’t blink for a full thirty seconds.

That same night, your date spotted Rafayel watching you from across the restaurant window. In full tux. Drinking wine. Alone.

Soon, Rafayel walked in with a five-foot oil painting titled: “The Delusion of Men Who Think They’re Enough for You.”

Your date chokes on his kombucha. You hide your face. And Rafayel? He takes a bow.

You leave, dragging your dignity behind you. As soon as you're out of earshot, MC pops up behind a curtain, hands on hips.

MC: “Rafayel, what in all the painted heavens are you doing? Did you just publicly roast her date with a painting?” Rafayel: “It was a conceptual piece.” MC: “It was a visual war crime.”

She drags him backstage and throws glitter at him like a baptism.

MC: “I swear, if you don’t confess, I will confess for you. With interpretive dance. In full Lemurian formal wear. Then I’ll march over to her, hand her a bouquet of your secret fanart, and say: ‘This man wants to marry you and adopt six cats.’ I will.”

Rafayel groans, throws a hand over his forehead like a fallen prince.

Rafayel: “FINE. I’ll go, I’ll go.”

Later... You find a velvet-wrapped box on your pottery shelf. Inside? A charm bracelet made of hand-painted ceramic beads, each one modelled after a stupid little moment he thought you’d forgotten.

There’s a tag: "Wear this if you’d like to go on an actual date, with someone who knows how to admire a masterpiece."

He’s lingering by the doorway, pretending to look at a plant.

You: “Subtle.” Rafayel grinning: “I’m an artist, darling. Not an assassin.” You, holding up the bracelet: “So, this means I’m your muse now?” Rafayel: “You always were. I just finally grew the guts to say it.”

The sulking surgeon with an MD in jealousy.

Zayne showed it the only way he knew how, quietly.

He made sure your bloodwork was always processed first. He left energy bars in your locker with hand-written nutritional stats.

He cross-checked your chart for signs of overwork and rerouted your breaks so you'd have time to breathe.

You assumed it was part of his job. Or maybe because MC worked the same schedule and he was looking out for her.

Then he found out you were going on a date.

Your date? Sweet, maybe a bit boring, but he knew what medflowers were and walked you to the medbay like a gentleman.

Unfortunately, Zayne took that as a declaration of war.

Your date: “So, sprained wrist?”

Zayne, smiling like a serial killer: “Possibly a fractured ulna. I should check his reflexes, too.”

Then he proceeds to drop a clipboard labeled "Do Not Resuscitate" directly in the poor man’s hands.

You: “ZAYNE.”

Zayne: “What? It’s a common form.”

You stormed off right when the appointment ended. The moment your footsteps fade, MC emerges from behind a curtain like a surgical horror.

MC: “You want to explain why you're committing emotional malpractice?” Zayne: “I'm not-” MC: “You just threw a beaker at his foot.” Zayne: “I was testing his reflexes.” MC: “You labelled it ‘containment hazard. '" Zayne: “Emotional containment. He failed.” MC: “You really like looming over the poor man like a judgmental gargoyle!”

He clenches his jaw. Zayne: “She shouldn’t waste her time on people who wouldn’t know how to handle her properly.” MC: “Oh my STARS, Zayne. I’m this close to printing out your stupid mood logs and hand-delivering them to her. CONFESS, you tuxedo-clad dumbass!”

Zayne exhales through his nose like he’s being asked to perform unnecessary surgery.

MC: “I’m not kidding. If you don’t tell her how you feel, I will. I'll even add your notes: Patient: You. Diagnosis: Irresistible. Treatment: CONFESSION, you emotionally-repressed gurney goblin.”

He nods once, faint blush on his cheeks, and picks up his tea like it’s a shield.

Zayne: “I’ll handle it. But if you laugh at me-” MC: “I’ll personally prescribe you courage. Now go.”

Later... You find a sticky note on your locker. It reads:

"If you’re not busy after work, I’d like to take you for tea. Preferably somewhere with no diagnostic equipment. —Zayne."

You catch him rounding the corner. He pauses, clearly didn’t expect to get caught mid-flee.

You: “Is this your version of asking me out?” Zayne, flatly: “Would it work?” You, smiling: “Only if you’re planning to glare at everyone else in the café.” Zayne: “That was already the plan.”

The shy, sleepy alien boy who becomes unhinged when you touch grass with another man.

Xavier was trying. And glitching.

He wrote you custom code to predict weather patterns near your commute. He tuned the observatory AI to greet you by name. He added calming frequencies to your music algorithm, then deleted the logs so you wouldn’t know he noticed you get nervous before meetings.

You thought he was just being sweet for MC’s sake, surely Xavier’s little upgrades were to help the team, right? Or worse… to make MC smile.

Until you casually mentioned you had stargazing plans with someone else.

Your observatory date starts perfectly. Stars, warm blanket, you pointing out constellations.

Until the projector shuts down mid-sentence. The whole dome powers off.

You: “Maybe it’s solar interference?” Your date: “Maybe that guy on the roof hot-wired it?”

You squint. Yep. Xavier. Standing alone. On the roof. In a hoodie. Typing directly into a satellite control panel like he was God himself.

After you leave, clearly annoyed, MC literally rappels down from a side ladder like a silent assassin.

MC: “You sabotaged her date because you couldn’t handle her laughing at someone else’s Pluto joke?” Xavier: “…It wasn’t funny.” MC: “You activated a lockdown protocol. Over Pluto.”

She drags him into the maintenance bay with her toolkit. MC: “Fix your wiring, and your feelings. Or I’m hacking your AI assistant to confess for you in the middle of a team briefing.” He sighs but nods his head.

Later...

You walk into your room, and the smart panel lights up with a voice message. It’s him.

“I’ve set coordinates for the meteor shower. If you come, I’ll bring your favourite blanket. And, if you let me... I’ll hold your hand.”

You find him across the garden dome, nervously adjusting the telescope.

You: “You know you already had the stars on your side, right?” Xavier, softly: “I was hoping for a constellation-level miracle.” You: “Turns out, you just had to ask.”

The underworld menace who thinks murder is a love language.

Sylus doesn’t do soft. But he tried.

He upgraded your scanner with a hidden security shield. He intercepted every report that mentioned your name. He left you coded messages in encrypted graffiti.

You figured it was to protect MC. To support her missions.

Your date never even arrives. His bike “malfunctions,” he ends up in the medbay with soot in his eyebrows, and somehow a video surfaces of Sylus standing next to a sparking hover core with the caption: “oopsie.”

You march into his office, furious.

You: “Did you sabotage my date’s car?” Sylus: “Define sabotage.” You: “The engine exploded.” Sylus: “Define exploded.”

You storm off, muttering about hit lists and overprotective warlords.

MC waits a full two minutes before grabbing Sylus by the collar and hauling him into a back corridor like a crime scene.

MC: “You lit a man’s ride on fire, Sylus.” Sylus: “He called her ‘cute.’ It was self-defence.” MC: “You’re emotionally constipated and it’s a threat to public safety.”

She slams him into a chair.

MC: “You either tell her that you like her or I do. And when I do, I’ll include the audio file of you, where you practised confessing to a mirror and calling her your ‘chaotic muse and sweetheart of the storm.’” He groaned in annoyance but agreed... not without using his evol to handcuff MC and then yeet her off him and across the room

Later... There’s a file on your encrypted tablet titled: "Operation: Us."

Inside: sarcastic bullet points and a dinner date invite labeled: “NOT AN INTERROGATION (PROBABLY).”

You find him leaning against the hallway wall.

You: “This is your version of romance?” Sylus, smirking: “You haven’t even seen dessert yet.” You: “Sweet or explosive?” Sylus: “Yes.”

The military-grade menace with Colonel-sized delusions.

Caleb kept it together... until he didn’t.

He cleared flight paths to make sure you always had a smooth ride. He added you to every mission briefing worth hearing. He rerouted shuttles so you wouldn’t get stuck next to people who annoyed you.

You thought it was efficiency. You thought it was maybe for MC.

Then you told him you were seeing someone new.

Your date is supposed to be a quiet stroll around the Skyhaven hangars. Instead, he’s stopped by emergency protocol and pulled into a no-fly debrief. You get an apologetic text… and a second one from Caleb that says: “Hangar’s clear now. Coincidence.”

You: “Why did my date get pulled in for emergency training?” Caleb: “Safety protocol.” You: “He’s a pastry chef.” Caleb: “Pastry burns are real.”

When you leave the hangar, fuming, MC’s waiting behind a control tower, arms crossed.

MC: “You rerouted a civilian for a date-block.” Caleb: “He didn’t even check the air traffic pattern.” MC: “You’re weaponising airspace for emotional sabotage!”

She drags him behind a parked shuttle and jabs her finger into his chest plate.

MC: “You either tell her, you like her or I will, and I’ll do it by submitting an HR report titled ‘Unresolved Feelings: A PowerPoint Presentation,’ with photos of the flight logs, the dossier, and that doodle of you two as jet pilots you keep in your journal.”

He sighs. And finally goes to confess.

Later... There’s a sleek envelope tucked under your door. Inside: two flight passes. On the back: "I figured we’ve been circling this long enough. Come fly with me, partner."

He’s outside, pretending to inspect air traffic patterns.

You: “That's a grand gesture or a flight plan?” Caleb, softly: “Depends, did it work?” You: smiling, nudging him,

“Only if you stop background checking café staff.” Caleb: “…No promises.”

BONUS

A quiet moment. One pot of tea. Two agents of chaos.

You and MC are seated in the quietest corner of a Linkon rooftop café, steaming teacups between you. The air smells like chamomile and judgment.

You swirl your cup, eyeing her curiously.

You: “So… your fiancé. What’s their deal? They must be some kind of unshakeable saint if you’re willingly giving up your chaos-for-two lifestyle.”

MC smirks over the rim of her cup.

MC: “Oh, my babybear's worse than me. I used to plot strategy in my sleep. They dream in legal loopholes and high-stakes tea parties.”

You snort. “And here I thought I was the menace magnet.”

MC leans in, eyes twinkling.

MC: “You are. But my buttercup’s the only person I’ve met who could beat Sylus in a staring contest, out-code Xavier, and survive being Caleb’s co-pilot on a ten-hour flight. All while giving Zayne nutritional advice.”

You stare. “...Is your fiancé even human?”

MC shrugs. “Not sure. I fell in love before I asked.”

You smile behind your teacup.

You: “Sounds like you two deserve each other.”

You both cackle, and the rooftop air feels just a little bit lighter.

[redheadfiretruckgirl]

Why Me?

Melissa receives an upsetting phone call from her ex husband at work and, as always, you are there to catch her fall. Who's going to be able to catch you from falling for her, though?

WC: 4k

Tags: America's Sweetheart @milfjuulpod (shoot me a message if you'd like to be added to the taglist! Or be friends idk.)

Warnings: cursing, brief mention of family member death, sad Mel :(

A/N: Turns out I found my calling and it's to make y'all cry.

The halls of Abbott were completely empty, with only the smell of fresh coffee floating through the air. The doors held incredible potential energy, just waiting to be pushed through by the tiny hands of Philadelphia’s youth. The only signs of life were the usual cast of characters enjoying Action News in the teacher’s lounge.

Although you had been a teacher at Abbott for over a year, you had just joined in on this morning ritual. You never really understood why everyone loved it so much until you showed up to work early one morning to try it out. It was perfect: fresh coffee, silence among your coworkers, and extra fleeting glances at the one and only, Melissa Schemmenti.

You were one of the only people in that school to match Melissa’s wit, and definitely the only one that has ever been able to step to her. Just last week you had to explain to her how it was inappropriate to call a student a “bambino fastidioso” (annoying child) to their face, even if they “didn’t know what it meant.” Even though Melissa was much older than you, you found yourself emitting a sort of nurturing energy around her, like your spirit predated hers by hundreds of years. It wasn’t a ‘holier-than-thou’ thing, as you psychoanalyzed that exact thought on a daily basis to make sure you never came off that way, you just simply really cared for Melissa. Maybe even loved her. You two had been on a few coffee outings, mostly to talk about books you were reading, and even then Ava or Barbara would usually tag along. Sometimes you would venture to one of the lunch spots close to the school one-on-one, and you’d savor every moment, but things never went much further than that. And that was fine. 

Today, upon your arrival, you scanned the room for your redheaded crush. Jacob spotted you from the corner of his eye, “Looking for someone?” He wore a shit-eating grin.

You rolled your eyes, “Where’s Schemmenti?”

“She’s taking a phone call—” Jacob started. Barbara, who sat on the sofa, turned around and shushed you two.

Your eyes found Jacob’s again, “Stop smiling like that. You look stupid,” you spat at him, and put your things down on a nearby chair. You straightened your shirt and headed for the door.

Jacob stopped you, “I don’t think she wants to be interrupted…”

You snap back to him, “I’m going to the bathroom. Is that fucking illegal now?”

He cowered. Barbara whipped around again, “Y/N! We are in an elementary school, and more importantly, in the presence of G. O. D. Chose your words wiser.”

“Gee, I almost forgot.” You rolled your eyes and exited the lounge.

You had no intention of bothering Melissa until you heard an animalistic noise cut through the silence of the hallway. You turned around on your heels quickly and followed it. Another loud shriek came from an opening in the door to Melissa’s classroom. Your eyes widened as you scurried over, leaning flat against the wall next to the door, trying to listen. Your stomach turned as you couldn’t make out her words, only her morphed sobs and screams at whoever she was yelling at.

It was rare for Melissa to exude such emotion in public. Even when her Nonna died last year, none of the others figured it out until months later. For some reason, however, you were the one who Melissa called when she found out. You spent all night in the rocking chair on your porch listening to Melissa grieve, mostly silent, occasionally offering reassurance and other soft words. The whole time, you were perplexed: why you? What about you made Melissa feel comfortable enough to let her guard down?

You shook off the memory just as you heard a final yell from the classroom, “DO NOT FUCKING CALL ME AGAIN!” Just then, Melissa’s cell phone flew through the doorway and flopped to the ground. 

You counted to five to make sure nothing else was coming after it, then you bent down to retrieve the phone. The screen was smashed. Melissa, hadn’t noticed you. Her head rested in her hands. You picked up her phone and crept into her room. “I think you dropped this,” you waved the phone in the air and smiled crookedly. You had an inability to be serious in serious situations, but your jokes showed your sincerity, and Melissa appreciated that. 

She looked up from her hands as you handed her the phone. Her face was mangled with tears, full of humiliation. There was a small twinge of relief in her eyes, realizing it was you. The broken phone stared up at her, “Fuck…” she examined it.

“I know. 8AM is a little early for you to be going all She-Hulk on me, Schemmenti. What’s going on?” You leaned back up against her desk.

“Did you hear any of that?” Child-like embarrassment filled her eyes.

“No. Not much. I just heard more crying than cussing, which is what concerned me.”

“It was Joe,” her eyes glued to the phone.

“Oh, joy,” you exhale sharply and wait for Melissa’s explanation. It takes a few moments.

“Actually, I called him,” you raise an eyebrow at her as she continued, “Do you remember when I told you about my Nonna’s jewelry box?”

“The one she left to you? From the old country?” You tilted your head to the side.

“That’s the one. Well, last night, I was going through it looking for something specific. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Practically tore my house apart to find this one little thing. And then I remembered. It was probably under the secret squeaky floorboard at the old house.”

“The secret squeaky what?” You half-laughed. The words sounded ridiculous coming from Melissa.

“At the house Joe and I shared, in the basement, there was this loose floorboard in the corner where I kept all the important stuff: photos, trinkets, jewelry, you know. Nonna gave me the thing I was looking for when Joe and I got married, so I figured I might’ve accidentally left it under there. I called Joe and asked him to look thinking he wouldn’t know what I was talking about because, you know, secret. But he did. And he said in one of his temper tantrums, he found the floorboard and threw away everything under there. Except the thing. He kept it all these years and just…just gave it away to his most recent slam-piece.” Her voice cracked on those last words.

“Slam-piece? I thought he got remarried?” You questioned.

“Re-married and re-divorced. That man couldn’t keep a woman if he had her in a god damn cage. And now, some random whore is in possession of an heirloom that has been in my family for centuries.” She began sobbing again, her words broken up, “And Joe said that if I really cared about it I wouldn’t have left it.” Her head fell back into her hands. 

Your fists clenched, “So he’s just…not gonna give it back?” You asked though gritted teeth.

Melissa was hysterical, stuttering through her next thoughts, “N-no. He said he couldn’t j-just take it b-back from her because he already g-gave it and it would be rude t-to take it away. But it’s—it’s mine! He just took it…he just…” She couldn’t speak anymore.

You quickly stood and wrapped your arms around her poor, sitting figure. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Mel.” You whispered, rubbing her back as she cried into your stomach. You gentleness was simply a facade. As you looked out the window behind her, the world caught fire. Your blood boiled; you could feel it in your ears, behind your eyes, and in each one of your fingertips. So badly did your mouth want to spit poisonous words. Your fists wanted to break the windows. You wanted to wail along with Melissa, but you knew she needed softness. Your fingernails combed through her long, red locks as she took a couple of deep breaths, collecting herself. 

When she pulled away, you kneeled down to her level and grabbed her face, “Melissa Schemmenti, I will not rest until you have that…thing.” You paused, “What is it, anyway? I feel like I should know what I’m going to murder someone over, right?”

She let out an exasperated laugh, “It doesn’t matter, kiddo. There’s no chance he’ll give it back to me. Especially not after that phone call. Just forget about it.”

“Impossible.” You replied, but halfway said to yourself. You were going to figure out how to get back Melissa’s heirloom, whatever it was, if it was the last thing you did. Both of you were snapped out of the moment when the 8:30 bell invaded you ears. In just a few moments, Melissa’s students would parade through the door, tugging on the hem of her jacket, needing her.

You ran your thumbs under Melissa’s eyes, swiping away tears, loose makeup, and heartbreak. It reminded you of leveling the flour off the measuring cup when you baked Melissa a cake for her birthday a few months before. Something you were good at: making everything just right. “You are gonna be okay, amore mio,” she raised an eyebrow at your sloppy Italian, “You know where my classroom is if you need me. How about we eat lunch in there together?”

Melissa nodded. The chatter of small children crescendoed from down the hall. Before you could even think of your next move, your body took over. Without thinking, you leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Melissa’s forehead. You stood and stumbled back immediately, both sets of eyes wide. Preparing for impact, you took two more slow steps backward. Melissa softened, however, exhaling deeply. With her breath went every worry, every tear she cried. She straightened her shoulders, dumbfounded that your intimate gesture, however slight, pulled so much negativity out of her body so aggressively. You quickly turned around and headed for the exit. Melissa stood up to stop you, but her students flooded the doorway waiting to be greeted by their teacher.

During lunch, you kept your promise. You suggested you and Melissa take a walk over to the hoagie shop near the school and she agreed. Melissa would never ever turn down a capicola sandwich and a bag of sour cream and onion chips, especially if they were free. The two of you ate in your classroom. Melissa, though still melancholic, babbled about last week’s football game with her mouth full. You felt guilty for not listening all the way, but the inside of your head was too chaotic. It was for good reason, though, as you were thinking of the thousands of ways you could possibly get Melissa’s item back. You had to internally talk yourself out of busting down the door of the house and demanding it back from the bitch. Getting arrested would probably piss Melissa off more, even if she would respect you for it. 

You also couldn’t get that forehead kiss out of your head. What were you thinking? You weren’t thinking. More importantly, why did Melissa seem to like it? What was Melissa about to say before her students interrupted? You decided against bringing it up, as to not make anything weird. Melissa seemed to be in a good enough mood for the situation, and you didn’t want to ruin it. You bit hard into your Italian sub.

“You okay over there, hon?” Melissa asked.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” You replied with your mouth full.

“You just tore that bread off your sandwich like it was someone’s head,” she laughed, “And you haven’t been listening for the last five minutes.”

“What? I’ve been listening!” You put down your sandwich, “You said ‘if the fucking god damn Cowboys run one more shitty play, I’m going to drive to Dallas and set the stadium ablaze myself.’”

��Touché.” She took another bite, “You coming?”

You raised an eyebrow. Coming. “Coming where?”

“To Dallas. For arson. I don’t need an accomplice, but I’d like to have someone there to take a picture of me in front of the burning stadium.” You both burst into laughter.

“Well, why me?” You shook if off. 

Melissa looked through your eyes, into your soul. “I don’t know. I just like you.” She snapped back to reality, “And you have fast little feet for when we need to make a run for it. Duh.” 

After walking Melissa back to her classroom, you decided to visit Miss Problem-Solver herself: Janine Teagues. You dropped your kids off at music class and then tiptoed over to her room. After a few knocks, she popped out of her seat and scurried over to you, “Hey, you! What’s up?”

You chose your next words carefully, as to not overexcite the small fireball, “Do you have a couple minutes? I think I need some advice.”

Her eyes widened, “Advice? I’m so good at advice! What do you need advice about? The math lesson plan you’ve been fooling around with? You know, I know you’re not the strongest in math but I really do think you totally got this and if we just—”

“No, no, nothing school related…kinda,” you cut her off, “Lets say one of your friends has an item that is super important to them…that someone else is in possession of…and they won’t give it back. But your friend is the rightful owner. How would you, you know, stick your hand in and try to get it back?”

“I knew Melissa was acting extra hostile today.” She spoke to the floor.

“What? I didn’t say it was Melissa.” You raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t have to,” Janine smirked. 

“Okay, whatever. But this conversation is definitely not happening right now. Capeesh?” She mimed zipping her lips. “Good. Now, Joe took a family heirloom from Melissa and gave it to his new girlfriend, but it’s been in Melissa’s family for like a million years. He is refusing to give it back to her. But I need to get it back. I know I can.”

She tilted her head to the side, “Have you tried asking his girlfriend about it?”

“I guess not,” you began, “But I don’t even know who she is!’

Janine cackled, “Y/N, we’re millennials. We’re the Facebook stalking champions. Let’s figure this out.”

She walked back over to her computer and you followed. You stood behind her as she got onto Facebook. First, she pulled up Melissa’s page. You paused to admire her profile picture: it was when the Eagles won the Super Bowl last year. She stood at Lincoln Financial Field with her arms spread wide as confetti rained around her, and an open mouth smile decorated her face. Janine caught you smiling, “Your dimples are showing,” she joked, and clicked on Melissa’s friends list, where she found Joe. 

The two of them were on good terms until, presumably, this particular morning. Joe’s profile picture was himself holding an oversized beer. Sounds about right. Every time you saw Joe’s picture you never understood what Melissa saw in him. Of course, you never really had any sort of feelings towards men, period. But, Melissa was so beautiful, and Joe was…so average. Ugly even. You weren’t afraid to think it. You recalled seeing their wedding photo once: Melissa looked radiant and Joe looked like he didn’t want to be there. They didn’t look right next to each other; they didn’t fit. You always imagined what you and Melissa looked like walking together. Even today, on your journey to the hoagie shop, you wondered how you two would look next to each other if the hypothetical paparazzi snapped a photo at that moment.

Janine was combing through Joe’s recent posts until she came across a selfie of him and a woman…a redhead. The caption: “My Redheaded Firetruck Girl.”

“Give me a fucking break,” you whispered.

One of Janine’s students stood, “Oooooh Ms. Y/N said a bad word!”

The class erupted into a chorus of ‘Oooooo’s. Janine looked at you disapprovingly. You shrugged a silent ‘sorry’ at her, and motioned for her to keep going. 

She clicked on the poster of the photo: Carol Trinity. “I think we found her,” Janine clapped her hands together and blew on her knuckles. “Look her up on WhitePages and you’ve got yourself a phone call!”

You thanked Janine warmly, and she replied with a wink. “Go get her, tiger.”

Your head snapped back toward her as she fixed her words, “Go get IT. I meant. Go get it. The thing.”

And you did. You called Carol and explained yourself: said you were a close friend of Joe’s ex wife and that he gave her one of Melissa’s important pieces of family history. The phone call was quick. Luckily, Carol was a normal human being. She volunteered to bring it to Abbott by the end of the day herself, and wouldn’t mention it to Joe. A girl’s girl. You thanked her a million and one times and said you would be waiting for her in the main office.

When she arrived, she hugged you tight and harped on what an amazing friend you were. You nodded intently, but your eyes kept traveling to the clock in the corner of the room: 3:54PM. The children had long gotten on the bus, and Melissa was probably packing her things to leave for the day.

As soon as Carol was outside, you blasted through the front office door with a small, sleek black box gripped tightly in your hand. A cacophony of clicks erupted from the heels of your boots as you sprinted down the hallway toward Melissa’s classroom. Your speed was so incredible, you almost missed her doorway, but as you backtracked, you realized the lights were off. “Shit!” You stomped your foot in defeat. You were then alerted by the click of the back doors opening. You whipped around to see a glimpse of bright red hair floating through. “MELISSA!” You called, but she was already outside.

Like a bull to a red scarf, your charged the back doors, knuckles white from gripping the box so hard. Melissa had already crossed the parking lot by the time you made it outside. Her hand brushed her car door when she heard your yelling, “MEL! MEL!”

Her head snapped toward the door. You jumped up and down a few times before sprinting toward her, “I got it, Mel! I got your thing!” You waved the box in the air.

Melissa’s face contorted with disbelief. There was no way you were able to get the heirloom back, and in just a few hours no less. The woman stood frozen as you finally caught up to her and held out the box. “I got it,” you repeated, breathless.

She took the box, almost glowing in the overcast light, and ran her fingers along the raised “Bellissima Gioielleria” logo. “Y/N…how did you…”

“I got a guy,” you smirked, proud of yourself. “It’s me. I’m the guy in this case. And I didn’t even have to brutally maim anyone.” 

The redhead couldn’t stop marveling at the box. You interjected again, “I didn’t open it. I know you were trying to hide what it was. I just wanted to let you know I didn’t open it.”

She looked up at you with tears in her eyes, “I just can’t believe…I can’t believe you did this for me. Why? Why did you go to all the trouble?”

“Schemmenti, I would get in bigger trouble than this if it meant I didn’t have to see you shed another sad tear for the rest of forever.” You placed your hands over hers underneath the box. 

The school doors opened again to reveal Janine, Gregory, and Jacob chattering away on their way to their cars. You and Melissa looked at them, then each other. She hit the unlock button on her keys and said, “Get in. I want to show you something.”

You ran around to the other side of the car, opened the door, and slid in with Melissa mirroring you. Once both the doors were shut, Melissa stared hard at the box in her lap before finally picking it up. She carefully took the lid off to reveal the object: a thin gold chain bracelet with the smallest, little gold star clasp. Melissa’s mouth stretched into a wide smile.

You stared at the dainty jewelry in awe, “It’s…beautiful.”

“You bet your sweet ass it is. Been in the family for over a century. My Nonna gave this to me before I married Joe. Her Nonna gave it to her and she was saving it for me,” Melissa pointed to the clasp, “She always said I was ‘la stella più luminosa’—her brightest star. I lit up the world and worked tirelessly to make it better for others around me…her words, of course. She gave it to me on my wedding day because she wanted to make sure I knew to never let anyone stomp out that light in me,” she mimicked her grandmother, “especially not some uomo disgustoso. You know, old Italian women always seem to know when something isn’t gonna work out. I swear they see the future, all of ‘em.”

She pinched the bracelet in between her fingers and lifted it to eye level, examining. Then, she looked at you. With her other hand, she summoned you, “C’mere.”

You sat back, “What?”

She reached for your arm, “Gimme your wrist.”

“Melissa, what? No,” you snatched your wrist away, but Melissa pulled it back, “Stop, what are you doing?”

“Can you please just hold still?” She unclasped the bracelet and draped it around your left wrist before re-clasping it. Tears filled your eyes immediately.  Romantic, platonic, or other, Melissa just adorned you in one of her most prized possessions. 

You looked up at her, unable to hide the immense strength it took to hold your tears back. All you could muster was, “Why…me?”

Melissa exhaled deeply, “This past year, It seems like whenever I look up, you’re always there. You’re always helping me, guiding me…I feel a comfort around you I can’t describe. I was planning on giving you this anyway, that’s why I was so upset this morning, but witnessing what you did for me today, there’s just no doubt in my mind…it’s you. You are my stella più luminosa, Y/N. And I don’t know what this is, and I don’t know what I want it to be…but I know that I really trust you.”

There was no stopping your jaw from dropping. While you had a little schoolgirl crush on Melissa, she had actual, true love for you. Actual trust in you. “All that to say,” she began again, “Do ya wanna try this out? Can I take you out sometime?”

All of your feelings for Melissa crawled up your throat and fought for space in your mouth, but you couldn’t manage to say any of them. Your body kicked into autopilot again to make up for your lack of words. You touched Melissa’s cheek, leaned in, and pressed your lips to hers. It wasn’t too gentle, but it wasn’t too forceful: it was affirming. You didn’t need to say yes, the kiss already did. When you pulled away, Melissa immediately pulled you into an awkward hug over the center console in the car. “I’ll take that as a yes,” She whispered.

You nodded into her shoulder. Muffled cheers erupted from outside the car. You both look through the front window to see Gregory jumping around and Janine and Jacob crying, holding each other. Melissa squeezed your hand, “Should we give ‘em a show?”

Before she could finish her question, you were kissing her again. 

Why you? Because you deserved Melissa. And she deserved you too.

[javierduffy]

ohh javieran … javieran post kieran’s death .., javier is a poor lonesome cowboy in america a long way from home with no more sweetheart to sit and talk with him ooohhh can anyone hear me ….

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[strang3lov3]

Honey-Do

“You’re gonna work on these every day. And I’m gonna check to make sure you did ‘em all, and if you did, you get to put a sticker down. And if we fill this sheet all the way up by the end of the week, I’ll make ya cum,” Joel explains. “That’s how you can earn back your privileges, Pumpkin.”

Tags - one shot, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, orgasm denial, ddlg dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, sneaking around with bad influence uncle tommyyyyy, joel jerks off, sex before dinner, angst + tension, spankings, rewards and punishments, elements of abuse, hurt/lots of comfort, pinky promises, dark. this is a work of fiction, and all characters are adults.

A/N - have I ever not delivered. here’s your uncle tommy fill, as promised. thank you to two anons who know who they are for helping with the creation of this fic, and thank you to my dear L for editing with me! anyway, it's been a minute but i'm happy to see you all :) hope you enjoy. i wrote this through a splitting headache so i'm going to chill now.

Your bedroom door clicks as Joel unlocks it from the other side, and the hinges groan and creak as he pushes it open. He looks at your figure lying in your bed, warm sunlight painting over your skin. Joel knows you’re not sleeping. You’re just lying in the quiet room, soaking up the sun like a kitten. 

“Hi, kiddo,” Joel greets softly, smiling before taking long strides across the room to meet you. He’s stepping over your clothes and tripping on other odds and ends before he reaches you - you’ve been picking out your own clothes lately. Apparently you’ve been less than impressed with Joel’s sense of fashion. Ooohkay, he thought. You’re such a messy girl with the way you try on all of your clothes, then leave them all on the floor. Those, coupled with old, expired bottles of nail polish and lip gloss. Joel told you not to use those lip glosses, but they’re just pretty to look at sometimes. 

“Jesus, girl. Fuckin’ room’s a pigsty,” he says, and he sits on the end of your bed, springs creaking with the shift in weight. 

You ignore him. Joel leans over and kisses both of your cheeks and then your forehead, then your nose. “Don’t smile,” he teases, “Don’t you dare laugh.” And he repeats this, his facial hair tickling your skin, until you’re giggling and your eyes finally open. 

“Ohh, there she is. Mornin’, Pumpkin,” Joel says, chuckling at the way you squint through the bright sunlight. 

“Mmm…morning, D–” you’re interrupted by your own yawn, which makes Joel laugh. “Daddy.” 

Joel pushes some hair out of your eyes. “Lazy ass,” he mumbles. “Listen, kiddo. M’on patrol today, so you’re gonna be home all alone. Y’gonna be alright?” he asks, softly stroking the skin on your cheek. “Gonna be a good girl?” 

He wonders if he can trust you. If he can give you this inch, and you won’t take a mile. The doors and windows will stay locked, of course, but there’s other things he worries about. Joel knows you, you know. You’re never as sneaky as you think you are. 

“Mhm. I’m always good, Daddy.” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh, fuckin’ smartass. You can make eggs an’ toast for breakfast, and there’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch. We’ll figure out supper later, hm? Maybe we’ll go to the cafeteria. See what they’re cookin’ up.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you smile. 

“Good.” Joel pats his thighs and then stands up, knees popping loudly. “And I want you to clean all this shit up, alright? Didn’t raise ya to leave messes.” 

You sigh heavily. “I know. I’ll do it.” 

“Good girl.” Joel bends down and kisses your head one last time. “Eat all your lunch an’ have a good day. I love ya.”

You love days where you’re home alone. You used to hate it, and Joel wouldn’t let it happen a whole lot. You hated how lonely it felt, how quiet. You’d hear things go bump that weren’t there, and you’d feel just…nervous. Joel came home once and found you all scared and trembling, and he promised he’d be home with you as much as he could. 

He made good on his promise. And you liked being home with him until you didn’t, until you found it suffocating and boring. Scary. Joel’s house went from being a quiet safe haven away from the horrors of the world to a sort of horror in and of itself. A Sisyphean loop, where nothing ever changes. And it never will, no matter how much you tug on your windows that are bolted shut, or yank on your door that only Joel can unlock. You can never leave. 

You’d stare longingly out the window, hoping to go outside on your own. Just once, maybe. To go in the woods and wander, pick at strange flowers and plants and everything else. Just be alone. Joel grants you so much, and yet, you want so much more than that.

It makes you feel bad, if you’re being honest with yourself. You know what’s out there. What he saved you from. You know you’re safer with Joel, and you know everything he’s done to keep you safe and comfortable and happy. You’re in good hands with him, even if they’re hands that hurt you sometimes. Hit you. Spank you. Choke you. They’re still Joel’s hands, and they’re warm, right? And they love you. 

He said when the weather warms up some more he’ll take you to the lake. You really hope he does. 

You spend the day reading, drawing, watching birds and other critters that come by. Joel thinks it’s cute, the way you’ve named the chipmunks and squirrels that frequent his patio. How you recognize them like they’re your friends. 

Joel tries to leave his bad mood away from home. He knows he’s got a habit of carrying it with him, and regrettably, taking it out on you. You take your moods out on him too, though. Not that it matters. He curses himself for even acknowledging the fact. He’s older, he’s wiser, he’s more patient. You’re not. He’s the parent, you’re the child. But when he comes home, you can tell it was a bad day. You can hear it in his footsteps and in the way he breathes, and it makes you tense. “Y’ready for dinner?” he asks, voice tired. 

“Mhm.” 

“Didn’t hear ya, kiddo. Speak up.” 

“Mhm.” 

“No, no mumblin’. Use your words and tell me, yes or no,” Joel demands, feeling his blood pressure begin to spike. 

“Yes.” 

Oh, you fucking…you. You’re always going to match Joel’s temper. You stare at him and he glares back, balling his fists before turning on his heel to get changed. You both need something to eat, before this goes from zero to one hundred. 

But then Joel goes upstairs, and he walks past your bedroom and sees that nothing - nothing is picked up. He’s back downstairs before he even thinks it through. Before he showers and takes a moment to breathe, even. 

“What’d I fuckin’ tell you?” 

Your stomach drops at his tone. “What?”

“I asked ya to take care of your room, and I come home to see you’ve done fuck all.” 

“I guess I just forgot, Daddy. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Joel scoffs, “Yeah, uh huh.” He pauses for a moment, then puts his hands on his hips. “We talked about this, Pumpkin.” 

“Talked about what?” you ask, and it makes Joel fucking irate that you won’t turn your head to look at him. 

“Look at me when you’re speakin’ t’me,” he barks, startling you. Looking at him from across the room, you can see he means business. Joel’s eyes are already dark to begin with, but they’ve gone black - so depthless and so endless that you can’t tell what’s behind them. 

“You’ve been slackin’,” Joel says in a low tone, breathing heavily as he takes heavy steps toward you. “S’gettin’ old, kid.” 

“I know, I just–”

“Jus’ what?”

You pick at your chipping, poorly-applied nail polish as you roll the answer around in your mind. “I don’t really want to do chores. I mean, I know my room is…but the other stuff, I–” 

“Tough. You live under my roof, y’live under my rules.”

“Then it’s your roof, your mess.” 

The words come out before you can even think about them. You press your lips together immediately, shrinking in your seat a little at the way Joel cocks his eyebrow and puts his hands on his hips. “Wanna try that again?” he asks, and you know what this is, what it is he’s doing: he’s giving you an out. And it’s awfully generous of him, considering. “Don’t make this a bad night,” he warns.

You pause this time, thinking about what you want to say next. I’m sorry, Daddy is that fucking close to rolling off of your lips when you notice that little wren sitting on the windowsill. She’s a frequent visitor, and Joel says she’s just like you. Fiery, assertive, sometimes. Vocal. A pistol. 

She looks at you for a minute, then flies off. It sends a pang of longing through your heart, and perhaps even jealousy that that beautiful little bird can spread her wings and fly away and you…can’t. Not with the locked doors and windows, not while eternally existing under Joel’s fucking microscope.

“I didn’t ask to live here, Joel,” you bite. 

“Oh, s’that’s how we’re doin’ this? This is how tonight’s gonna go?” 

“Yeah.” You get up from your place on the couch and shove into Joel’s shoulder, but he shoves you right back down. He glares at you, and you glare back as hard as you fucking can. Staring at him like you wish you could fucking…you don’t even know. You’re blinded by the same rage and upset that Joel is at this moment, but without the agency to do one fucking thing about it. Joel, on the other hand. 

He takes your jaw in his hand, squeezing your bones tight enough to bruise the soft flesh that covers them. When you jerk your head away, he squeezes tighter. “You don’t get to walk away from me,” he growls, leaning in close enough that you can feel his hot breath on your face. “I do a lot for ya. Done a lot for ya,” he says in a low tone.

“You never let me leave,” you argue. “You trap me.” 

That gets Joel, wounds him a little. His face changes when you say that, before twisting back into something darker. “That’s what you think, huh? That I trap ya?”

You swallow thickly, then part your lips to speak. Joel cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “I keep you safe,” Joel whispers. “Fed. Happy. An’ all I ask is that you follow a few simple rules. That’s all. You wanna go back out there on your own, with the fuckin’ raiders and clickers, I can make that happen. Watch.”

Joel’s jaw ticks as he glares at you, fuming at the indignant little look on your fucking face. He could hit you right now, right across your cheek. Or maybe he’ll bend you over his knee and beat you until your ass is fucking raw and bleeding. That’ll teach you, that’ll fuckin’ teach you…

The anger flows through his veins like a fucking poison, and only when one of Joel’s knuckles crack, startling him, does he let your face go. He didn’t realize he was holding you so hard.

“I don’t like you,” you whisper. 

Joel makes a face at the statement, then nods, because he’s heard it all before. It hurt the worst the first time you said it, but you came back to him crying, hours later when you’d had a nightmare and needed him. Not want - that wasn’t the word you picked. You said you needed him, Daddy, and you were so sorry. You didn’t mean it. You love him and you need him. 

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “M’not too keen on you either, right now, Pumpkin.”    

The room is tense as you and Joel stare each other down, and neither of you budge until Joel tells you to go to your room and stay there. He tells you that you can forget going out to dinner, and you can stay in your bedroom until he feels like looking at your face again. You’re grounded, too - he doesn’t say from what. Now get out of his sight before he fucking hurts you.

You’re in your room forever, the hours alone spent alone passing like days. The sun went down forever ago, and you can’t stop yourself from crying. You held it together long enough downstairs while fighting with Joel but the moment you stepped foot into your room, you burst like a dam. 

And it sucks to cry alone, to not have Joel there to hold you and wipe your tears. But is that what you’d want? Is that what would make it all better? Maybe. Joel has a special way of being your heaven and hell, all in one man. He’s both your nightmare and your solace after a bad dream. What are you supposed to make of that? What are you supposed to do other than cry like this?

You don’t bother wiping your tears when there’s a double knock at the door. “S’me,” Joel says. “M’comin’ in.” 

You keep your back turned to him as he enters your bedroom with a plate and a glass of water, and he sets both down on your nightstand. “Went and grabbed some food. I gotcha…let’s see here. Chicken, mashed potatoes, corn.” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Not even for some pumpkin pie?” Joel asks, noticing the way your eyes widen at the mention. “Still your favorite, right?”

You pause. “No,” you answer, eventually.

“No?” Joel asks. “Hmm. Guess I’ll eat it myself. M’gonna get even fatter than I already am…this is a very unhealthy thing to do to your dear old man, y’know,” Joel says, cutting into the pie with the side of his fork, which scrapes against the ceramic plate. You flip over and sit up, and Joel feeds you the bite instead of eating it himself. “There she is,” he murmurs. 

That’s how you got the nickname. Joel asked your name many times back in that cold, shitty cabin. You wouldn’t tell him. He understood, of course, and he told you his name anyway. You were always such a stubborn girl. For the life of him, Joel could not figure out why you wouldn’t come back to Jackson with him, why the hell you were so apprehensive about trusting him. Most people jump at the opportunity to stay in the cozy, warm settlement but…not you. 

You were a tough nut to crack. It took a lot of time for you to trust Joel. He used to sit in that cabin with you while on his patrols - Tommy would show up sometimes, too. He’d just sit with you, talk a little, the way you’d do with a stray dog in a shelter. He’d bring you warm thermoses full of soup or tea and sandwiches for you to eat, and he was just patient.

And it was pumpkin pie that finally got you to come home with him. He brought you a slice one day, and you scarfed it down quickly and asked if he had more. “Nope,” he answered. “Gotta come back to Jackson f’ya want more. Got all the pumpkin pie you could eat.”

You mulled it over in your mind more than you ever had. And this was after weeks of Joel visiting you, bringing you food, sometimes dry wood to keep your fireplace warm. You didn’t trust him yet, but you didn’t…not trust him. And you really wanted that fucking pie. 

It was your choice to live with Joel, too. When he brought you back, they offered to put you in a house with other girls around your age. Nope. You wanted to be with Joel. Somewhere deep down, you know you picked him to be yours before he picked you to be his. Doesn’t that make you a little responsible for where you are now? 

“Yeah, alright, Pumpkin. I guess I could make some room for ya,” he winked.

“Breakin’ rules here,” Joel murmurs. “It goes dinner first, then dessert. Right?”

You ignore him as you swallow your bite. He’s only teasing. And besides, this is not a battle he wants to fight. At least you’re eating, anyway. Joel puts his hand on your knee and speaks softly, “I shouldn’t have gotten on your ass the way I did.” 

“No. You shouldn’t have,” you snap, and Joel feeds you another bite of pie. You take the fork and eat the rest of the slice quickly, then lay back down and flip over.    

His poor, sweet, tender-hearted girl. Don’t you know that attitude of yours is only gonna get you in trouble? Joel thinks it's just where you’re at in life - he thought he knew the world like the back of his hand when he was your age, too. 

Joel turns your face and wipes your tear-stained cheeks, all swollen and raw. Eyes rimmed red as more tears well up, then spill down, back into your hairline. “Oh, sweetheart. What am I gonna do with ya?” he sighs, gently thumbing away those tears again. He wipes a few crumbs of pie crust from your lips, too.

You sniffle and shrug, avoiding his gaze. A hiccuping sob escapes your lips. “S'okay. Drink some water,” Joel tells you, pulling you upright. He gives you the glass, has you take a few sips, and he notices the way you look at his hand between your thighs. He notices your muscles twitching, eyes widening…knows exactly what you want as he rubs his thumb over the skin. Joel knows you want him to fuck you, to make you feel good, because you always feel better after he gets you off. Presses your little reset button. He’d reckon those pretty pink panties of yours are a little soaked, too. Poor thing. And isn’t this part of tonight’s problem? 

You can’t get anything past Joel. You’ll never be able to. 

“Daddy–”

“Not tonight, kiddo. Y’lost them privileges.” 

“Please,” you beg. Joel takes your glass of water and sets it down on the nightstand. 

“No,” Joel bites, pulling his hand away. He pulls your blankets over your shoulders, then turns off your lamp. “Daddy’s gonna have to think of a way for you to earn ‘em back.” He kisses you on the forehead, saddened by the way you turn away from him. “I love ya with my whole heart, Pumpkin, but you are gonna learn that there are consequences for your actions. Now get some sleep.”

Joel takes the glasses and checks to make sure the baby monitor is on, then leaves you. A night of sleep will be good for you both. 

But it is a hard night, isn’t it? You spend the night tossing and turning - Joel can hear it on the tinny, crackling speakers of the receiver. He doesn’t rest any easier either, so he gets in the shower late at night. Maybe the distant noise of the running water will soothe you to sleep. 

He washes his hair and his body, then grips his cock tightly in his fist. He strokes himself slowly, top to bottom and over and over again, building to a quicker pace in short time. “Ohh, Pumpkin,” he whispers, cumming over his knuckles. Joel rinses himself off and dries himself, then checks on you in your bedroom - you’re out like a light. Good. Fuck, he hates fighting with you. 

In the morning, you tiptoe down the stairs, stopping first behind the wall to steal a peek at Joel before he sees you. He’s got breakfast made already - French toast, eggs, hash browns. You take your place at the table, yawning as you twirl a fork between your fingers. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” Joel murmurs, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head. He serves you a large helping of breakfast, your Felix the cat cup is already filled with juice. “Sleep okay?” he asks, sitting next to you and serving himself. 

You shrug. 

“Yeah, me too,” Joel agrees. You and he eat in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds being the chirping birds and the cutlery scraping against the plates. Joel finishes his food before you do, and when he does, he gets up from the table. You watch him set his dish by the sink, then grab a couple of papers or something from the counter and bring them back to the table. “Been thinkin’ about how you can earn back your privileges,” Joel begins. Your attention is immediately caught by a few shiny, sparkly papers, decorated in little stars. “Stickers,” Joel explains, peeling one off and sticking it on your nose. “See?”

“Mhm.” You grab the packs of stickers, but Joel tugs them back. 

“Ah, ah, ah. Can’t have those yet. You gotta earn ‘em.” Joel shows you a larger paper next, something he made and drew up himself. ‘Pumpkin’s Honey-Do List’.

“What’s honey-do?”

“S’a chore chart,” Joel explains. “Honey, do this for me. Honey, do that. Get it?” You nod. “We’re gonna use this chart to keep track of your chores, okay?” 

Before you answer, you take some time to look over the chores Joel wants you to do. Sunday through Saturday Joel wants you to tidy your room every day. “Every day?” you whine, thinking of the enormous mess sitting in there right now. It’s gonna take for fucking ever to deal with all of that.

“Every day,” Joel answers. “F’ya stay on top of it, it’s not much of an issue. Been tryin’ to tell ya that, Pumpkin.” 

The rest of the daily chores listed are no surprise. Do the dishes, set the table, make the bed, sweep. But there’s some new ones at the bottom of the chart - dust all the shelves and baseboards, wash the windows, mop. Joel explains that they only have to be done once at some point this week. 

“You’re gonna work on these every day,” Joel says. “And I’m gonna check to make sure you did ‘em all, and if you did, you get to put a sticker down. And if we fill this sheet up by the end of the week, I’ll make ya feel good again. That’s how you can earn back your privileges.”

You think about it, looking over the chore chart. Joel’s all capital letter handwriting, and the silly pumpkins he drew at the top of the chart. “Hey, you,” Joel taps your arm. “We square?”

You still don’t know. You don’t know why you’re hesitant. You’re just…that’s just who you are. Stubborn, indignant. A rebel with a heart of gold. 

“Psst. Take the fuckin’ deal, kiddo.” 

“Okay, Daddy.” 

Joel holds out his fist, pinky finger extended. You wrap your pinky around his, and then he brings both his and your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckle.  

You get started after breakfast, cleaning up your room while Joel takes care of some other stuff around the house. It’s not so bad when you have a goal in mind and a better attitude about the entire thing. It goes by quickly, too, and you feel better when your room is put back together. You don’t know why you let it get so bad. Maybe it’s reflective of your mood. 

Dishes come next, and it’s made easier because Joel cleans as he cooks. It’s just a matter of washing and drying a few plates and forks and glasses, then putting them back into the cabinets. Sweeping comes after that, and then you’re done until dinner tonight when Joel needs the table set. 

It is nice to walk through the house with him as he inspects your work. The concentrated frown on his face as he looks in your closet at all your clothes all hung up and folded neat, and the way it splits into a smile of approval. “Y’did good, kiddo,” he murmurs as he kisses your head. It takes you a moment to decide how exactly you want to place the stickers down, but you like doing it. It’s going to look so pretty when it’s filled in. 

Tomorrow is the same, and the next day, and the next day. Joel does his walk throughs every evening, and then you do your stickers at the table. “Mm, doin’ some neat patterns there, I see,” Joel says gently. 

“Mhm.”

“Very pretty, sweetheart. I’m so proud’a ya,” he smiles. “Couple more days, right? Finish strong.” 

When you wake up on Friday, you feel excited. There’s really not much in your room to clean, not much to sweep around the house, not much of anything to do, really. 

…Until Joel reminds you about the specials. “Ahem,” Joel says, pointing to the chores at the bottom of the chart. “These need’a get done, too.” 

“Oh, fuck.” You cover your mouth before Joel has a chance to scold you. “Sorry.” 

He makes a face at you, but he lets it go. If letting a dirty word slip is the worst thing you’ve done all week, then so be it. You probably picked it up from him, after all. 

Joel quickly makes you a sandwich at the counter, then slices it in half and puts it in the fridge. That’ll be your lunch later. “Uncle Tommy’s coming by today,” Joel says. “But don’t think you can sweet talk him into helpin’ you with those chores, Pumpkin. This is still a punishment.” 

“Mhm. I know, Daddy.” 

“Good girl.” Joel kisses you quickly on the cheek, then he’s out the door. “I love ya. Be home later.” 

When Joel leaves, you go upstairs and shower, then pick out something to wear - just a pair of shorts and a tee, neither of which you particularly like, but that’s okay. You don’t want to dirty your favorite clothes. After checking your list, you get started with dusting first. You’ll work top to bottom, and then do the windows at the very end, per Joel’s suggestion. 

Dusting is tedious. It’s tedious to take every little knickknack and tchotchke off the shelves, but you do like the way the wood sparkles after you wipe it clean. And it feels better, too. There’s a noticeable difference when you clean the place, like you’re washing away everything bad that’s built up over time and starting anew. 

You pause cleaning briefly to eat the sandwich Joel made you, and then you’re back to cleaning, on your hands and knees as you wipe the baseboards. You still have some tall cabinets and shelves to dust, but you’ll figure that out later. 

The back door opening startles you, and in comes Tommy, handsome as ever and smiling so big when he sees you. “Hiya, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Uncle Tommy,” you greet. You feel Tommy’s eyes on you as you dust, tracing over every inch of your figure. It’s awkward as you clean and Tommy stands there. You’re not exactly sure what he was sent here to do. Maybe he’s your babysitter or something. 

He peruses the house, and you wonder what he’s thinking. You have a more difficult time reading him than you do Joel, though that doesn’t mean Joel is always easy to read, either. Tommy notices your chore chart and smirks at it. Good fucking god. 

Baseboards are done now, so it’s time to finish those cabinets. You drag a chair over to the kitchen counters, but even with the added height, you can’t reach the tops. “Uncle Tommy?” you ask. 

“Yeah, honey.” 

“Do you know if Joel has a step stool or something around here?” 

Tommy holds up a finger before he’s off to check for you. There’s nothing in the closet, nothing in the garage, either. “Don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Hmm…” 

“Whatcha thinkin’?”

Joel would throttle you if he knew what you were about to do, but he’s the one who didn’t account for your inability to reach the tops of the cabinets he wants cleaned. You hoist yourself up onto the counter top with a rag in hand, wobbling as you stand up tall. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Let me use the chair an’ I’ll get ‘em myself, darlin’,” Tommy says as he stands behind you, his fingers tapping against your legs as he gets ready to catch you. He gets a nice look up your shorts from this angle, too, llikes the lace on your panties. “Gonna crack your goddamn skull open, girl.” 

“You’re not supposed to help me,” you tell him, frowning at how disgusting the tops of these cabinets are. “Ew.” 

“Says who?”

“Daddy,” you answer. 

“Ohhh. Daddy says so, huh?”

You sigh, “Yep.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Get down, honey. I don’t like ya up there like that.”

You know better than to argue with Uncle Tommy. He’s fun, sure. But he does have the authority to do whatever Joel does to you, too. Joel’s made it clear that when Tommy’s around, you are to listen and obey him the same as you listen to Joel himself. You turn around and bend down slowly, feeling nervous and unstable on your feet. “C’mere, sweet pea. I gotcha.” Tommy grabs your waist and steadies you, grunting as he helps you down. 

“Can’t believe your old man’s gotcha doin’ all these chores without any music,” Tommy says. You shrug, and Tommy’s off toward the living room where Joel’s got a turntable and some vinyls. He puts them on every once in a while, but you’re not always into the music he picks. 

Tommy puts on Jim Croce and does a little dance that makes you giggle. He wiggles his hips and snaps his fingers, biting down on his bottom lip. “Alright,” Tommy claps his hands together. “Let’s get to work.” 

He takes the rag from your hand and stands on the chair, dusting the tops of the cabinets himself. “I appreciate this, Uncle Tommy, but you really shouldn’t…if Joel finds out–”

“You gonna tell on me, sweetheart?”

“N-no…” you mumble, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

“Then your daddy won’t find out,” Tommy replies. 

He finishes the cabinets quickly, then gets off of his chair with a grunt. “Okay, darlin’. What else ya gotta do?”

“Uhmmm…” you trail off, mentally tallying the chores you’ve already done. With Tommy’s help, you’re just about finished. “Windows are last,” you tell him. 

Tommy nods. He grabs a spray bottle from a closet as well as two squeegees, then hands you one. “You wanna do the outsides or the insides, sweetheart?” 

“Insides,” you answer. “I’m not supposed to go outside without Joel.” 

Tommy makes a real show of looking around, raising his eyebrows and squinting dramatically. “Funny, darlin’, I don’t see Joel anywhere,” he says, then pauses. “Why don’tcha wash the outsides and get some fresh air, honey?”

“Okay,” you smile. Tommy gives you the spray, then opens the door and tells you to meet him at the kitchen window. You feel exhilarated as you leave and round the house, loving the sun on your skin and the breeze in your hair. When you meet him on the other side of the window, he motions for you to spray yours down, which you do. Then Tommy opens the window and reaches for the spray, then shuts the window. You flinch when he squirts it at you, and laugh when it hits the glass and not yourself. Tommy winks, then squeegees his side of the window as you do the same. 

He nods his head to motion to you to go to the next window, where you and he repeat the routine. You do the same with the next one and the one after that, and when you’re finished, you come back inside and rest on the couch. 

“Think that means we’re ‘bout done, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, then pause. “You won’t tell Joel, right?”

Tommy sits next to you and zips his lips. “M’not a narc, honey. So we get to put stickers on your chart now, don’t we?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Joel has to do a walk through,” you explain. 

“Ahhhh,” Tommy nods, understanding. “So whatcha gettin’ for fillin’ in all the stickers?”

Your cheeks heat up at the question and you shy away from Tommy, which makes him laugh. You have no poker face at all. 

“Uh huh,” Tommy winks. “Oh, I get it.”

You squirm in place a little, wondering if you should talk more about it. You kind of want to, honestly. Joel tells you that you can tell him anything, but you know you can’t. Not just anything. “It’s been a week,” you admit finally to Tommy, and immediately you feel relieved to have someone else to talk to about this. About Joel. “Well, almost. Tomorrow makes a week.” 

Tommy scoffs. “Well shit, kiddo. Your old man’s a fuckin’ hard ass.” You shrug silently, and Tommy raises an eyebrow at you. “You can agree, y’know. Ain’t gonna hurt. An’ I won’t tell him if ya do, either.” 

“A little,” you admit, quietly. But Tommy hears, and he smiles. 

“Can’t go a day without it, myself,” Tommy tells you, stretching out on the couch a little. He rests his hand on your thigh, drawing little patterns down to your knee and back up again, patterns that make your skin tingle and make you feel funny inside. Nervous, excited…in almost the same way Joel makes you feel nervous and excited. But there’s an added layer here. You know you shouldn’t be letting Tommy do this to you.

“I think you should reward yourself, ‘f I’m bein’ honest. You did all your chores, after all. Right?” 

“...yeah.” Uncle Tommy has a funny way of making the guilt in your belly disappear, if not for just a moment. It’s in the way he speaks and the words he chooses, and it’s in his sparkling brown eyes and his charming smile.  

“Why don’tcha go to your room and take care of yourself, then? Hm?”

You shake your head. “Joel - Daddy says I’m not allowed to,” you reply. 

“Ohh. Not allowed to do it by yourself.” Tommy clicks his tongue and turns his head toward you. “S’too goddamn bad. Joel’s gotcha on a short fuckin’ leash, don’t he?”

He slides his hand up your thigh, inching his pinky finger past your shorts. Tommy likes the way your breath hitches in your throat when he traces the thin, damp fabric of your panties with just his fingertip. Sensitive fuckin’ girl.

“And you’re really hurtin’ for it too, I can tell. A fuckin’ week, good lord,” Tommy whispers, then pauses before speaking again. “Well, I’d reckon you’re not doin’ nothin’ wrong by lettin’ Uncle Tommy make ya cum, huh?” 

“I-” you stutter, “I really - I don’t know, Uncle Tommy.”

Tommy grins, his eyes so warm and so black, so endless. “Oh, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it in my book.” He wriggles his fingers up your shorts a little more, and slips them past your panties. That little gasp when he touches your lip, lightly teasing you there. Good lord. 

“Then s’gonna be our little secret,” Tommy whispers. “Somethin’ special, jus’ for me and my sweet girl,” he says. “How ‘bout that, darlin’?”

You nod before the little voice in your head telling you not to do this becomes too loud. You can trust Tommy, right? He wouldn’t do anything to get you into trouble with Joel. And like he always says, what Joel doesn’t know won’t kill him. 

You can’t ever pull one over on Joel, but you can try. And if Tommy’s right, and he probably is - you’ll succeed.  

“Good girl,” says Tommy, pulling your body into his lap. He unbuttons your shorts and pushes them down your legs, then cups your pussy with his large hand. You sigh at the relief that comes with the pressure, resting against Tommy’s chest. “C’mere, honey. I gotcha.” 

You spread your legs for him and he rubs you through your panties, just lazily at first, feeling you dampen the fabric. He traces your clit next, “Oh, fuck,” you moan, leaning into him. “More,” you gasp. 

Tommy slides his hand under your panties, touching your bare heat. You’re so fucking warm and so fucking wet, with that pool of arousal he’s created. And it didn’t take much, did it? No, no. Of course not, not when you’ve been starving for it for so long. Longer than a week, too. Tommy knows the way you look at him and what goes on in that head of yours. And if he were a betting man, he’d bet that when you do summon the courage to get yourself off on your own fingers, despite Joel’s rule, that you’re thinking of him. Maybe not every time, but enough.  

“Uncle Tommy,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as you arch into his touch. You rock your hips as he circles your clit, reaching for his thick bicep. You hold him tightly, whimpering, “Oh my god.”

“Y’wanna hold onto me?” Tommy chuckles quietly, rubbing you slowly. “You can hold onto me, sweet pea. M’not goin’ nowhere. Jus’ you and me right now, sweet girl.” 

He’s so warm, and he smells so fucking good. It’s nice to be in a pair of arms that are safe and dangerous, but different from Joel’s safe and dangerous. You watch yourself in the freshly cleaned windows, all wrecked as Tommy pleasures you. 

He’s sliding his fingers down your seam next, then pushing two into your entrance. And it’s when he curls them rhythmically, looking for that special, sweet little place deep inside you, that you really start to moan. “Relax,” Tommy whispers, squeezing you tightly. “Hold still, honey. Be good.” 

Tommy shifts the positions a bit so he can rub your clit with his other hand while fucking you on his fingers. It’s not long before release is right around the corner, with all of that hot, sparkling pleasure blooming deep in your gut. Your thighs begin to shake and twitch, “You cum nice for me now,” he whispers. “Show Uncle Tommy how hard you can cum.” 

And that’s all it takes for you to fall apart, crying out loudly as he fucks you through your orgasm. Tommy doesn’t let up until you’re a shuddering, gasping mess, until he’s made certain that your needs have been met. A goddamn week, he thinks. That’s fucking ridiculous.

“You cum so pretty, sweetheart,” Tommy whispers, pulling his fingers away from your cunt. They’re all shiny and drenched in your arousal, and he brings them to his lips and sucks them clean. He pats you twice and you get up and off of him, all shy and bashful as he stands up and stretches, his rock-hard erection bulging through his denim. “Fuck, look whatcha do t’me,” he groans, pressing his palm against it. “I’m off, kiddo. Gonna let me leave without a hug and a kiss?” he asks. 

You wrap your arms around his thick middle quickly, perhaps needing the hug more than Tommy even does. You kiss his cheek, and Tommy squeezes your ass. “Alright. Keep outta trouble, honey. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

A few hours later, Joel’s barely got a foot in the door before you’re taking him by the hand and leading him through the house, showing him how well you cleaned everything. “Jesus, girl. Can’t a man eat dinner first?” 

“No,” you answer. “Look at the windows.”

Joel laughs, “I know, I see ‘em, Pumpkin. They’re sparklin’.” 

“And the baseboards–”

“Are nice and dusted, I see it all, sweetheart. You did good. Wanna go get your stickers?” 

You show Joel that you’ve already got your stickers and your chart in hand. “Go ‘head and put ‘em on then, honey. Y’did good,” Joel says, then pauses as you put the rest of the stickers down. The only one that’s missing is dishes and table setting for today, but that’s because it hasn’t been done yet. Joel tells you he trusts you, and you can put the stickers down anyway. “And you did do it all by yourself, right, Pumpkin?” 

“Mhm,” you lie. 

“An’ if I ask Uncle Tommy if he helped, what’s he gonna tell me?”

“No,” you lie again. 

“Good answer,” Joel replies, then pauses. “Did you play with yourself this week?” he asks.

“No.” 

“Promise?” Joel asks. “Did anyone else play with ya?”

“Nope,” you tell him. Joel smiles, then kisses you on the head and sits down on the couch as you admire your chart. You join him on the couch, sliding onto his lap instead of taking your usual place right next to him.

“Hey, you,” Joel smiles. “What’re you makin’ me for dinner, hm?”

You shrug. “I’m not even hungry,” you tell Joel, and he makes a face. 

“Sure you’re not.” 

You think you know what that means, what he’s doing. He’s deliberately quiet, waiting for you to ask for what you want. But you say nothing as you sit on his lap, eyes wide as you wait and wait and wait for what you’ve earned, squirming on his lap a little. “Whatcha so squirrely for?” he asks finally. 

“You know, Daddy.” 

“Mmm. Don’t think I do,” Joel drawls. “M’not a mind reader, Pumpkin.” 

But you’re too shy to say it out loud. So you take Joel’s hand and stand up, yanking him with you. He groans as he stands up, knees cracking. You hold his hand as you lead him toward the stairwell, “Where ya takin’ me?” he asks. 

“Mmmuhno,” you mumble, walking up the stairs with Joel trailing behind. 

“You dunno, huh?” he teases, amused as you take him towards his room. “Mmm, Daddy’s room. Okay,” he sighs dramatically. “Guess it’s bedtime, since Pumpkin says so. And I was gonna let ya stay up an’ everything, but alright.” 

You’re such a quiet, shy girl as you sit on the end of Joel’s bed, swinging your feet as he undresses himself. You pull at a string on your shorts, waiting for Joel to get the hint. You’re sure he does, but he’s just dragging this out, the same way you are, really. 

Joel, standing naked except for his boxers, turns to you. “Y’look like you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart.” 

“Mm-mm,” you lie, unable to hide the smile that makes your lips curl up. 

“Oh, I think ya do. Wanna tell me what it is?” Joel asks. 

Finally, you relent. “Did I earn back my privileges?” you ask, biting down on your smile. 

Joel chuckles. “Was wonderin’ when you’d ask,” he says, leaning in close. He puts both of his hands on your knees, squeezing you there. “Yes. You earned ‘em back, Pumpkin.” 

You hum in delight and smile so big, then whisper something in Joel’s ear. “Well lie on down, then,” Joel murmurs. “You know what to do.” 

It takes no time at all for you to take off your clothes and lie on Joel’s bed completely naked, legs folded in half and swaying side to side as you wait for that inevitable dip in the mattress that comes from Joel settling between your thighs. It arrives all in good time, and Joel spreads you wide so he can devour you alive. 

He pushes your knees toward your chest and wears a crooked smirk at how anxious you look, ready for him to start. You’re wiggling your fingers, fidgeting with his comforter. Joel teases you with a couple of kisses pressed against your knees and your inner thighs. “Daddy,” you whine, pushing your hips toward his face. 

“Oh, I know, I know,” Joel murmurs, quieting your whines with a kiss to your pussy. “Iiii know, sweet baby girl.” He licks you from bottom to top with his tongue flattened, dragging it slowly through your slick folds. And Christ, how swollen you are - poor thing. But you did it to yourself, didn’t you?

“I am so–” Joel interrupts himself to suck on your clit a little, “So proud of you, Pumpkin,” he says, “My girl. You did so good for me, baby.” 

His beard tickles your inner thighs as he kisses you all over, then goes back to your clit. He circles it a few times with his tongue, then licks lower, burying his tongue in your soft, dripping entrance. You reach for his beautiful aquiline nose as he fucks you on his tongue, drawing up that gorgeous slope and past his forehead, tangling your fingers in his curly, graying hair. 

“Daddy,” you moan, whimpering for Joel as he drags his tongue back up and down your folds. He builds a rhythmic pace then, circling your clit repeatedly, all while allowing you to rock and grind against his face. He guides you orgasm quickly, savoring the way you gush into his mouth, your clit throbbing beneath his tongue. 

You’re fucking soaked, a mess of both Joel and yourself. Joel shoves his boxers down his thighs, erection springing against his soft tummy, and swipes his fingers through your folds. He collects your arousal on his hand, then uses it to coat his hard length. “Ready?” he asks, hovering over you. 

“Mhm.”

“Y’wanna help Daddy put it in?” 

You nod quickly. Joel knows you like to have some semblance of control over the pace at which he enters you, so he likes to grant you that. Not always, though. Sometimes he’ll split you in half just to remind you of who’s in charge here, usually when you get a little mouthy or something like that. 

You take Joel’s cock in your hand, tracing the bulbous head and the veins that climb up the shaft. You tilt your hips and drag him through your folds, sighing softly at the way you tease yourself. 

“You’re killin’ me here, kid,” Joel grunts, taking your wrist in his hand to stop you. 

“Sorry.”

“S’all good, baby.” 

You notch his tip at your entrance. “Your turn, Daddy,” you tell Joel softly. 

And in he goes. He slides into you slowly, filling you with the entirety of his length. “Ohh, big stretch. Attagirl,” he praises, grunting as he bottoms out. 

It always takes you a minute to get used to him. You do your little routine, make your little faces as you squirm and get used to his cock stretching you out, and when you’re ready, Joel begins to move. “Watch,” he says. “Look, look. Wanna show you something,” Joel tells you softly. You lift your head as he pulls out, his thick length all coated in your arousal. “Ain’t that somethin’?”

“Yeah,” you agree, letting your head fall back again. Joel braces himself on his forearm as he thrusts back into you, building to a slow pace. He’s in no rush, really, not when he’s sliding his big hand up your waist and over your ribcage and squeezes you there. He could crush you, you know. His delicate girl. He could do it. 

Joel bends down and skims his mouth and the tip of his nose over your breasts, taking time to wrap his lips around both of your nipples. He loves you so much, the elegant, gentle shapes of your body. All of those curves, all for him. 

The special way he fucks you - nothing comes close to this. No matter what, good day or bad, this will always be yours and Joel’s to savor. 

His cock is dragging against your g-spot, his pubic hair grinding against your clit. It’s all becoming too much, too sensitive for you to even cum. But Joel tells you to anyway. “Can’t, Daddy,” you whimper.

“Sure ya can,” Joel says. “S’been a week, honey. I know you’re needin’ it.” 

But are you, though? Not really, when Tommy took your punishment and reward into his own hands and made good and sure that you were well satiated before he left. And with the orgasm Joel pulled from you using his tongue, well. 

“One more, nice and big,” Joel encourages. “Show your daddy how hard you can cum on his cock, huh?”

Funny. Didn’t Tommy say the same thing?

Joel rubs your clit in practiced circles, coaxing along your release as he thrusts into you harder, faster, and deeper. And then it’s happening, and Joel’s name is spilling from your lips in breathy moans as you cum so hard on his cock, feeling indescribably full as your pussy pulses around him. It’s such a weighted, overwhelming feeling, and it washes over you in wave after wave. “Oh, baby girl.” Joel’s right behind you, breathing your name as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting rope after rope of his cum. “Take it nice an’ deep f’me,” he says, and like the most perfect girl you are, you take it all. 

Joel pulls out of you, not worried about the cum that spills on his comforter. It’s seen better days anyway, he thinks. 

After you both come down, Joel breaks the silence. “Think we should redo our date?” he asks, still breathing heavily. 

“Yes,” you answer. 

“I think so too,” he says. “Go pick somethin’ pretty to wear, and meet me in the shower to get cleaned up. Maybe we’ll see Uncle Tommy there or somethin’ too, huh?”

-

more dark daddy!joel here

anyway, i love ya. thank you for reading ♡ please dirty talk me in my inbox and reblog, because your words go a very long way in keeping me motivated to write. wouldn't be doin' this without ya.

aaaand the cat tax. remember that when it takes me a while to publish a fic, THIS IS WHO IS MAKING IT DIFFICULT TO DO SO!! okay!! do you see this! he's sitting on my arm like a fuck. fricken gizmo.

[suzdin]

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After the tragic loss of your father and home, you find yourself at the mercy of a cold, detached stranger who holds your fate in his hands during a violent snowstorm.

Notes: okay fair warning, I started writing this when I was feeling extremely low, and finished it several weeks later when I was doing better, so if it seems disjointed and sloppily thrown together, that’s why! But I swear there’s a happy ending!

Warnings: ANGST!!! I cannot stress the amount of angst. Suicidal thoughts and ideation, especially at the beginning. Alcohol consumption. Main character deaths; all of them. Lots of depression and poor mental health, mostly with Joel. Angsty!Joel, asshole!Joel, soft!Joel, semi-dom!Joel, protective!Joel, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, biting/marking, pregnancy heavily hinted at, more angst

Word Count: 7,100+

dividers provided by: @saradika-graphics ❣️

Tags: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @berryispunk @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @natdeandar @guelyury @daddy-dins-girl

Joel crouches in front of the old cast iron stove, his knees groaning in protest as he stokes the embers within using an extra scrap of wood.

He doesn’t know why he’s going through the trouble. It isn’t like he’ll be around much longer. Maybe he just wants to feel warmth one last time before he does it. And this time, he won’t miss.

He’ll be cold soon enough anyway.

He gets the fire breathing again, closing the hatch and settling back into the old leather recliner in the corner, worn and cracking with age, much like himself.

He palms the neck on a bottle of bourbon, taking a hefty swig and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his face crinkling in rumination as he watches the flames dance behind slats of iron.

Sarah. Tess. Tommy. And then Ellie. He had failed each and every one of them; those he claimed to love, who he vowed to keep safe. He had let them down. He had let himself down.

He takes another pull on the bottle and sets it down heavily on the table next to him, replacing it with his Smith & Wesson, heavy digits curling around the grip.

He traces the scar on his temple with the point of his index finger, feeling the faint indentation in the flesh; a constant reminder of yet another failure.

He lowers his hand back to the revolver, finger circling the trigger guard, dark eyes downcast as he attempts to summon the strength to do what he needs to do. Again.

His hand tremors as he lifts the gun and presses the cold barrel to his temple, thumb cocking the hammer back with a hollow metallic clunk that resonates through his skull and soul.

“C’mon, Joel. Get yourself fucking together for once.”

His eyes close, nose scrunched in a deep scowl.

Just do it, Joel. Pull the fucking trigger.

The ball of his index finger curves around the bend of the trigger, twitching with indecision when the back door to the cabin abruptly flies open, temporarily snapping him out of his psychosis.

It’s just the wind. That’s all it is. A gust of wind from the incoming snowstorm.

He doesn’t move from his space on the recliner. The cold won’t matter in a few seconds anyway. He lifts the barrel to his temple again, aligning it just right…

The back door clicks shut. It wasn’t slammed, like the wind would have done had it been the culprit. It very audibly clicked. Like someone or something shut it themselves.

Immediately following the click, he hears the unmistakable scrape of boots on wood, the revolver lowering from offensive to defensive position.

No sooner do you get the door closed that you notice a faint flicker of light from the adjoining room, your heart beginning to thrum like a jackhammer in your chest. From the outside, in your weary state, the dilapidated old cabin looked abandoned as far as you could tell, realizing too late that it isn’t.

But now you’ve stumbled into someone’s den, and they could very well be armed and aiming to shoot. They could even be cannibals for all you know.

You could leave. You could just leave and pretend this never happened. But you haven’t seen any other shelters for miles… and the storm was only going to get worse.

“Who’s there?” a gruff male voice calls out from the other room, breaking through the stifling silence. You go stock still on instinct, your hackles bristled along your spine.

When you’re able to gather your bearings, you respond with your name, your vocal cords numb and strained from the cold.

“I mean no harm. I just need a place to sleep out of the storm. I promise to leave at first light,” you quickly add.

Joel stiffens when he hears a woman’s voice, his finger still circling the trigger guard as it had only moments before when the gun was trained on himself.

“Are you armed?”

“Just a small pistol and a jack knife. And I’m out of ammo,” you call back truthfully.

Everything is quiet for a moment aside from the crackle of flame and the howl of wind that rattles the windows and bends the outer wood. The silence between you and the unseen man feels like it stretches on for ages.

“Approach the door with your hands raised. An’ when I say, slide the gun and knife over to me.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, approaching the ajar door in front of you, hands already skyward, kicking the door the rest of the way open with the toe of your boot.

You step forward two paces into the room, the scent of alcohol stinging your nostrils, your gaze settling on a haggard looking man in the furthest corner from you. His hair is wild and askew, eyes sunken in like a corpse, recognizing the hopeless glint behind them; no doubt a reflection of your own. A large pistol is clutched in his meaty fist, cocked and aimed.

“Gun first. Then the knife,” Joel says, his brow angled downward in a dark line, shading the even darker set of eyes.

You keep one hand in the air as the other reaches into the band of your jeans, removing the pistol and sliding it to him, stilling as it hits his boot.

He picks it up, discharging the clip to find that it is indeed empty, as you had claimed. He sets it next to the bourbon.

You slide the knife next, an average, run of the mill jack knife with a four inch blade. He inspects it, noticing a few remnants of blood still tarnishing the steel.

“Who’d you kill with this?”

“I used it to skin hares and squirrels.”

His face pinches with confusion, tilting his head at you like a dog hearing an unknown sound for the first time.

“Y’skinned hares and squirrels with a jack knife?” he questions doubtfully.

“It’s all I had,” you explain.

Joel eyes you warily. You’re definitely not dressed or equipped for this kind of weather. The only thing that seems to be keeping you warm is a thin hoodie, a regular set of jeans, and a pair of boots soaked through with snow.

He sighs. He isn’t going to kill himself with you here. He may not be the nicest or most caring man in the world, but he isn’t about to traumatize you. He’ll wait until you leave. You said you’d leave at first light.

In the meantime, he has to deal with someone being in his space, which he doesn’t exactly want to do, especially in his last hours. But he isn’t about sending you to your death, either. You probably have more to live for than he does.

“Here,” he says, kicking an old wicker chair toward you. “Your feet’re soaked. Take off your boots and warm your feet ‘fore you get frostbite.”

You lower your arms and take a cautious step forward, and then another, slowly sinking into the flimsy and rotten chair, bending to unlace and remove your boots.

You try to wiggle your toes but they won’t move, at least not yet. Joel watches with a scrutinizing glare, his hand still on the Smith & Wesson in his lap.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, pushing your boots aside.

“Ain’t important.”

You cast him a look but don’t press, scooting your sore and frozen feet closer to the stove, feeling yourself starting to slowly defrost.

You thank him for letting you stay.

He ignores your gratitude, dark browns drifting over your frame.

“Where’d you come from?” he asks.

“Ain’t important,” you counter, casting him another glance.

He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a deep scowl.

“I’m the one with the gun,” he chides in a deep timbre, his tone brooking no room for protest. “Guns,” he quickly amends.

Your eyes lock with his momentarily, assessing his conviction before deciding not to test it.

“A settlement near Billings.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He leans back, his gaze unmoving, letting out a breath through his nose.

“An’ exactly what prompted you to run out into a snowstorm with just a hoodie and no supplies?” he asks.

You flinch as if he’d just backhanded you, averting your gaze. If you were looking, you might notice his face softening, if only just a hair.

“Raiders came into our settlement. My father… he gave me the pistol and distracted them while I snuck under a gap in the fence. I didn’t have time to grab anything else,” you tell him.

“And your dad?” Joel asks delicately.

“Didn’t make it out,” you reply grimly, your body beginning to tremor, a combination of repressed emotion and your muscles beginning to thaw.

Joel falls silent, absorbing your words as truth. He can’t find a reason that you would lie about something like that.

“I’m sorry,” he sympathizes, his voice gentling.

You bring your knees to your chest, your chin resting between them, arms wrapped around your shins.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice hardly above a whisper.

——

Your eyes snap open, realizing you must have drifted off at some point, finding yourself curled into a fetal position directly in front of the dying fire.

A blanket you’re sure wasn’t there before is wrapped around your frame. You’ve no idea where it came from, it’s a bit scratchy and smells funky, but what matters is it’s warm, subconsciously pulling it tighter around your shoulders when you feel a chilled breeze brush over you through the cracks in the wall.

“Mornin’,” Joel hums softly above you.

“Morning,” you echo, shifting as your eyes scan the room, the cabin just as dark and cloaked in shadow as when you arrived. You’re unsure how he knows what time of day it is, but you decide not to question it.

He’s in almost the exact position in the old recliner as the previous evening, his hand unmoving from the revolver still in his lap. You can’t help but wonder if he had any rest at all, not sure if him watching you sleep should be comforting or disconcerting.

You sit up with a stretch, your joints crackling like twigs as you work out the aches of not only having traveled this far on foot, but also sleeping on a hard wooden floor all night.

Better than freezing to death, you decide.

You scoot until your back is flush with the wall, leaning against it as you silently study Joel.

“Thank you for the blanket—“ you begin, but he quickly cuts you off with a hard glare, nudging your dried out boots to you with his foot.

“Boots’re dry. It’s morning. ‘bout time for you to leave,” he says, his voice low and rough.

It dawns on you that it’s still dark because the storm hasn’t lessened at all, banks of snow clogging the windows and doors, blocking out what little available sunlight there is.

Your brow knits together and you cast him a wary glance, bottom lip trembling.

“But it… it’s…”

“The deal was first light, darlin’, and I’ve given you plenty more than that.”

“Please… just… a few more hours? Until the storm dies down some?” you plead, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, preemptively threatening to freeze your eyelids together.

He’s silent and contemplative for what you feel is longer than necessary, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.

He knows he should send you away, even if it means a certain death. He can’t have you here, swimming in his grief, prolonging the inevitable.

The other option, of course, is to shoot you and then himself, a swift and merciful death that you deserve far more than he does. His fist tightens around the butt of the revolver, an action that does not go unnoticed by you.

“No,” he says plainly.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you say, your voice cracking with emotion and desperation, shifting to your knees as you shuffle a few inches closer to his chair. He did give you a blanket, so there is a human being in there somewhere. “I can’t—“

“I can barely take care of myself, much less another person. Ain’t nothing you can offer me, nothing to barter with—“

“I’ll let you keep my gun and knife. Please. Just a few more hours…”

His jaw ticks again. Your odds are already low as is, but liberating you of your only means of defense, your only means of perhaps obtaining a meal, if only a meager squirrel or hare, would completely diminish any shred of a chance you have left.

He could give you his one and only jacket. Not that he’s going to need it after you leave, anyway.

“No,” he says again, more sternly than before.

His gaze is unmoving from yours, the slow, steady circling of his pointer finger on the edge of the trigger guard doing little to settle your nerves, the conflict apparent behind his dark eyes.

You know you don’t have much to offer. You’re not great at hunting. You’d exhausted your entire clip on what barely qualifies as a meal, leaving you with very little sustenance once the bullet had almost completely obliterated any viable meat.

You can’t fight or shoot worth a damn, either. Your father had tried to teach you in vain, his frustration with you growing to a fever pitch over the years, but it had never been your forte.

Because you never thought you’d have to live without him.

You can scout. Gather. Keep the cabin up, replace rotting boards and rusting nails, keep it clean and tidy. But not in this weather, and not for a few months yet.

So you default to the last thing you know how to do well. The only thing you know without a shadow of a doubt you’re good at, if any of the men at your settlement had anything to say about it before they perished.

You inch closer, your tired knees scraping against the dirty, splintered wood, hands trembling as you hesitantly reach toward his parted knees.

He anticipates more begging and pleading. Maybe a sob story or two.

What he doesn’t expect is for your hands to grab his belt, the meat of your palm ghosting over his crotch as you fumble to undo the worn rungs of leather.

His cock twitches instinctively and he can’t recall the last time a woman touched him like this. Made him feel anything but dead inside.

He moves with a sudden swiftness that surprises and startles both of you, the hand not currently on the revolver grabbing hold of your wrist like a striking serpent, his grip biting into your delicate bones so roughly you realize how effortless it would be for him to snap your wrist, should he feel so inclined.

He rises to his feet, dragging you with him and giving you a hard, reprimanding shake, teeth bared inches from your face.

It occurs to you seeing him fully upright like this just how tall, how imposing he is; worn, threadbare flannel stretched to its limits across broad shoulders and thick biceps.

“Christ, woman, the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man do you take me for?” he growls, a subtle twang piping up in his voice, his clenched fist releasing your wrist with a minor shove. You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the wall.

His nostrils flare, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his eyes slipping shut as he tempers his simmering anger… and something else he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes slowly opening again, rough digits carding through his graying curls. “If it means that much to you… you stay until the snow stops, an’ not a second later,” he nearly spits in your face. “Got it?”

When you easily nod in agreement, he stalks out of the room with a huff, every heavy footfall vibrating beneath your feet, slamming the door shut between you, leaving you standing there in the middle of the room, alone and unsure what to feel.

—

Joel goes into the now defunct bathroom, the traditional porcelain toilet that was maybe brand new decades ago currently unusable, the water in the tank and plumbing frozen solid, the pipes under the earth most likely cracked and warped.

He drops trow and leans forward with the flat of one palm against the wall, the other hand gripping himself.

He lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding in, pissing into the cistern he had dug under the cabin two summers ago, a task only made more difficult by the partial erection he now has thanks to your — albeit brief — touch a few moments ago.

“Fuck, Joel,” he sighs as he empties his bladder, his cock only growing stiffer in his hand as he imagines how good your lips would have felt wrapped around him, what kind of pretty sounds you would have made for him.

“Fuck,” he grits again, cramming his painfully hard erection into his jeans when he’s done.

—

Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months — “until the snow melts an’ not a day later” — spring not far around the corner, the sun growing brighter and hotter in the sky with each passing day.

Joel’s suicidal ideations were still an ever present plague on his brain, though he kept that part of himself tucked neatly away, as he did most things that were personal and private. He never spoke of Sarah, Ellie, anyone. Never talked about his life before Outbreak.

In turn, you never talked about yours either, aside from what you’d told him the first night, too frightened that you might scare him away simply by opening up, by trying to stitch together what little relationship you had with one another.

The more time you spent with him, the more of a burden you began to feel. It didn’t matter how much you helped out, even if you kept a respectful distance between you, especially when he seemed extra bristly or in his head that day. He was always skulking about, his face pinched in indignation in what you were certain was unspoken hatred for you and your existence.

It was early morning and you were at the edge of the valley, the spot near the treeline that was choked with underbrush, gathering pathetically small handfuls of wild strawberries and huckleberries that were just beginning to fruit. Definitely not enough to have much impact on your aching bellies, but it could be supplemental to whatever protein Joel could scrounge up, which hadn’t been much as of late.

You wipe a fresh layer of sweat from your brow despite the air still being bitterly cold, collecting what meager pittance of berries you can, sucking in a breath of air as you steeled your nerves to head back to the cabin.

—

Joel’s door is still closed when you return. Not surprising, considering how early you’d gotten up that morning, Joel likely still exhausted and aching from the ineffectual hunting trip the previous day.

You place the berries into a bowl on the counter, your fingers curling into the peeling linoleum as you stare out the window that overlooks the southern end of the valley, sun cresting through the twisted and gnarled branches of still-bare trees.

You’ve been milling around the idea of leaving for weeks now. You’ve come close to doing so several times, knowing it would make Joel happy to not have you on his mind or in his space anymore.

Your hand hovers near the hunting rifle slanted against the wall, ultimately deciding against it as you tuck your pistol and knife into your pants, tossing half of the berries into a bag and shrugging on the jacket Joel had found for you on a hunting trip.

You take a final glance at his door before sucking in another sharp breath, opening and closing the back door for what you assume to be the last time.

—

Joel hears you return only to leave again a few minutes later. He thinks little of it, something you do frequently throughout the day when foraging or inspecting snares.

He wishes he could express his gratitude to you, thank you for how much you help out. How much you’ve improved his life just by being here. It kills him to see how you shrink away every time he enters the room, but he understands why. He hasn’t given you a reason not to.

Once he’s sure you’re out of earshot, he resumes pumping himself, hips bucking into his fist seconds before spurting hot ribbons of come onto his lower abdomen, eyes rolling back in his skull, your name a curse on his tongue as he imagines your mouth working him over in place of his fist.

As much as he’s wanted to touch you, sink himself into you every night, he’s been too afraid. Afraid to even speak to you, afraid of becoming attached only to lose you, like he’s lost all the others.

—

When you don’t return by mid day, he begins to worry.

He tries not to. He tries to tell himself maybe you decided to forage a little longer than usual, or maybe you’re at the river searching for freshwater clams since the weather is slowly beginning to warm.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That something is wrong.

He finds the bowl of fresh berries on the counter, evident that you had been foraging at least part of the day. But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t good enough for him.

When you don’t return by nightfall, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

This isn’t you.

—

Two days pass and you realize just how badly you fucked up.

The berries barely made a dent in your hunger and the only other food you managed to find were a few wild mushrooms that you’re pretty sure weren’t the edible kind, if the half gallon of resulting vomit an hour later was any sort of indication.

You fucked up. You fucked up royally and you miss the cabin. You miss the warm stove and the bed Joel made for you close to the fire. You miss how he always kept you fed and protected, even if you’re certain he hates you.

You miss Joel. You miss his grunts, you miss the way his face pinches when he glowers. You miss what he looks like when he chews, almost like he’s angry at his food somehow. You miss his smell when he comes home covered in grime and sweat from a full day of hunting.

Dusk has fallen on your second day without food or water, your bones feeling like powder and your muscles like jelly. You’re exhausted, head pounding with a combination of fatigue and hunger as you take shelter from the wind in a small outcropping of rocks, wishing he was here with you.

You’ll go back tomorrow, you decide.

—

Joel watches the sun sink behind the horizon of trees, cloaking the surrounding forest in near darkness.

He knows he should stop to rest for the night. Like you, he left in a rush without grabbing much in way of supplies or sustenance, but had been lucky to graze a buck that he was passively tracking while searching for you. He’ll likely find it soon.

He periodically came across fresh deer imprints in the earth, clean tracks slowly changing to drag marks, indicating the buck was either dead or close to death.

But you were constantly at the forefront of his mind. You were his focus. His reason to keep going. His reason for continuing to live.

And when he finds a perfect indentation of your left boot moments before the sun lowers completely from the sky, he knows he can’t afford to stop now.

—

It’s still dark when you wake up, your eyes coming into focus along the faint edges of what you can see, which isn’t much. Some rocks. Some trees.

You shift, rolling to your opposite side to go back to sleep, tucking your hands under your cheek as a makeshift pillow. A breeze blows over you, made stronger by the funnel of rocks, and you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter.

Snap.

Your eyes fly open again, immediately jumping to your haunches as you palm the pistol next to you.

You train your ears toward the source of the sound, somewhere in the trees, listening intently, your mind on shuffle with all the possibilities of what it could be.

It didn’t sound large enough to be a bear. A puma, perhaps, one who didn’t seem to be hunting you, hopefully, due to how loud the sound was.

Infected? A slim possibility. Rare up here, but not unheard of, which left you with the most likely option: it was human.

You attempt to still your breath, your fist white knuckled around the butt of the gun. It’s too dark to see anything, and all you hear is the soft whistle of the wind.

—

Joel registers the sound of you shifting from somewhere up the incline above him, limbs turning to stone as his mind cycles through all the same scenarios as you.

He lost your tracks halfway through the night, finding himself going in circles, so it’s quite possible it’s not you he’s just stumbled upon.

He slowly removes the rifle from his shoulder, lifting it to half mast in case whomever he’s stumbled across is hostile… or infected.

“I’m armed!” he calls out, lifting the rifle to a defensive position with the butt pressed to his shoulder. “I have no beef with you if you have none with me,” he adds.

You swear your heart stops, tears suddenly stinging your eyes with salt.

“J-Joel?” you whimper, almost imperceptible, but it’s just loud enough.

Joel can only react, unthinking, responding on muscle memory alone as he somehow manages to traverse the steep, rocky incline in seconds without eating it.

You jump upright to your feet, despite how weak you are, and before your brain even has a chance to tell your legs to move, you’re struck by a wall of muscle, thick arms coiling around you and pulling you against his chest.

“Thank god, thank god,” Joel sobs into your hair as he drags you down to the ground with him, his voice softer than you can ever remember, the wetness of his tears soaking through your shirt. “I thought I’d lost you…” he whispers, his voice wavering.

He inhales your scent deeply, his hold on you nearly painful, but you don’t mind, your face against his chest as your own tears start to fall.

—

“I’m sorry,” Joel murmurs softly as you’re walking back the following day, glancing over at you, dark brown eyes gently regarding your side profile in the early morning light. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care. I just…”

“I know,” you respond, pausing to collect your breath and your thoughts. “I know why you did it. I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I scared you…”

“Hey,” he says, gently cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, calloused thumb tracing your jawbone, pausing at your bottom lip. “S’okay.”

Your lips pucker, impervious to stop yourself from planting a small kiss to the pad of his thumb as it brushes your lip.

He lets out a low breath, his hand snaking around to the nape of your neck, fingers lacing through your hair as he tugs you closer, lips crashing against yours in a passionate, heated kiss that flows trembling from him with every fiber of withheld emotion and desire.

—

You arrive at the cabin half a day later, impressed but not surprised by how swiftly Joel was able to navigate both of you back safely.

He even successfully locates the downed buck, stiff with rigor mortis and cold, half chewed by a pack of wolves that scatter with a single rifle shot fired over their heads, the large animal now dragging listlessly behind Joel as you finally break through the barrier of trees encasing the valley where the cabin resides.

Smoke still curls from the chimney, fire long gone but embers undoubtedly still hot, and you find yourself smiling. With relief, with anticipation.

You’re exhausted, famished and dirty. Yet you still assist Joel in stringing up what’s left of the buck to the outside of the cabin until he can properly butcher it, feeling obligated to do so after everything that’s happened, despite his protests.

Once the task is complete, you retire to the warmth and comfort of the cabin, curled against his chest, feeling at home for the first time in months.

His fingers idly trace the bow of your spine, both of you falling into a fast sleep for what feels like days on end.

—

“I was so goddamn stupid,” Joel growls softly as his lips chart a path down your soft inner thighs, finding himself grinding his hips into the mattress for relief. “So goddamn stupid an’ bullheaded, an’ I almost lost you for it.”

Your spine arcs instinctually when his breath ghosts tauntingly close to your soaked folds, your fists finding his graying locks with a tug.

“Joel, stop talking and make it up to me,” you whine, earning a disapproving glance from between your legs, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness behind his eyes.

“Make it up to you, huh?” he purrs, separating your folds and inhaling your natural scent. “By tastin’ this perfect little pussy?”

“Yes,” you whine again, writhing like a worm cooking under the sun in his grasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Uh uh,” he scolds, moving further away from where you’re desperate for him. “Ask nicely.”

His lip curves almost imperceptibly into a sly smirk, his gaze growing a shade darker.

“Please, Joel,” you amend, still wiggling, almost involuntary at this point, his fingers digging into your hips as he pins you against the bed.

“Please what?”

“Please, I need to feel your mouth on my pussy,” you whimper.

His nostrils flare, smirk growing just enough for you to realize you weren’t just seeing things.

He doesn’t waste another second as he dives in with a low, reverberative growl and begins feasting on you like a man starved, his meaty forearm barred across your hip to hold you in place so he can eat you out properly.

His tongue parts your folds, licking a broad stripe up your seam with a groan as he tastes your essence for the first time, moving back down to your opening to tongue fuck you, the ridge of his nose grinding deliciously against your throbbing clit.

You tug harder against his strands with a moan, helping to guide him where you need him most.

Joel grunts your name into your core, eyes locking with yours over your mound, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right then and there.

He abruptly pulls his mouth from you, making you whine in protest, another smirk notching the corner of his lips as he rolls onto his back, rigid cock swaying slightly with the motion of his hips.

“Get on my face, baby, I need to get deeper,” he says, grabbing your wrist and gesturing you closer.

You don’t even have to give it another thought, scrambling over him, folded knees planted on either side of his head.

He yanks you down abruptly to his waiting and eager mouth before you’re halfway settled, tongue curling into your wet heat with a deep groan that vibrates straight through you.

His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, directing your movements, grinding you against his face as he continues to feast on you like you’re nothing less of a five star meal.

Your hands furl the edge of the headboard, spine arching, and it doesn’t take much longer in this position to be sent over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you like a bolt of lightning, Joel’s name a sacred prayer on your tongue as everything inside of you completely uncoils.

He keeps you there long enough to let you ride out your high, tongue still laving at your spasming walls until it’s too much for you to handle.

You shift off of him, his facial hair glistening with evidence of your release as he pulls you down into a rough, needy kiss, letting you taste yourself, flipping you over and pinning you beneath him, arms caged around your head as he grinds his hardness against you.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you like this,” Joel confesses, nipping at your jaw, then your bottom lip. “How you would feel. How you would taste.” He kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth gently grazing.

“And you have no idea how many times I touched myself thinking about you,” you confess in reply, Joel’s head lifting to meet your eyes at your admission. “I had to bite my lip every night to keep from moaning your name...”

“Fuck…” he growls, settling his pelvis between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, lifting one to prop against his shoulder.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he rumbles, giving himself a few firm pumps before notching himself at your entrance. “Y’want me to go fast or slow, darlin’?”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the simple act of him asking, knowing it isn’t just mindless sex to him, that he actually cares, if that wasn’t already obvious from how enthusiastically he just ate you out.

“Slow, then hard and fast,” you tell him, earning another deep rumble as he starts to push himself inside of you, fat head stretching your walls.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he says softly as he steadily gains ground, his hips shuddering with restraint once he bottoms out, sheathing himself fully. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re strangling me,” he grunts. “I don’t know how long I can last...”

The pain of withholding in his voice is palpable.

“Joel, you just made me come super hard,” you tell him. “Don’t hold yourself back just for me.”

His bottom lip juts out and quivers with the thin veil of control he still has, fingertips digging into your hips, crescent moon shapes left behind in your skin.

“Y’sure?” he asks, internal conflict evident in his voice as he rolls his hips half a thrust forward. “‘cause soon as I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back…”

“I’m sure,” you reassure him, letting him hear the conviction in your voice.

He takes in a steadying breath and gently gyrates his hips forward once, twice, his head tilting down to watch the way he disappears inside of you.

It must be the way you’re taking him so well — or maybe it’s the months of not allowing himself to touch you — the thin thread of restraint suddenly fraying after the initial soft, testing thrusts, a barely audible ‘fuck’ escaping his lips seconds before he begins railing into you with everything a man of his age has to give… which is a lot.

Joel’s hand is on your calf, holding your leg flush to his chest, the other on your hip in a bruising hold, watching the way your body sways in rhythm with his motions, teeth bared in concentration.

“Darlin’… I’m… I… where do you want it?” he pants, the question almost sounding pained.

You know you should make him pull out and finish on your stomach. Contraceptives are a rare luxury these days and you’d always made your previous boyfriends pull out. But you can’t stop yourself, the permission spilling from your lips thoughtlessly.

“In… inside…” you whimper in desperation and Joel doesn’t even think to question it.

He collapses on top of you, his hips sputtering and shaking, a deep, guttural snarl sounding from his chest as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with hot jets of spend.

Despite not coming a second time, the sensation of him shooting inside of you still feels good, his warmth filling every crevice it can reach inside of you.

He buries his face against your neck, gingerly taking some of your flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint impression.

His hips gradually slow and still, your name a reverent curse on his tongue.

“Christ,” he pants, wrapping you snugly in his burly arms. “Christ, darlin’.”

—

Spring finally reaches the valley, replenishing the land with color and sunlight, allowing you and Joel to wander out further and further every day.

He tells you he wants to find something nicer than the cabin. Somewhere larger, more permanent, even though you’ve told him time and again that you’d prefer to stay.

And you do, for a spell.

That is until you find your body growing more sensitive than usual. Until you find it increasingly difficult to keep some of your meals down, trying to convince Joel it’s nothing, that it’s just a summer cold, when you both know it’s not.

Joel dotes on you, burdens himself over you, knowing exactly what it is without wanting to say it. All the signs are there, almost textbook, unable to keep his memories from drifting back to the days before Sarah was born, how her mother’s symptoms were damn near identical.

He doesn’t dare tell you how scared he is, how much this terrifies him all the the way to his bone marrow, but you know. You see it in his gaze when he looks at you, feel it in his touch when he pulls you against him at night.

—

You’re on a scouting run one warm summer day, Joel hardly more than two feet from you at any given moment, so many unspoken words and feelings still hanging in the air between you.

He reaches for your arm to steady you when your feet slide on a patch of loose rocks, his palm instinctively moving to protect your stomach. You’re almost sure he wasn’t even aware he did it.

“Joel,” you say, placing your hand over his. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, silence speaking louder than any words he could say.

He’s reverted into his headspace again, more quiet these last few days than he has been. And it worries you. You hate that he bottles everything up, but you know that confrontation could make him shut down even more.

You begin walking again, his hand absently resting on the small of your back, and you continue down the path in stagnant silence.

Suddenly, Joel stops, eyes squinting to confirm what he’s seeing is real.

A neighborhood.

—

The neighborhood would have been considered a new development before the world went to shit, most of the lots bare and choked with two decades worth of weeds, some houses half built and some finished but likely vacant at the time.

There are only a few that look to have been potentially occupied before everything, three larger homes next to one another in a cul-de-sac at the end of unmanaged, cracked pavement.

There’s not much of interest in the first few homes you inspect, watching the way Joel silently scrutinizes everything as a potential future dwelling, not a single corner left unchecked, his latent instincts as a contractor still well ingrained in him despite the expanse of time.

By mid day, you’re both sweating profusely, Joel moreso than you since he isn’t letting you do much, forcing you to put food and water in your body, brooking no argument when he gives you his ration as well.

He knows you should head back soon before you’re out too late, but there’s still one house left to search and he doesn’t want to make the trip a second time if it isn’t worth the trouble.

The largest house, a two story spruce green craftsman with gray trim, his heart aching with nostalgia at how much it reminds him of his former home in Austin.

You start the same route as with the other houses; from the top, room by room, working your way down, your anxiety growing the lower the sun dips in the sky, knowing you only have a couple hours at best before it’s too late to leave.

The main floors scoured, you follow Joel to the basement, your hands on his shoulders for stability as you slowly work your way down the creaking stairs, your eyes adjusting to the shadows the deeper you travel.

When you’ve reached the bottom, Joel pulls out his flashlight, hitting it against his palm a few times before it flickers to life, the thin beam of light reflecting off the freshly disturbed dust.

You cover your nose and mouth with your shirt to keep out some of the flying particles, watching as Joel stumbles upon a stack of neatly piled and labeled storage totes in the furthest corner from the stairs, adrenaline beginning to course through him like a drug as he reads the faded sharpie scrawled on the sides.

“‘Canned goods and preserves’,” Joel says quietly, his voice higher in pitch than usual, more hopeful. There’s at least four totes labeled canned goods that you can see, possibly more, dates ranging from anywhere from late 2000 to summer of 2003.

He moves slightly to the right, his body tremoring as he examines the next set of totes.

Multiple totes labeled MREs, dated around the same range as the canned goods. He rips the top off of a few of them open to confirm that his eyes aren’t deceiving him, that this isn’t a cruel dream, nearly doubling over when he sees just how real it is.

“Joel?” you ask, concerned, stepping nearer to him when you see him trembling and clutching his chest. “Baby ..?”

He suddenly turns and throws his arms around you, and it dawns on you that he’s crying, he’s crying and trembling, eyes full of happy tears.

“A fucking prepper. A fucking prepper just saved our lives,” he whimpers into your hair, squeezing you against him, and all he can think in that moment is thank fuck for those crazy assholes. Thank fuck for people like Bill.

—

In the weeks that follow, you and Joel clean and repair the house — Joel doing most of the work, per his insistence — but it’s in surprisingly good shape despite its age and lack of upkeep, and even with just the two of you, it doesn’t take as long as you’d expected.

You can’t help but miss the cabin, the natural beauty of the valley. But Joel was right to move you. It’s safer here, more insulated from weather, more space to grow. And perhaps, one day, the cabin can be someone else’s salvation, as it had been for you.

Another night falls on one of the final lingering days of summer, barely able to see the shine of Joel’s eyes in the dim light as he climbs over you, parting your legs with his knee, rumbling low in his chest as he peppers kisses and bites down the column of your neck.

[chevroletdean]

Welcome Home

nsfw prompts, send in a character + a number

PAIRING: Dean x Fem!Reader GENRE: Smut (18+ CONTENT) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: mentions of (healed) injuries, PWP, established relationship, (guided) masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, fingering, not proofread WORD COUNT: 2.8k PROMPT: 10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them A/N: based on an anon's request, ty! CREDIT & LINKS: dividers by cafekitsune ─〃★ join the taglist ─〃★ Dean Masterlist

You were sitting on the bed, legs crossed, compact mirror in one hand, mascara wand in the other. Maybe it was a little silly, but you wanted to doll yourself up extra nicely today.

Dean’s been away for two whole weeks, working on this super complicated case several states over. You, on the other hand, had been stuck at the Bunker thanks to an annoying injury for the whole duration of his absence. A busted ankle rendered you bed-ridden for a while and Dean, ever the worried boyfriend, was strict about your healing process.

Thus, you stayed behind, unable to do much except twirling your thumbs and calling him every day.

Fourteen lonely days, every single one feeling like torture.

Even though your leg’s been fully healed since a couple of days, Dean insisted that you should take it easy. Restless as you were, however, you offered to tag along, join him after all.

His response you couldn’t have anticipated.

“I’m on my way home already,” he said through the phone, the curl of his lips audible. “Surprise, sweetheart.”

You immediately dropped everything.

That thick novel you’ve been reading? Shoved back onto the shelves. Your warm cup of tea to comfort that empty feeling in your chest? Left behind to cool entirely. Blanket? Who needed that when soon you would have your boyfriend’s arms back around you!

You nearly tripped over your own two feet as you rushed to your wardrobe. If you’d manage to break another bone in the process of exchanging your pyjamas for something nicer, Dean wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

However, in your giddiness you could not be bothered to care.

Dean informed you that he’d be at the Bunker in an hour or two, which was just enough time to prepare everything. Like cleaning your room and making yourself presentable.

Absorbed in your own world, you hummed along to your playlist as you did the finishing touches of your makeup. Though, when your door creaked open, you squealed— half surprised, half flustered.

“You’re early,” you huffed, though the wide smile and the brightness in your eyes belied your attempt at scolding him.

You jumped up from the bed, practically flinging yourself into his arms. His eyes almost appeared greener than you remembered, or maybe you just missed the color so badly that seeing it again made your heart flutter even more than usual.

“My bad,” he played along with a chuckle and the deep rumble of his voice sent your pulse skyrocketing, “Want me to leave again and come back later?”

“Don’t you dare, Winchester,” you retorted, grin still wide on your tinted lips. Before he could even think about abandoning you again, whether in jest or not, you pulled him into a kiss, the familiar taste of him melting your heart right away.

Despite being worn down after a long drive and an even longer hunt, Dean soaked up your excited welcome, mimicking the effortless smile you wore.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth with a relieved sigh.

“Missed you too,” you whispered back, connecting your lips with his in another chaste kiss.

“I can tell,” he grinned, leaning back only to scan you up and down. You had picked one of his old Metallica shirts, paired with a denim mini-skirt. One that left him no choice but to whistle.

“Two weeks without me and you turn into a caveman,” you quipped teasingly. Still, that look of approval and desire caused your skin to tingle.

“Can’t blame a guy for appreciating his pretty girl,” Dean shrugged, boyish grin plastered across his face. “You look like a work of art.”

“And the canvas isn’t even done yet,” you chuckled. “Can you grab my lipgloss from the bathroom real quick?”

Dean didn’t respond for a second, too busy taking in the sight of you. His hands lazily trailed up and down your sides, testing the material of his shirt, the fabric old and worn and falling softly over those irresistble curves of yours. You were asking the impossible of him—no way did he want to pull away from you for even just another minute.

“What’s the point if I’m gonna kiss it off that pretty mouth anyway?,” Dean tested, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“Hold your horses, Cassanova,” you clicked your tongue with that flustered grin of yours, shyly shoving at his shoulder to nudge him towards the bathroom. “It’s the cherry flavored one, your favorite.”

Dean’s eyes lit up to match the flirtatious sparkle in yours, both thanks to the heavenly sound of your laugh and your little promise.

“Should’ve said so sooner, sweetheart,” he hummed with that wide, giddy grin of his. Though he did not let you off the hook that easily — giving you another peck, along with a well measured squeeze of your ass that had you yelp and giggle again — he turned on his heel and retreated to the bathroom.

“Gotta freshen up a bit anyway,” was the last thing you heard him mumble.

As for you, you swiftly finished the last bits of preparations. The moment you learned he’d finally come home, you knew just how to welcome him back properly. Microwaved popcorn, some slices of greasy pizza, one or two of Dean’s favorite old Western classics.

“Steve McQueen or John Wayne?,” you called as you were shuffling through the DVD collection in the box, which usually sat under your bed. You’d found it pulled out already and, what can you say, sometime’s not tidying up immediately has its perks.

And sometimes it’s a bulletproof set-up for failure.

Dean returned just then, though it’s the rasp of his voice that grabs your attention rather than the steps of heavy boots you expected to appear behind you.

“Wanna tell me what this is?”

Curious, your head turned to him. Your gaze fell on his frame first, much closer than you thought he’d be and half-naked. He’s washed the grime off his skin, which thus was slightly damp and smelled like the perfect blend of citrus and spice.

Once finally managing to peel your eyes off his broad chest, your eyelashes flickered upwards. Though your heart sank right to the bottom of your stomach as you realized what he was holding might’ve been pink, but it definitely wasn’t your lipgloss. Instantly the shade of your cheeks matched the silicone toy he waved around.

Your Satisfyer. Of course, you’d just cleaned it in the bathroom and forgot to put it away. Hence that box not being stashed away yet either.

“I can explain,” you muttered shyly, almost timidly and tense, though your defensive response earned you just a smirk from Dean.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he hummed. “Didn’t say I was mad.”

He turned the small vibrator in his hands, once, twice, eyeing it with curiosity. Not anger. Not disgust or any of that.

“Didn’t know you owned one of these,” he spoke, casually, as if he didn’t just jumpscare the shit out of you by wiggling your sex toy in front of your face.

You’re not sure what prompted you to even attempt defending yourself: “I only use it when I miss you too much…” While justifying why you had it, that explanation certainly didn’t make you feel any less exposed.

A thick silence followed, so heavy between you you could hear your own blood rush through your ears. The blush crept from your face to your neck, darkening into a tomato-red.

Dean stared at you as if you’d grown a second head, and you couldn’t possibly maintain eyecontact with him anymore. Although, when you averted your gaze, he lifted your chin up again, looking down at you with an intensity that overwhelmed you.

“When you miss me,” Dean echoed, voice low and laced with something dangerous. Something proud. Like the secret you just revealed equated to you handing him a trophy.

Shyly, you nodded. Barely.

“You’re thinking of me when you’re touching yourself, sweetheart?” His words had you shudder. And swallow. Thickly. Though your throat remained dry and you didn’t trust yourself to speak up just yet.

“Hmhm,” you hummed quietly, nodding again. Wasn’t it self-explanatory? Of course you were. It was always him you imagined in those moments. It was always his touch you wished would explore you. His hands, mouth, thick cock—

“Show me,” Dean spoke, holding the item out for you.

Bewildered, you blinked at him, unsure if you understood correctly.

“Wh-what?”

He took a step forward, towering over you in a way that made you feel small, but desired all the same. Instinctively, you staggered backwards, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, causing you to sit down.

“Show me what happens when you miss me, sweetheart,” Dean elaborated, placing the toy in your lap and then pulling back.

Your eyes, wide with shock, never left him as he pushed a chair over to the bed and made himself comfortable, sitting there leaned back and ready to enjoy the show.

“But I— You…”

Dean tilted his head, one hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “What? I wanna see my girl make herself feel good. Just do it like you normally would.”

It’s not that you were uncomfortable with the idea, knowing he’d never push you to anything you don’t want. It’s rather that his request made heat pool at your core, so fast that it made you dizzy. He couldn’t possibly hold you getting so flustered against you.

This felt like a damn ambush, one that made your brain short circuit.

Hearing the gears turn in your head, Dean leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head. “Not your cup of tea, sugar?”

Damn bastard knew what he was doing, letting his wolfish eyes roam your body like you were some frozen-in-the-headlights deer. The low rumble of his voice was enough to make you instinctively squeeze your thighs together.

“No— I mean yes? Just…,” you stuttered, making a complete fool of yourself. This was uncharted territory. You knew your body and how to explore it. Dean knew your body and how to explore it. But in this constellation, the alignment of stars painted a new picture.

While you didn’t want to admit how awkward you felt, not wanting to sound lame, Dean understood without you having to spell it out for him. He got up from the chair and settled on the bed instead, making himself comfortable right behind you.

Biting your lower lip, you let his arms circle around your waist and pull you closer until your back was pressed flush against his chest. The heat of his skin seeped through your clothes and you relaxed into his embrace right away.

“This okay?,” he whispered, the gentleness of his voice contrasted only by the brush of his stubble against your cheek. As his fingertips slipped under your shirt, erasing the tension from your middle, you leaned back into him even further.

“More than okay,” you answered, voice soft but sure.

You felt the smile tugging at his lips against your neck, along with the kiss he placed there. Slow and deliberate. Reassuring you while his fingers made quick work of your skirt’s button. He unfastened it, helping you lift your lower half to slip the denim down and taking your panties right with them.

Both items discarded onto the floor, you shifted into a more comfortable position. You settled between Dean’s legs and slowly spread your own, following the guide of his palms that stroked the plush of your thighs.

“Show me, please?”

The way he asked for it had your heart and pussy flutter in tandem. That desperate edge to his tone, the subtle twitch of his fingers against your inner thighs — as if he was itching to touch you himself, but wanting you to do it instead.

You bit your lower lip and pressed the toy’s switch, its soft buzz making both yours and Dean’s breath hitch.

You guided the vibrator to your slick folds, your center already throbbing with anticipation. Dean’s chin settled on your shoulder, eyes glued to your ministrations. Having him watch you at your most vulnerable, such a private moment suddenly so intimate, it drove you to the brink of insanity.

“You’re tellin’ me this is what I’m missing every time I’m gone?,” Dean huffed through a clenched jaw, absolutely mesmerized by the sight in front of him. You, all splayed out for him, letting yourself fall apart, unwavering trust behind your actions.

A whine left your lips as you shook your head shyly.

“No?,” he hummed, hands still tracing lazy circles over your thighs, occasionally lifting your oversized shirt out of the way.

“Mmh, ‘s different when you’re here,” you replied in between ragged panting.

“Different how?”

“Better.”

You had no idea what those words did to him. Or maybe you did, judging by the way you arched your back and pushed your hips back, just to feel the tent in his boxers.

“What’s it like when I’m not here?” Maybe Dean was pushing his luck, asking you to share the most scandalous of your thoughts, wanting a glimpse of your fantasies. Or maybe he was pushing your buttons in just the right way, relishing in the flush of your cheeks and the tremble of your lips. “What’re you imagining then, baby? Bet you wish it was me touching you, right?”

The moan bubbling from you was broken but beautiful, accompanied by another nod of yours.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You angled the toy up slightly until the ring suctioned right over your clit, pressure and friction so delicious you sobbed softly.

“Wish you’d fuck me, keep thinking ‘bout your cock filling me,” you rambled to your own surprise.

“Keep it up, and I might,” Dean chuckled lightly behind you, his only reward for now another kiss to your flushed skin.

Eager to please him, more than pleasuring yourself at this point, you turned up the setting. Though your thighs twitched, you kept chasing the feeling. Your hips automatically bucked into the smooth surface of your toy. It was practically drenched already, glistening with your essence.

“So fucking pretty,” Dean rasped, large hands holding your legs open from behind.

You whimpered, throwing your head back against his shoulder as the pressure between your thighs became nearly unbearable. Dean used the opportunity to plant wet, hot kisses across your neck, burying his nose in the curve of your shoulder.

“Doing so good, baby,” he whispered. “Just a little longer, can you do that for me?”

“Dunno, ‘m so close,” you cried, coil in your lower stomach so damn tight, so damn close to snapping.

“’s alright,” Dean purred, his own hand maneuvering their way between your legs. You yelped softly as you felt his fingers collect your wetness and run right through your slit. “Almost there.”

Overwhelmed, you almost squirmed away, but his grip on you was iron, his words whispering sweet affirmations into your ear. How pretty you looked. How good you felt. How perfect you were. And the best part about it? He was actually, really, right there—not some flicker of your imagination, not the ghost of his touch or the memory of his voice.

Dean slipped one finger inside of you, then added a second one. His thrusts were steady, a welcome scratch to the itch you could never quite manage on your own. A soothe to your nerves only Dean was able to accomplish. He was making you sing and curse and worship his name with your voice.

“Let go for me,” Dean spoke, talking you through it as all that you managed were moans and slight thrashes.

He pushed you over the edge with ease, catching you all the same in the storm of your orgasm. The intense crash of heat washing over you caused one of your hands to grasp his wrist—you weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to make him slow down or asking him to keep going.

Dean slowed his movement, the pulsating of your heat subsiding gently until all that was left was you, sweaty and shaking in his embrace.

“Good to be back,” Dean quipped jokingly, sealing your long awaited reunion with another lock of your lips.

Dean Winchester Taglist:

@angelicjackles @berryblues46 @blueschevy @calibootsgirl @charliesangel67

@emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @foxyjwls007 @hot-and-confused @jollyhunter

@ladysparkles78 @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 @midnight--raine @missus-ackles

@spacecowgirl126 @spn-reader @spookyfunhottub @supernotnatural2005 @whichwitchwanda

@whormotional @winchester-whiskey @zepskies

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[imtaashu]

❝ Invisible String🪡 ❞

Inspired by: “Invisible String” – Taylor Swift

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ✮ Setting: Post-Endgame, modern-day Brooklyn ✮ Summary: You’ve always believed in fate, but Bucky never did—until he starts noticing all the invisible threads that led him straight to you. ✮ Genre: Soft fluff, fate, slow burn warmth, soulmates-vibe ✮ Word Count: ~1.3k ✮ Author Notes✍️ : this one is like a warm cup of tea with your name on it. i wrote this with taylor’s lyrics echoing in my heart and bucky’s soul tangled in gold thread☁️🩷 ✦ this one exists because @pharmacistfairytale asked for it🩷🩷✦ ✦ welcome to my bucky brain rot. masterlist lives here ✦

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

“Time, curious time / gave me no compasses, gave me no signs…”

But somehow, it led him here…

Bucky never used to believe in fate.

Not after Hydra. Not after the Winter Soldier. Not after everything that taught him the world was chaos and survival was coincidence.

But then he met you Or—maybe he didn’t meet you. Maybe he always knew you.

Maybe it was a thousand little things pulling him toward you across years and cities and silence.

Like an invisible string.

Tied from his heart to yours.

⸻

It starts with something stupid.

You hand him a book in the common room one afternoon. He flips it open and finds his own name underlined on page 17.

“What the hell?” he asks.

You laugh. “That’s from years ago. Before I even knew you. I used to highlight characters with names I liked.”

His name. His.

He doesn’t say anything, but later, he folds the page corner down like a secret.

⸻

Then it’s music.

You hum exactly the same melody he used to whistle as a kid. One day, he stops you mid-hum and stares.

“What?” you laugh.

“Where’d you learn that song?”

You shrug “I don’t know. My grandma used to sing it to me.”

His grandma did too.

⸻

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask him once, lying with your head in his lap on the fire escape, city lights flickering below.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t think it’s kind of crazy? That out of every coffee shop in Brooklyn, I picked the one you were hiding in that day?”

“You were loud,” he mutters.

“You were grumpy.”

“You ordered your coffee wrong and then said ‘oops’ like it was cute.”

You grin. “You remembered.”

He looks down at you. Soft. Barely breathing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I remember everything about you.”

⸻

There are photos now.

Polaroids tucked into his wallet. One in his book. Another under his pillow, where he swears you’ll never find it. (You do. You smile. You don’t say anything.)

He gets clingier the more time passes.

Not possessive. Just grateful.

Like he can’t believe the universe handed him something good and is just waiting to take it back.

⸻

One night, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

You trace circles on the metal of his arm. “What’s going on in that head?”

He shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitates. Then finally, softly “I think I’ve loved you forever. I just didn’t know your name yet.”

You stop breathing. And then you kiss him.

Not like a first kiss.

Like a memory.

Like coming home.

⸻

You both start collecting little threads.

Literal ones.

You find a gold string in a bookstore binding and tie it around your wrist. He notices. Doesn’t say anything—but you wake up the next morning and there’s a matching string on his.

“No one’s gonna believe how soft you are,” you tease.

“Good,” he says. “I’m not soft for anyone else.”

⸻

Sometimes he stares at you like you’re not real.

Not in a weird way. In a stars are real and so are you kind

One day you catch him whispering something to himself after you walk away from the kitchen.

“What was that?” you ask.

He clears his throat. Shrugs “I just… I think maybe the string showed up because I finally stopped running from where it was trying to take me.”

You blink. “You mean… me?”

He nods. His voice is barely a whisper.

“You.”

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

🏷️ tagging - @surebutwhy 🤟🏻

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

wanna be tagged in all the clingy!bucky chaos and emotional destruction? tell me and i got you ⛓️‍💥♥️

[steveseddie]

happily ever after

written for the @steddiebingo kissing booth mini event | prompt: happy ending | rating: t | wc: 1,7k | no cw | tags: pre-relationship, oblivious steve, dungeons & dragons, love confessions

read on ao3

Steve doesn’t know when it happens but at some point, he stops hating Dungeons & Dragons.

He still calls it anything but its actual name to the kids’ faces, and he still bitches and moans about having to drive them to and from their stupid meetings, but he can admit that he kind of likes it, at least to himself.

Definitely not enough to play it. He still believes there’s way too much math involved and he gets a headache just thinking about memorizing an entire character sheet, but he does enjoy it enough to sit and watch the kids and Eddie play.

Eddie is also probably a big part of why Steve started liking it. He has a way of making everything interesting. His voices, the way he insists on randomly jumping on his chair or shooting up to his feet, and the twists and turns he weaves into a story so expertly.

There’s also the fact that Steve is head over heels for him and sitting through one of their games is the perfect excuse to stare at him all he wants.

Realistically, he can’t be at every one of them. He has a job and a tiny shred of reputation to maintain. He can’t be seen dedicating all his free time to a game for nerds.

He can, however, dedicate his Friday night to it when Eddie invites him over for the big finale of their latest campaign.

“It’s going to be great, Stevie, I’m telling you!” Eddie says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You can’t miss it!”

“I won’t, Eds, I promise,” Steve tells him, trying not to show just how easy it is for Eddie to get him to agree to anything.

The big finale does end up being great. The kids spend the whole time sitting at the edge of their seats and Eddie delivers twist after twist until finally the legendary sword is found, the kingdom is saved and everyone lives happily ever after.

Or maybe not everyone.

There’s something that stays with Steve even after Eddie dramatically announces it’s the end, but he doesn’t get to ask him about it until two days later when they’re hanging out at the trailer.

Steve is sprawled on the bed, leafing through a sports magazine he swiped from Wayne’s stuff and Eddie is pretending to organize his desk. In reality, he’s spent the last twenty minutes playing with a rubber ball he found among his things.

“Hey, Eds,” Steve says just as Eddie throws the ball toward the ceiling. He turns his attention to Steve and forgets about the ball, which bounces against his face.

“Ow! Shit!” He swears, rubbing at his eye. Steve stifles his laughter behind the magazine. “What’s– what’s up, Stevie?”

“Can I ask you a question about Dorks & Dweebs?”

At that, Eddie snaps to attention. His eyes are wide and one of them is a little red from the ball hitting it. “Steve Harrington, did you just say you want to ask me about Dungeons & Dragons?”

“I said Dorks & Dweebs, but yes.”

“I don’t even care that you refuse to call it by the proper name,” Eddie chuckles disbelievingly, then he jumps to his feet and joins Steve on the bed, a big grin on his face. “Holy shit, yes! Of course, ask me anything you want!”

Steve can’t help but chuckle at Eddie’s excitement. The way he rests his chin on his hands and stares expectantly at Steve like this is the most amazing thing to happen to him. It’s very cute. “Okay, you weirdo,” he says, his voice dripping with fondness. “At the end of your last game–”

“Campaign.”

Steve waves him off. “At the end of that, what happened to the singer guy? The bard? Uh, Everard?”

Tilting his head, Eddie asks, “What?”

“You know, the– the guy that helped the kids– uh, the party find the legendary sword. The EMT or whatever.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches amusedly. “The NPC.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well,” he says, scratching his head. “He died.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he got mauled by carrion crawlers, Steve.”

“You got mauled by bats and you lived!” Steve argues. Eddie’s nose scrunches up, most likely at the mention of his near death. “Couldn’t one of the kids have used like, a healing spell or something?”

Eddie taps his lip with his finger, thinking it over. Steve can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes.

“I guess they could but– he’s not important, man, he’s just there to help them find the sword.”

Steve averts his eyes from Eddie’s lips and crosses his arms over his chest. “If he’s not important then it doesn’t matter if he lives, right?”

“Okay, sure,” he snorts. “He can live if you like him so much.”

“Good,” Steve says, nodding. Eddie rolls onto his back, probably assuming the conversation is over but there’s something else Steve has been wondering about. “Does he go back to the princess?”

Eddie’s whole body visibly tenses up. “W–what?”

“Everard is in love with Princess Soliana, right? Does he tell her?”

“No,” Eddie says, his voice sharp.

“Why not?”

Eddie groans, sitting up on the bed so he’s facing away from Steve. “Because that’s not relevant to the campaign!”

“It’s relevant to me,” Steve huffs stubbornly.

“Why?”

Because Steve is a romantic and from the first time Eddie mentioned this NPC or whatever, Steve felt drawn to him for some reason. It might sound stupid, he’s just a character after all, but Steve wants him to be happy. “Because Everard loves her.”

“So?” Eddie snaps, “there are things even love can’t fix.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “In real life, maybe, but in fantasy, man? Anything can happen.”

“That can’t,” he grumbles. He still won’t face Steve, his shoulders hunched over.

“But why?”

“Because!” Eddie snaps, finally turning around. His face is pinched, his lips pursed. “Bards don’t marry princesses, Steve!”

“Says who?”

“Me, and I’m the DM so I make the rules.”

“Which means you can change them, give them a happy ending!”

Eddie drags his hands down his face. “There’s no happy ending for Everard, Steve. He knows that. He’s not the hero who gets the princess, he’s the sorry son of a bitch who almost dies. Even if he lives, he won’t do it. He won’t risk the friend– the kingdom when he knows the princess doesn’t love him back.” He says all of that through gritted teeth, and his voice sounds sad like– like he knows what he’s talking about.

“She’s royalty, Steve. She’s beautiful, she’s brave,” Eddie goes on, his eyes boring into Steve with an intensity that makes him shiver. “And he’s– he’s no one and he’s broken and– and scarred, and–-”

“You,” Steve whispers as the realization hits. “He’s you.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. He gulps, but he doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Now that Steve knows it’s so obvious. The similar name, Everard’s funny and flirty personality, the way he joins the party later in the campaign, and how he’s mauled by creatures trying to save them.

And if that’s Eddie then–

“The princess is me.”

Eddie lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Finally caught on, didn’t you, Stevie?”

“You– you based those characters off of us?”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “But you killed Everard.”

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, well. I took some liberties, I didn’t want to make it too obvious, you know? And I did die for like a couple of minutes, so–”

“But the part about Everard being in love with the princess. Did you take liberties with that?” Steve asks quietly, holding his breath as he waits for Eddie’s answer.

“No,” he says, ducking his head, his hair falling over his face. “That part was accurate.”

The admission makes Steve’s heart try to beat out of his chest. “You– you love me?” He asks with a shaky voice.

“I do,” Eddie says, his big doe eyes finally meeting Steve’s gaze. “But I meant what I said. Everard wouldn’t risk anything, not when I know– when he knows you– the princess doesn’t want him.”

Eddie’s eyes are sad and pleading, like he’s begging Steve not to be mad at him. But Steve is mad. Just not for the reason that Eddie thinks.

“You don’t know that,” he says, frowning.

“I told you–”

“You told me what Everard thinks, now let me tell you what the princess thinks,” Steve says, shutting Eddie up. “She doesn’t think Everard is broken, she thinks he’s strong. He might be scarred, but so is she. And– and he’s beautiful too! Maybe she never thought she could fall in love with a guy– with someone like him but she loves him, Eddie.” He reaches for Eddie’s hand on the bed. It’s shaking. Steve squeezes it. “And I love you.”

Eddie’s jaw goes slack. “Steve–”

“That’s Princess Soliana for you,” Steve tells him, trying to lighten the mood.

It works. A joyful, high-pitched laugh tumbles from Eddie’s lips. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he agrees with a giddy chuckle. “I– did you– do you mean it?”

Another squeeze. “Of course, Eds.”

With his free hand, Eddie grabs a lock of his own hair and tugs it across his face to try and hide the blush creeping onto his cheeks and that just won’t do. Steve uses his hand to tuck the hair back behind Eddie’s ear. “So, now that Everard knows this, what’s he going to do?”

Eddie doesn’t even need to think about it. His eyes instantly dart down to Steve’s mouth. “He’s going to kiss the princess,” he says, his jaw set in determination.

Warmth shoots through Steve’s body, the corners of his mouth curl upwards. “Good,” he says, and then Eddie is pulling him in by his shirt, their lips crashing together in a kiss. Steve’s hand finds its way to the back of Eddie’s neck so he can keep him in place, kissing him back for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.

“I guess– hmph, I guess Everard did get his happy ending after all,” Eddie mumbles against Steve’s lips after some time. “And so did I.”

Steve’s face splits into a grin. “Nah, Eds, this might be the end for them,” he says, pushing at Eddie’s shoulders until his back hits the bed and he can climb on top of him. “For us, it’s only the beginning.”

[sunsburns]

peace in the madness (i) — john walker

⟢ synopsis. despite it all, you can john walker make a pretty good team.

⟢ contains. plot from fatws, wakanda forever & thunderbolts*, violence, gore, death, murder, politics, morally ambiguous characters, john is a bad person, the reader is a bad person, fem!reader, slow burn, mutual pinning, reader is an assassin, action scenes, lots and lots of plot and words sorry.

⟢ wc: 14.4k+

⟢ author’s note. this started off as a thirst post for john walker but then i got ahead of myself and now we have a slow burn fic in the making with over 10k words per chapter, sue me. i just beleive john is such a complex character and i needed him under a microscope.

Present Day – 19:04 hrs

“Remember, this is a non-lethal op. Valentina says we can’t have any more bodies traced back to her.”

You shift your weight, the rooftop gravel crunching softly beneath your knee. A slow exhale fogs the air before you for half a second before clearing. The city stretches out in front of you, muted, restless. The sun had just dipped behind a jagged skyline of glass and steel, leaving behind a smeared amber haze. It painted long shadows across the streets below, where headlights flickered to life like fireflies.

Dusk was always the worst. Not dark enough to disappear, not light enough to see clean. But it was your best window. The fifteen-minute gap between the day shift clocking out and the night guards trickling in—eyes off monitors, radios switching hands, attention divided. Just long enough for Ghost and U.S. Agent to breach the perimeter, move fast, and get out clean.

That was the idea, anyway.

Beside you, a slim matte-black laptop sat open in the gravel, its screen casting a greenish hue on your gloves. A thermal overlay of the building two blocks down flickered on display, tracking body heat in faint red pulses. Two of those pulses—John Walker and Ava Starr—moved steadily toward the north service entrance, right on schedule. The building’s schematics hovered in the corner of the screen: lines of data flowing like code through a digital wireframe, green-on-black, flickering every so often.

Technically, Valentina had “acquired” the schematics through official channels. In reality, you knew she had someone twist the arm of someone important who owed her. Either way, it landed in your inbox. You wished she had managed to get access to the live security footage.

You adjusted your elbows against the ledge, the butt of your rifle snug against your shoulder. Custom grip. High-calibre suppressor. Nothing lethal tonight—just tranquillizers and a scope calibrated to tag a guard’s thigh at four hundred metres without alerting the guy next to him.

You had your knives, though, just in case.

And maybe you had real bullets too. You know, just in case.

Through the scope, the world narrowed to a single slice of reality: the street below, filtered in sharp contrast. A white utility van idled at the curb, hazard lights blinking in a slow, steady rhythm.

“You copy that, Walker?” Ava’s voice broke into comms, laced with sarcasm. You could hear her grin. “Means keep the temper in check.”

A burst of static, then a dry scoff. “Please. I’m the most emotionally stable one on this team.”

You smirked, never lifting your eye from the scope. “Anger still counts as an emotion. If anyone’s got a handle on their shit, it’s ‘Lena.”

“I’m more stable than you.” comes his immediate reply.

“Highly doubt that.”

“Wanna bet?”

There was the smallest pause, not long, just a breath, and you were already lining up your next jab when Ava broke in, her voice flat. “Can we not do this right now?”

You bit back your reply. She was right. You’d have all the time in the world for petty back-and-forths and real shoves later, once the job was over, once you were wheels up and back on the jet for a debrief with Barnes. For now, you just have to keep things tight.

You didn’t answer, but the faint grumble of agreement from Walker’s comm told you he was backing off, too. Probably reluctantly.

You glanced at the time: 19:05. “Fifteen seconds to breach,” you said, eyes flicking to the laptop beside you. The red tracker blips show you they were holding position just outside the perimeter, waiting for your go.

“North fence is clear,” you added. “No visible movement on cams. You’ve got a thirty-second blind spot, so move clean.”

You exhaled slowly, steadily. Finger off the trigger, but ready. The soft click of your rifle’s safety going hot was the only sound above your breathing.

The perimeter fence came into view on the feed. “Eyes on,” you muttered, tracking them both as they closed in. “Execute on my mark.”

Ava reached the side door first, already at the panel. Walker kept the rear cover, his silhouette tense and alert.

You adjusted your scope again, with an angle wide enough to catch both targets and the door in the frame.

You cracked your neck. “Three… two… one. Breach.”

A faint static came through the comms—Ava phasing through the doors and overriding the locks, letting John in.

“Entry confirmed,” she reported. “We’re in.”

“Alright,” you mutter and settle in. “Let’s steal a thing.”

The thing is a recipe.

A file. A set of encrypted protocols. A theoretical antidote.

Your objective is to extract archived material once belonging to OXE—an old failsafe from the Sentry program. Apparently, Val kept one copy tucked away in a black site R&D facility, just in case. And now that Bob’s officially on the New Avengers roster, she wants it out of any hands but her own.

She never said why, but the team figured it out anyway:

The recipe is a formula designed to suppress or stabilize Bob’s abilities—not a killswitch, exactly, but something close. A failsafe to reduce his emotional volatility during one of his manic spikes or episodes. Something to keep the Void at bay so that Bob could use his powers without turning into another anomaly.

You didn’t love the implications.

But you liked Bob.

He was sweet, awkward and out of place in every room, but in a way that made you root for him. Like watching someone try to stand up in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet. He reminded you of a neighbour you used to have when you lived in a shitty apartment.

You’d been there during the early days of his recovery. Helped Yelena guide him through the tangled mess of who he’d been and who he was now. Neither of you really had a plan. Honestly, you both just winged it. Gave him space. Gave him structure. Sometimes, you gave him snacks when he looked like he might cry.

Most of it, he had to figure out on his own. But none of you left him to do it alone.

Combat training fell to you because Bucky was too stiff and formal, and Alexei treated every session like a test of manhood and heroism. John tried once—just once—but walked away muttering, “How the hell do you teach someone who can melt concrete by accident?” So you stepped in. You didn’t think you could be any better than the rest of them, but Bob seemed to be learning.

Ava worked on basic life skills and academics with him—laundry, math, and how to boil water. Yelena handled the social stuff: conversations, sarcasm, and the difference between being funny and being rude.

It wasn’t always successful.

You liked to think the self-help books Bucky kept slipping him helped more than anything else.

You caught Bob reading one on emotional regulation over breakfast once, underlining passages with a pink highlighter. You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, poured a second cup of coffee, and read your own book.

“Ghost, keep moving east. You’re coming up on the lab corridor,” you say, your voice low in the comms. “The third door on the right should be the terminal. Look for a glass panel near the keypad—it’ll bypass the sound barrier if you fry the lock.”

“I see it,” Ava replies. “I’m clear.”

“Walker, shift south. You’ve got two patrols on a staggered sweep—one’s off-pattern. If they get eyes on you and hit the alarm, we’ll have a five-minute window before response units converge.”

“Five minutes is plenty of time,” John mutters, almost bored.

Ava snorts. “Is that what the girls you bring to bed tell you to make you feel better?”

Despite yourself, you huff a quiet laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch as John grumbles, deadpan and dry, “Funny. Truly hilarious, Ava.”

“Thanks. I try my best.”

You glance down at your laptop, watching the two red blips moving across the grainy schematic. Ava’s nearing the lab. Walker’s rerouting to intercept the patrols. The building layout’s a mess—half the blueprint’s been Frankensteined together from mismatched archives, with whole sections scribbled over in corrupted data strings. Which makes sense, because Val’s intel is always somewhere between half-baked and legally actionable.

“Still no eyes on that eastern stairwell?” Ava asks, voice tense but steady.

“Still dark. Feed cuts out halfway up the stairwell. Could be lead shielding or just bad wiring. Either way, be ready for when you hit the lab.”

You adjust your grip, gloved fingers ghosting over the safety as you settle deeper into a more comfortable position. The rifle’s cold beneath your cheek, scope zeroed in on the east-facing window of the building complex. Below, the white van is still idling. Its blinkers flash every few seconds.

A flicker cuts across your scope—too fast, too low. Movement. Wrong angle.

Through the long stretch of second-story window glass, you spot Walker moving just as planned, cutting across a side hallway, back hunched slightly to minimize his silhouette, hand resting near his holster.

But there’s another shape less than ten metres back, hugging the wall. No tag on your screen display. No heat signature. No digital marker to tell you what unit they belong to.

The figure moves with practiced precision, tight stance, smooth gait, rifle already drawn, angled for a clean line-of-sight. They’re trailing just far enough behind Walker that he hasn’t noticed. Must be soundless, too. He’d have heard the steps otherwise.

“Where the hell did you come from?” you mutter, adjusting your grip.

You shift your rifle, sighting them down the scope. No insignia, no armour signature. Their suit is matte, black, the kind that absorbs light and bends edges, stealth-grade gear. High-end. This wasn’t in the briefing.

You flick through the thermal overlay and find nothing. Either they’re cloaked, or someone scrubbed them from your network feed entirely.

Your finger brushes the trigger guard. You line up the shot.

And then you freeze.

If you shoot, the alarm system triggers instantly. Shattered glass, body on the floor, muzzle flare from a sniper rifle in a supposedly dead zone, the AI security in this place will wake up screaming. Every unit on-site will descend to its position in less than two minutes. Mission’s a wash. Bob’s antidote, lost.

Too many variables.

You exhale through your nose, trying to slow the rising pulse in your neck. Your finger curls near the trigger, just shy of committing. “Walker—tail on your six. Armed.”

Without hesitation, John pivots. Clean. A soldier’s turn: weight shifted just right, elbow up, forearm slamming hard into the barrel of the oncoming pistol just as the hostile pulls the trigger.

The shot slams into the wall, sparks and marble shattering.

The two collide mid-hallway in a rugged scramble. No words, just kicks, elbows, and desperate force.

You track them both through the scope, struggling to find a clean angle as they slam into the corridor’s far wall, fists flying. John’s back hits hard enough to dent and break the marble tile.

There’s training in the attacker’s movements, but nothing polished. Just raw aggression. A blade flashes once. John knocks it aside. He locks the hostile’s arm and tries for a disarm. Gets a fist to the face for his trouble. The pistol clatters to the floor.

“Walker,” you say again, more urgently. “This is non-lethal. Do not kill him.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he snaps through clenched teeth.

Another thud as the two of them crash into a concrete column. John gets a hand on the guy’s neck and forces him to the ground, but the attacker rolls, swinging a knee straight into Walker’s ribs.

Your hands tighten on the rifle.

Seconds later, the lights inside the building shift, bleeding into crimson. A pulsing red wash blinks through the hallway in timed intervals. Then the alarms scream to life, shrill, high-pitched wails that rattle your teeth through your comms and cut through the silence like a blade.

“Shit.” The word rips from your mouth.

You spin toward the monitor beside you, flicking over to the digital feed. “Ava, babe, I’m gonna need you to move with those files. Now.”

“I can’t exactly control how fast these want to download,” Ava mutters through clenched teeth. “This terminal is running on—what is this, Windows 2000?”

You barely register the sarcasm. Your gaze jumps between tabs and windows, digital heat maps flickering wildly, red outlines of guards beginning to move in a ripple, breaking formation. Swarming. The entire eastern wing is lighting up. You track one group breaching a stairwell, and another cutting toward the lower hall. All of them converge on John’s position.

You drop your eye back to the scope.

John’s still locked in hand-to-hand with the hostile, barely holding ground. The fight is close-quarters, raw and ugly. The man he’s grappling with is vicious—fast, using tight elbows and low strikes. He’s fighting like someone who’s been told not to leave survivors.

You shift your position, adjusting the tripod, trying to align a clean shot. But they’re too close. Moving too fast. Every time you get the hostile in your sights, John shifts into your line—an elbow, a shoulder, a blur of movement that risks friendly fire.

“Give me a clear shot, Walker.”

“I can take ‘em,” he grunts, voice rough.

You watch through the glass as he slams a punch into the guy’s side, but it’s sloppy—his feet are too close together, too flat. A stupid habit of his, one he’s never really corrected, no matter how many times you’ve needled him for it during sparring sessions. You don’t even realize you’re muttering under your breath until the words slip out.

“Watch your feet…”

And sure enough, the hostile sweeps low, catching John’s ankle. He goes down hard, landing on one shoulder, barely catching himself in time to keep from getting pinned.

Your eye twitches behind the scope. “You’ve got twenty seconds until a half dozen soldiers are on top of you,” you snap. “You’re about to be outnumbered, John. Give me a shot.”

“You doubting me?”

“Not doubting,” you say, steady despite the thundering in your chest, “just asking you to hurry up or give me a fucking angle.”

There’s a pause—a grunt, then a huffed breath through the comms as John forces himself back onto his feet. You can see him through the scope, rising with the kind of tenacity only men like him carry—soldier-stubborn, blood in his mouth, grit in his bones.

“I got this,” he growls.

“Sixteen seconds,” you say anyway, flatly. No patience to deal with him. You don’t have time for his ego, not when he is about to be compromised and Ava still has a job to finish. You flick your gaze to the screen, watching her tag blinking steadily in the lab.

“Ava?” you call out.

“Almost got it.”

“Twelve seconds, Walker. Eleven.”

Your fingers hover over the trigger, steady but tense. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remind yourself that even if you did accidentally graze John, the odds of a standard round doing real damage to a super soldier are slim. Still, the thought turns your stomach. It’s not the damage you’re worried about—it’s the principle.

He’s your teammate now, whether you want him or not. And sure, you won’t miss, but John’s too unpredictable in a fight. Sometimes he moves like he’s still in formation, clean and efficient, tactical. Other times, he throws that out the window, fighting dirty, using weight and brute force, slamming elbows, and breaking form. He leans on his strength like a crutch.

“Six seconds.”

The two tangle together again, this time in a headlock. John’s arm is locked around the hostile’s throat, but his footing slips, just enough to lose leverage. They pivot, stagger, and crash into the wall like bulls. You can see the tremble of strain in his shoulders.

You adjust the scope. Grit your teeth.

“Five seconds.”

“I got it. I got it—fuck!”

You don’t wait.

The shot cuts clean through the dusk—suppressed, but still sharp. A brief shudder through your body, a flash of recoil. The bullet punches through the reinforced glass, spiderwebbing the pane in a single fracture.

The hostile drops instantly. Like a puppet with its strings sliced. A dead weight slamming against tile. Head-first. Spine buckles.

John freezes, standing over the body as it crumples at his feet. Blood spatters in a fan across his neck and cheek, warm red across the sweat already beading at his collar. His chest heaves once. Then again.

You don't breathe until you’re sure he’s fine.

“Contact,” you call into comms, “Hostile neutralized. You’re welcome, Walker.”

Through the scope, you watch John pause, briefly, with blood on his face. He glances toward the window, eyes scanning the rooftops like he might catch a glimpse of you. But he doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and bolts down the corridor, slipping into the flickering red wash of emergency lights, boots pounding against the polished floors.

The guards spill in seconds later, converging on the body you dropped. You shift your view, watching them swarm like hornets kicked awake.

Static hisses. Then John’s voice crackles through.

“So much for non-lethal,” he mutters. The sarcasm is brittle, but there’s no heat in it, more of a reflex than a complaint. Then, after a beat, “Good shot.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile, even as your pulse stubbornly refuses to slow, and you try biting down the way your heart stutters in your chest.

“It was an excellent shot,” you correct, smug as ever, already returning to the heatmap where John’s signal is pushing further away from the kill zone. You track him weaving through side corridors, putting distance between himself and the growing cluster of guards.

“Thanks for watching my flank,” he adds, voice faint but clear.

“Yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes with a half-smile he can’t see. “Can’t say I never did anything for you.”

Thirty-four months ago – 18:07 hrs

It was unusual for Valentina to pair you up with someone else during a shadow op. Sure, you knew she had other agents, mercenaries, and off-the-books assets scattered across the country—most of them names you weren’t supposed to know, and faces you’d never seen twice. But she never gave you a job that required backup. She never needed to. You were efficient, lethal, and clean. Whatever assignment she sent your way, you handled it alone.

And usually, Valentina would’ve given you a briefing over the phone—quick, coded, impersonal. Ever since she got Everett Ross arrested, she’d been keeping her head low, her name even lower. No texts. No encrypted drops. Just a voice in your ear telling you where to be and what to do. That was the new pattern.

So yeah, it threw you when you came home and found her already inside your apartment, legs crossed, mug in hand as if she’d always belonged there. You hadn’t even reached for the light switch before she looked up at you with that familiar smile—cool, polished like this was just another Tuesday.

You figured from that moment that whatever job she was about to give you would be different.

The scent of your coffee still lingered in the air. Strong. Burnt. She must’ve made it fresh. Bold of her, considering your kitchen was barely more than a rusted kettle, chipped tiles, and a dollar-store knife set you never used but let your neighbour across the hall, Peter, borrow when he needed it. The couch she lounged on was old, military surplus maybe, something you picked up off a thrift store for cheap a few years ago.

“You know,” Valentina said, swirling the mug with a faint look of distaste, “for someone I pay quite handsomely, this place is a crime against interior design.” She gestured vaguely at the peeling paint, the half-dead plant on the windowsill, and a rug that had definitely seen better decades. “At least get curtains. Or a new couch. God, do you sleep on this?”

“Good to see you too, Val,” you muttered, kicking the door shut behind you. You dropped your stuff with a dull thud by the wall and made a slow beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a half-drunk bottle of wine from the counter. “Always a pleasure.”

She watched you over the rim of her mug, something fond tugging at her smirk. “You know I’m just looking out for you, hun.”

When she stood from the couch, it gave a wheeze of protest. She wrinkled her nose at it with genuine offence. “I can’t believe you live like this. After this job, we’re going apartment hunting. Non-negotiable.”

You gave her a look, wine glass halfway to your mouth, then rolled your eyes and sipped anyway.

Val met you at the kitchen island and casually tossed a file down with the same effort someone might use to hand over a receipt. It slid a few inches across the counter. “Your next mission.”

The confidential folder was thicker than usual. Neat. Pressed. Clipped with that high-grade OXE stationery that always reeked of classified importance. Inside: brief logistics, heat maps, aerial photos of some sandblasted facility in the middle of nowhere. She’d labelled it Operation Ashglass.

The objective: extract a captured OXE-affiliated scientist from a rogue paramilitary cell squatting in a fortified complex along the edge of mountains—ambiguous terrain, west of Durango, Mexico, somewhere that made jurisdiction murky and involvement deniable. It was textbook Valentina: silent infiltration, no witnesses, no mess. Get in, get the target, and ghost out.

She never gave you full dossiers. Just fragments. A hint of motive here. A half-truth there. You’d stopped asking questions a long time ago—unless it was something mission-critical.

And then you turned the page.

There it was. A picture that stood out. It wasn’t the target—it was a personnel profile. Cleaner. Official. Military-standard. OXE clearance and an enhanced physiology tag in bold black text. That face you’d seen before—on the news.

“U.S. Agent?” you asked, brows furrowing.

“Oh, yes,” Val said with a little flourish, finally setting down the mug. She stepped beside you and tapped the photo like she was showing off a school project. “He’ll be joining you. Don’t mind all the printed fluff.” Her hand slid down, fingernail tapping a yellow sticky note beneath the paper. You recognized her handwriting instantly.

His desperate need for validation would be sad if it weren’t useful. Just keep stroking that fragile ego.

You stared at it. Then glanced at her.

“It’s how you’ll get along,” she said brightly as if it were obvious. Then she wandered off, opening your fridge like it was her own. You didn’t stop her.

You stayed rooted in place, one hand still resting on the edge of the file, the other loosely cradling your wine glass. You’d heard of John F. Walker—who hadn’t? His name and face had been splattered across the news for months. The rise and fall of America’s new golden boy. A war hero turned public tragedy, Captain America, stripped of his title, caught on video with blood on his shield.

How embarrassing.

You never knew he worked for Val.

But of course you didn’t. You were a ghost in her network, just like he was. No one was supposed to know who worked for her. That was the point. Still, it was hard to imagine him—the man who’d tried and failed to be a symbol—now skulking around in black ops missions under her banner.

You flipped through the file again. Standard OXE dossier layout, but chunkier than most. Half of it was redacted in black bars thick enough to cover small paragraphs. Still, a few key points caught your eye:

Name: John F. Walker Status: Active Rank: Former Captain, United States Army – 75th Ranger Regiment Service Notes: [REDACTED] Post-Service: Briefly served as Captain America until dishonourable discharge. Current Alias: U.S. Agent Abilities: Peak human physical condition from military training. Enhanced strength via hazardous self-administered Super Soldier Serum. Proficient in shield-based combat. Notable Operations: Led multiple military campaigns with a high success rate. Awarded medals for bravery and service. Prevented terrorist threat on U.S. soil. Demonstrated strong tactical leadership in high-stakes hostage recovery missions.

You read it all twice, then looked up. “He’ll be working with me?”

Val, now elbow-deep in your fridge, pulled out a questionable container, opened it, sniffed, then wrinkled her nose and tossed it in the garbage. “Somewhat. He has his own mission, but your paths will intersect.”

“Will his mission interfere with mine?”

“It shouldn’t,” she said, turning to lean against the counter beside you, “The two of you will drop in together. I can arrange an extraction zone a few miles from the compound. As long as you bring me Dr. Murphy, alive and unharmed, I’d consider it a rousing success.”

“And if someone gets in my way?”

Valentina smiled, slow and indulgent. “Take care of them. Any way you like. The plane leaves tomorrow morning. Seven on the dot.”

You were there by six.

And somehow, John Walker was already on board before you.

When you stepped into the cargo aircraft, the cold air hit first—sharp, metallic, familiar. Walker sat alone on the left side of the plane, smack in the middle of the row, already strapped in with his shoulders squared and his eyes locked on his phone.

He wore his suit.

The one the world had seen when he paraded around as Captain America.

Only now, the colours looked muted—bled out. The blue was deeper, like bruised skin. The red had faded into a muddy maroon, and the white was a grimy, bone-grey shade in certain places, streaked from too many missions and stains that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase. Blood, probably. You could see it in the creases of the fabric, in the weathering across the chest.

There was something unshakeably worn about him.

You took the seat directly across from him, surprised he hadn’t acknowledged you. Not even a glance. Just kept scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world. You watched as he scratched at his jaw, brushing over the faint scruff lining his chin. He exhaled through his nose, barely more than a tired huff, and dragged a thumb lazily across the screen.

His hair was longer than you'd expected, a light, muted blond that caught the edge of the sunrise through the open ramp. It slipped across his brow, unruly and unbothered. His helmet sat beside him, dull and dented, the star on the forehead barely visible anymore.

You turned away and counted your bullets.

Not because you needed to—you’d already counted twice before boarding—but because it gave your hands something to do. Something quiet.

About twenty minutes passed before he finally looked up from his phone. You didn’t move, but you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. The kind of tension that crackled in silence. His posture changed: back straightening, boots planted harder into the floor like instinct had kicked in. You glanced up just in time to catch his eye and the way his jaw clenched. He nodded once, tight-lipped, and you blinked at him in return.

That was it. That was the extent of your introduction before the plane took off.

Neither of you said a word.

You shifted your gaze past him instead, watching a pair of OXE field operators secure crates and compressed tanks into bolted brackets across the far wall. A reinforced cooler unit was strapped down beside them—probably med supplies or something volatile. You weren’t cleared to ask, and you didn’t care enough to guess. The faint smell of jet fuel and steel mingled with cold air circulating through the cargo bay. Somewhere near the cockpit, static cracked in and out over the intercom; it was radio chatter from OXE’s command channel, coded and low.

Your seat was hard metal with a worn cushion, bolted to the frame. No frills. No comfort. You adjusted your knife sheath against your thigh and leaned back.

Walker kept to himself. You did too.

Even if you’d wanted to speak, there wasn’t anything worth saying. You were here for your mission, and he was here for his. Separate, parallel objectives. No need for small talk, or whatever he might’ve been like when he wore the stars and stripes.

You moved on autopilot. Occasionally, you got up to stretch your legs, shake off the stiffness, and check the window. Once, you made your way to the tiny steel restroom toward the tail end of the aircraft—just a glorified metal closet with a drain. He waited until you were seated again before he stood and did the same.

It was a long flight.

Eventually, one of the pilots unstrapped and ducked below the low cabin ceiling, making his way back to you. He didn’t say much—just a nod and a flat “Drop zone in five. Gear up.” Then he was gone again.

You stood, boots heavy against the vibrating floor as you grabbed a parachute from the wall rig. It was a standard stealth issue: black webbing and a well-worn pack with a clean deployment record. You shouldered it with practiced ease, adjusting the straps as you moved toward the rear gate.

You felt Walker behind you a beat later, mirroring your steps.

The back gate began to creak open with a mechanical whine, the hydraulics groaning before the full force of the wind slammed inside. Papers whipped through the air—briefing pages, loose Velcro tags, anything unsecured. Your hair, pinned down before you left, was now fighting its restraints, strands catching in your face. You didn’t bother fixing it.

You stepped closer to the edge, peering out over the yawning drop below. The land stretched wide beneath you, jagged mountain ridges bleeding into open wilderness and fractured stone. Near the horizon, a river carved through the earth like a vein—narrow, silver, and winding. There was a cluster of small buildings there, the hazy blur of an old city built. Just visible in the dawn glow was a tall, narrow building, sharper and darker than the others.

That had to be it.

You heard movement behind you, of boots shifting against metal, a slight creak of worn floor panels, and you turned just in time to catch Walker stepping up close, too close. Instinct had you shifting a step to the side, pivoting until he was back in your peripheral vision. He didn’t flinch at the silent correction—just leaned forward slightly to look down at the terrain below, hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Then he straightened again and shook his head, exhaling sharply before pulling his helmet on. He strapped it tight with practiced ease. “Jesus,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “Never jumped out of a plane before?”

You doubted it. With his record—what you knew of it, at least—he’d probably done a dozen HALO drops. Maybe more.

Walker turned his head to you. “I have,” he shouted over the noise. “It’s just been a while.”

You caught the shift in his voice—slightly raw, not from nerves, but memory. The kind that stuck like shrapnel. You nodded slowly, eyes trailing him in your side view. Taller than you expected. Broader, too.

“I’m Walker,” he said finally, pivoting fully to face you. One gloved hand reached out, stiff but polite. Formal. The soldier’s way of making nice. A true gentleman when he tried. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t have thought this was the same man who tainted the symbol of Captain America in the span of four weeks.

You turned to meet him halfway, fingers tightening around his hand with a steady, even grip. You told him your name. “Nice to meet you, Walker.”

His brows knit under the helmet’s brim. He nodded once, then let go, hand curling into a fist at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I read your file,” he said after a second. “Gotta say, ‘t’s pretty impressive for someone not military trained. Did you come up through S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

You turned your face back toward the open hatch, letting the sunlight catch your cheek. “No.”

“Red Room?”

“No.”

“…HYDRA?”

You gave him a lazy side-eye, letting your head roll just slightly on your shoulders. “I’m not a Nazi, Walker, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His lips twitched upwards and he cracked a light laugh—barely audible over the wind, but you heard it. He shook his head once, a faint breath escaping as he settled his weight back into his heels.

“Just tryin’ get to know you,” he shouted. “That’s all.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have a reply, but because there was nothing else worth saying.

One of the pilots returned, bracing himself against the wall as the aircraft hit light turbulence. He made his way to the side panel near the rear, glancing down at a set of toggles before giving a sharp wave. “Reaching drop zone! T-minus three seconds!”

The signal was enough. You turned, grabbed hold of your chute’s harness one last time for good measure, and then stepped closer to the gate’s edge. The wind screamed past you, drying your lips and stinging your eyes. You didn’t flinch.

You threw one last glance over your shoulder, fixing your goggles into place. Walker was watching, head tilted just slightly. You could feel his eyes tracking you even from across the roar of the aircraft.

You raised your hand in a lazy wave. “Good luck!”

Then you stepped off the ramp and vanished into the wind.

The force of the fall sucked the breath out of your lungs, wind shrieking past your ears as it clawed at every seam of your suit, gravity tearing you downward. The world below hurtled toward you, a blur of ridgelines, lush foliage, and jagged rock—earth scorched by the sun but fractured with patches of greenery. Mesquite trees and ocotillo branched out of cracked soil, the brush scattering along the slopes of a low mountain range.

You shifted your weight, angling toward the drop zone marked in your HUD: a small clearing tucked just below a rocky bluff, just about a klick out from the compound’s edge. It wasn’t much; barely flat; littered with brittle stone, but it was good enough.

You counted the seconds. Then pulled.

The chute snapped open with a whipcrack, jolting your harness and pulling hard at your spine. You gritted your teeth and rode the drag until your boots hit the earth.

You touched down harder than you liked, rock bit into your knees as you rolled, shoulder catching the edge of a stunted bush, but you were up in seconds, chute already being detached and folded tight.

You dropped low behind a rocky ledge, body pressed tight to the ground.

You scanned the horizon and saw no movement yet.

The compound loomed ahead, wedged between the base of a canyon wall and a ridge of limestone hills. Not what Valentina’s file had suggested. Bigger. Smarter. Partially built into the hillside—worn roofs, sand-coloured siding, power lines strung low between towers disguised as agricultural silos. Fields of tall grass surrounded the place, and the gravel path leading in was bordered by fencing and barricades that didn’t look standard.

You didn’t have time to admire it.

A shout cracked through the silence, sharp and panicked.

Two guards crested the ridge behind you, rifles drawn, boots snapping over brittle underbrush.

They hadn’t seen your landing—but they’d heard it.

Fuck.

They weren’t supposed to be there. Valentina’s file had said nothing about scouts this close to the drop zone.

You froze, breath caught low in your chest.

If you moved now, if your boots scraped against rock or brush—they’d hear it. You knew that. So instead, you went still.

Your hand slipped silently toward your weapon, screwing the suppressor into place with one fluid twist. Then you rolled to your back, adjusted your position, and raised the sight to your eye.

They were moving between the mesquite and cedar, their camo blurring against the background. But the sunlight caught them, just enough. You tracked the first one through the scope and squeezed the trigger.

The shot hit his shoulder.

He didn’t drop.

Instead, he turned, shouting—gun half-raised—

Second shot.

Dirty. Right below his helmet. In his face, bursting through the side of his skull. He folded into the dirt like a dead weight.

The second one screamed, already firing as she charged. Her bullets tore the brush inches from your leg. You ducked low, teeth gritted, then surged forward as she closed the distance—no time to aim.

You met her halfway.

Blade out. You caught her just under the ribs, the blade biting deep as her weight crashed into you.

She rolled and hit the slope hard. Gravel tore into her palms as she scrambled to get up.

You tackled her, straddled her chest, and drove the knife in again, deeper this time.

Her scream barely made it out before your gloved hand clamped over her mouth. She jerked once, twice—then went still.

You exhaled and crouched low. Dust curling around your knees.

The quiet came back.

You stood and rushed to the body at the top of the hill. His uniform was cleaner. You could work with that.

You knelt beside the body, breathing steadily now, fingers already working. The man’s uniform was a local military issue—dust-faded fatigues, patched at the seams, boots scuffed but solid. You stripped him quickly, trading your own gear for his piece by piece: shirt, vest, gloves, boots. Loose fit, a little too broad in the shoulders, but it would pass under pressure.

His helmet, which had come last, the interior still damp with sweat and blood, had started to soak the back of it. You didn’t flinch as you strapped it on.

A radio unit was clipped to the front of his vest, already hissing with static. You clicked it once to check the channel.

A radio clung to the chest strap, crackling with static, and you pressed it once to check the channel. Foreign chatter. Spanish—regional accent. You knew it well. But that didn’t matter. You listened, not for words, but tone. Urgency. Panic. Nothing yet. No raised alarms.

You took his dog tags and shoved them into your thigh pouch. Just in case. Insurance.

Your own gear went into the ravine behind a cluster of brush, shoved deep and covered in loose dirt. You kept your weapons, though. The bodies were dragged into the shadow of a low rock wall, out of sight if no one looked too hard.

You scanned the ridgelines in the distance. No sign of movement. No shadow slipping between trees. No falling parachute.

You couldn’t tell if Walker had already landed or if he was just that good.

You doubted it; he didn’t strike you as the stealthy type.

You adjusted the rifle on your back, fingers tightening just once on the sling. Then you turned toward the slope.

From a distance, the compound had looked like a relic—half-sunken and silent, swallowed by the green swell of the mountainside. Vines clung to rusted scaffolding. Concrete blistered under heat and rain. Satellite dishes, three of them, were bolted at odd angles into a sloping rooftop like broken bones jutting from skin.

Abandoned. Or pretending to be.

And that was the first lie.

You moved uphill through the riverbed’s dry seam, low and careful, boots sinking in silt. Thorns tore faint lines into your sleeves. The sun had baked the path to cracked clay, and each breath burned hotter than the last. Your stolen uniform stuck to your spine like wet gauze. The guard’s blood had dried to a tacky smear across your gloves. You rubbed your hand along your thigh to clear it and kept going.

You told yourself you’d done harder jobs.

Val hadn’t said much. She rarely did. Only that Dr. Murphy had been taken—“kidnapped,” she called it as if someone had beaten her to the punch. And she wanted him back. Nothing more.

But the photo she gave you said enough.

A pale man with wire-rim glasses and sunken cheeks, skin thinned from stress and exile. His posture was a question mark. Eyes hollow. An Irish national, wrapped in a name you didn’t recognize and a face that felt too soft and mundane for the kind of work Valentina expects.

You crested the slope and paused.

Closer now, the compound wasn’t empty. Not even close.

The barbed wire was new. So were the floodlights, off for now, but pointed outward like they knew someone might come. Reinforced fences lined the outer edges, looped with security mesh you hadn’t seen from above. No cameras. No tech giveaways.

You spotted a garden first. Neat rows. Bright vegetables. Rich, real soil—someone had been tending it carefully. Too careful for a prison. Too careful for a lab.

A little farther, stables came into view. Cows. Horses. A few goats. Fresh straw.

You slowed.

A woman crossed the yard in a long blue dress, her gait gentle and slow. Pregnant. Eight, maybe nine months. One hand braced her lower back. The other shielded her eyes from the sun as she called something to someone you couldn’t see. Her voice was soft. The sound of it didn’t match anything in your training.

You stopped walking for the first time.

Just a second.

Just enough to feel the shape of something wrong twist in your chest—like a metal hook curling behind your ribs. Were you in the wrong place?

But then you moved again. Knife already in hand.

The dirt trail beneath your boots was narrow and winding, just wide enough for two people. You followed it like you belonged, shoulders loose, pace measured. A shape emerged ahead—a man in fatigues, walking toward you, rifle slung, hand on his belt. No urgency. Just patrol.

He didn’t know what you were.

You dipped your chin slightly in as he approached, a nod. He didn’t return it.

Instead, he squinted. Slowed. His mouth started to open, already forming a question you wouldn’t let him finish. Probably about the uniform. Or your face. Or your route. The sun caught in his eyes.

And in that breath of hesitation, you moved.

The blade slipped through the space between you like breath. You pressed forward, arm steady, cutting across the exposed skin of his throat—clean and deep. His eyes widened, and his hands caught yours too late, reflexes firing only after the damage had been done.

He made a sound; a wet, helpless choke. You caught him before his knees hit the ground.

For a moment, his weight hung in your arms. Then you shoved him forward, over the railing and down the scrubbed hill, where he vanished into the brush. The woman in the blue dress didn’t look up.

Inside the barrier, it was cooler—shadows stretching long beneath shaded walkways and low-slung rooftops. Vines clung to the brick walls in tangled loops. Wind whispered between them, thick with the scent of soil, animals, and sweat.

You kept your head down and slid wordlessly into a small group of guards heading toward a steel-frame building near the centre of the compound. No one spoke. No one noticed you didn’t belong.

It should’ve felt like progress.

Instead, your nerves started to itch.

There were more civilians than you expected—dozens, maybe more. Not ragged hostages or frightened prisoners. Just… people. Unarmed. Unbothered. Some walked slowly, pushing wheelbarrows or balancing crates of food. Others leaned in shaded corners, talking low in multiple different languages; French, Polish, Portuguese, Mandarin, even English, no tension in their shoulders.

Your eyes swept over them. No cuffs. No guards herding them.

Some even smiled as they passed.

It didn’t make sense.

The more you looked, the more it felt like you’d dropped into a place that didn’t match the mission. A compound built into a mountain like a military secret, yet soft with domesticity. Not a prison. Not a lab. Not exactly a village either.

You recognized the insignia on a few patches of the guards—an old empire symbol rebranded into a paramilitary logo. Val’s notes had been vague on who these people actually were.

Then, a gunshot rang out.

Sharp. Clean. Too far off to see, but close enough to feel in your chest. Somewhere on the far end of the compound. An echo down the mountain’s spine.

Everyone stopped moving.

The group around you stiffened. Radios crackled to life. Static turned to shouting. Orders flying in Spanish. There was a breach.

Walker.

That son of a bitch.

Your jaw tightened as the guards broke off and scattered—some charging toward the perimeter, rifles drawn, boots pounding through dust, others ducking into buildings, already shouting instructions to unseen teams.

Two peeled off toward the civilians—or the not-quite civilians, whatever they were—and barked orders you couldn’t hear through the panic.

People started running, the calm unravelling around you.

You didn’t move right away. You stood there, your hand hovering near the rifle strap at your chest, eyes scanning for anyone watching you. The disguise still held. No one here questioned your face, your gear, or your presence. But that wouldn’t last.

The weight in your chest hadn’t lifted since you entered this place. And now it pressed harder. Urging you forward. Urging you to finish what you were sent to do. Get in. Find the doctor. Extract him. No wasted bullets.

You broke from the disbanded group without a word, slipping behind a low stone wall where the vines grew thick and unkempt. Your boots moved silently through dirt and shadow. You pressed yourself to the main building’s outer wall, tracing its curve until you found a utility door slightly ajar. Unlocked.

Inside, the air was cooler.

A damp kind of cool, like the breath of an old basement. The hallway you entered was lined in unfinished concrete, walls painted in faded beige, the lights overhead buzzing softly in their sockets. A bunker of some sort. But it wasn’t the layout that caught your attention.

It was the smell.

Food.

Vegetables. Meat. Something frying. Something human and warm.

You kept moving. Slow, steady. A rifle slung on your shoulder, boots muffled against the floor. You scanned faces as you passed them—some armed, others not. Some men. Some women. Some too young to be either. Some looked like families, ushered into rooms you could barely get a glimpse into by other guards.

You kept moving, and the further in you went, the more it looked like a living space rather than a bunker. You followed the map layout etched into memory—three more turns and you’d be near the wing where Murphy was meant to be stationed. Meant. That word was becoming less and less comforting the deeper you went.

You turned a corner and stopped.

It was a cafeteria.

Open floor, long metal tables, cafeteria trays still left out on some of them, one rocking slightly from a recent disturbance. A refrigerator hummed in the corner. The overhead lights flickered, catching on linoleum floors half-mopped and still wet.

There were coffee mugs scattered across a serving counter, half-finished drinks gone cold. One still steamed faintly.

You stepped in. Slowly. Rifle angled downward.

You glanced at the side wall. More drawings. Children again. You wondered if it was a school, a compound or a prison or all three. A cartoon sun, smiling with sunglasses. Scrawled beside it in crayon: “Dr. M gave us watermelon today!”

Your stomach twisted again. This time, you didn’t ignore it.

Then, behind you—

A voice. Close. Sharp.

“¿Qué haces aquí?”

You turned.

A man in uniform stood in the doorway. Maybe early thirties, pale skin, square jaw, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His rifle wasn’t raised, but his suspicion was instant. You knew that tone. That shift in posture. He was doing the math in real time, and he didn’t like the numbers.

You tried the same trick—rusty Spanish, something casual, something quiet.

“I got turned around,” you said. “Comm’s out.”

His frown deepened. Eyes narrowing. Let me see your badge.” He gestured toward your chest strap.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

That was enough.

His hand twitched—toward the rifle, maybe the radio—it didn’t matter.

You moved first.

You crashed into his space and knocked his wrist sideways with a sharp upward hook. Your blade flashed up and sank deep, between ribs, under the vest, angled through soft muscle. His breath hitched. A raspy gasp tore from his throat.

You shoved him back, hard, slamming him into the metal counter. Your hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the noise as he choked on his own blood. You felt the shudder run through his body, sharp, then weaker.

Blood spilled fast, hot and sticky over your gloves. It pooled at your feet in uneven circles, trickling along the seams of the tile. The gurgle in his throat was louder than you'd expected. Messier.

You jolted upright, and the crackling shriek of an alarm finally kicked in overhead, shrill and sharp enough to rattle your jaw. The stolen radio on your belt hissed to life: static, then screaming.

“Shit.” You cursed.

You heard the crackle of rushed instructions, shouted orders. They plead for backup and medics. A sharp gasp. Someone sobbing into the mic. Gunshots cracked loudly through the speaker.

Behind you, there was another noise. Closer. A chair scraping across the floor behind you. You turned just in time to see a shadow slip through the far door—someone bolting, slamming it behind them.

Didn’t wait to see if the man behind you was truly dead, or if someone else had entered the room, or if the blood still dripping from your blade would give you away.

You ran after that figure.

The door flew open under your shoulder. The stairwell greeted you like a wound torn open in the building’s side—grey, industrial, the air tasting like metal and dust. Your boots pounded upward, two steps at a time, too fast, too loud, but stealth was already dead.

Footsteps above echoed in a frantic rhythm, more than one. You could hear stumbling. A voice muttered something. Then: “Doctor Murphy—come back!”

There.

The building rumbled, dust falling from the ceiling; an explosion. Standard military grenade, you assumed. Screams followed soon after. What the fuck was Walker doing?

You blew past two guards barreling down from the next level—one shouted something clipped and aggressive, but you didn’t hear the words, only the fear behind them. Civilians clung to their sleeves, dazed and panicking, one woman barefoot and bleeding, one man with soot—no, blood—streaking down his temple.

You pushed higher.

And then you saw them. Just a glimpse of a pair of shoes, clean and narrow, more academic than military. Soft-soled. Moving fast. They disappeared behind the door on the twelfth floor.

You slammed the door open, and there was movement at the end of the hall. A figure sprinting, lab coat flaring behind him. He turned his head just long enough for you to catch a flash of his face—pale, wide-eyed. Recognition sparked, and he nearly tripped. A deep, soul-deep kind—the kind that said he knew what you were. Knew why you were here.

You didn’t need confirmation. That was your target.

You charged after him.

His shoulders bucked, and he yanked himself around the hallway bend, disappearing behind a pair of tall frosted-glass doors that swayed in his wake like they were still unsure whether they should have let him through.

You reached them seconds later.

The lab wing.

You tried the handle—locked. A clearance pad flashed red. Denied.

You didn’t miss a beat.

One bullet to the pad. A second into the hinge.

The reinforced glass spiderwebbed—fractured light slicing across your face like veins of lightning. You didn’t flinch. The following shot cracked it wide. The whole pane gave way with a sound like shattering ice, shrill and sudden, followed by distant screaming from somewhere inside.

You stepped through, boots crunching across shards, gun raised.

The space beyond the doors was vast and cold, the air tinged with a faint antiseptic scent. A hybrid between a medical bay and a research lab, containing pristine surfaces, chrome equipment, and overhead lights casting a sterile glow across white tile. It might’ve once been a conference room, or an entire floor converted in haste. Drawn-back curtains hung from ceiling tracks, revealing narrow beds tucked into corners. Machines blinked softly beside them, most unplugged. Others still hummed.

You moved deeper.

There were signs of haste—boxes stacked along the walls, half-open, papers spilling from the edges. One lay kicked over, its contents scattered across the floor. Medical files. A child’s crayon drawing pinned to the corner of a corkboard beside a schematic of a human nervous system. Someone had been packing up. Rushing. Or running.

You swept your pistol across the room, careful, quiet. Something clanged in the distance, a dropped tray, maybe. Another gunshot echoed from outside. Closer this time. A window somewhere behind you cracked violently, a bullet spiderwebbing the glass.

You ducked instinctively and turned toward the sound. A scream from inside followed. Short. Muffled.

You pressed forward, voice low but firm.

“Doctor?”

Your own voice sounded strange in here. Thin. Almost drowned by the alarms blaring on the lower floors.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

The further you stepped into the lab, the more it felt like something was watching you. You checked the corners. The dividers. Empty. Machines lined the walls, humming, blinking—monitors showing idle vitals. Your breath grew tight in your chest. Not from nerves, but from frustration. If he ran again—

You caught movement. A flutter of shadow beneath the wide metal desk stationed near the entryway. Not the kind of shift a draft would make. Something human. Something scared.

You approached, gun still raised.

Another gunshot thundered from outside, closer than before. A thin scream trailed off into silence. You crouched beside the desk and shoved it aside.

And there he was.

The man—older, beard streaked with grey—threw up his hands, trembling so hard his entire frame seemed to flicker. His eyes were wide, wet with panic, mouth moving soundlessly like he was trying to form a plea he’d already choked on. Behind him, a woman sobbed softly into her sleeve, her face pale with terror. And tucked into the woman’s side, a girl—barely a teenager—curled in on herself, her small hands fisted into her shirt, knuckles white. She wouldn’t look at you.

Your finger hovered near the trigger out of habit, then eased off.

“Doctor Murphy,” you said quietly.

The name landed in the space like a verdict. And for a moment, everything inside you stilled.

It was him. Really him. You blinked as if the image might shift or disappear, but the details held. That same sharp jaw softened by age, the faint scar near his left temple.

A breath left you—part relief, part disbelief. You found him.

Mission halfway done.

You dropped your gun a fraction, and let your eyes sweep over him again. He looked… fine. Better than expected. No bruising. No dried blood. No signs of restraints. His clothes weren’t torn, and his posture wasn’t hunched with pain. If anything, he looked… fine. Scared, but he was fine.

Not the version of this man you’d imagined while memorizing building schematics and infiltration routes. You’d been prepared to cut him loose from chains, drag him out of a locked basement, and maybe carry him if his legs were broken. Not chase him through a medical wing like he was running from you as if you were the threat.

Your brows pinched.

“Why the hell did you run?” you asked, not really expecting an answer.

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. His eyes darted between you, the girl and the woman behind him. His body shifted, ever so slightly, like a shield trying to form between them and you.

“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse and breaking. “You don’t understand.”

You stepped forward, boots crunching softly over broken glass, hands lifted in a gesture of peace that didn’t quite suit you. He didn’t relax. Not really. Just stopped trembling long enough to stare like he was trying to find a crack in your expression. Like maybe you’d give him mercy if he begged hard enough.

“I’m here to take you home,” you said, slow and even, stripping the threat from your tone as best you could. You reached up, popped off your helmet, and let him see your face. You met his eyes, trying to ground him as you knelt to meet his level.

You’ve dealt with your fair share of difficult extractions, and you knew that showing humanity allowed them to ease into the thought of your help.

But his gaze slid right past you. Focused somewhere far away, somewhere terrified. His lips quivered.

“No…” he whispered, voice ragged.

“Valentina sent me,” you added as if a name he might recognize would help.

But that was the moment everything split.

“No!”

It was raw, panicked. His voice cracked in half, and his body surged forward instinctively—not to attack, but to block. Like the name alone had ignited something in him. A sob tore free as he clutched the woman and the girl tighter behind him.

“Don’t hurt them,” he begged. “Please. Please.”

You stared, jaw tightening as the pieces tilted in ways you didn’t like. He hadn’t just flinched at you—he’d flinched at her. At Valentina. Like her name alone had teeth.

Your gaze fell to the girl, small, trembling, her knees drawn to her chest like she’d folded herself in half to disappear. Her eyes darted to yours for only a second before she buried her face again. The woman had gone completely still, one hand protectively over the child’s back. Her shoulders were braced for impact. Neither of them looked like they’d been taken hostage.

No shackles. No cages. No signs of forced detainment. Just… fear. The real kind.

You finally put your gun on the ground. You think you have seen this before—his fear and reluctance, refusal to return.

“You ran away,” you said, more to yourself than him.

The doctor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You looked at the way his arms curved protectively around them. The desperate panic in his voice. And—shit—you saw it now. The resemblance. The girl’s nose. The woman’s eyes. The ring.

Wife. Daughter.

They weren’t in your file. They should’ve been.

You cursed under your breath.

You prepped for a quick extraction. For fast exits, bleeding targets, safehouses and helicopters. Not… this. Not families. Not a coward trying to shield his kid from you like you were the monster.

You breathed in deep, chest tight.

This wasn’t what you were told.

“I'm bringing you back,” you said, your voice clipped, hardened. “De Fontaine’s orders.”

“Please—wait. Wait. You don’t know the half of it.” He rasped. “She told you I was taken, right? Right? You think this is a prison? You don’t know what she’s using you for.”

Your jaw clenched. He was making this harder than it needed to be. You didn’t care what this place was—a hideout, a home, a bunker carved out of loyalty or desperation. It didn’t change the assignment. Valentina had wanted this man back, and you were going to bring him back.

And if she’d wanted you to take his family too, she could’ve said that. You would’ve planned accordingly. You would’ve brought more cuffs.

He backed a step when you rose from your crouch and snatched your weapon off the floor with a frustrated motion.

“She’ll kill me,” he said, shaking. “She wants me dead.”

You sighed. “If she wanted you dead, she’d have sent me to do that.” You flicked the safety off for emphasis. “She wants you back in her lab. That’s all.”

In all honesty, you don’t know if that’s true. You don’t know if you’re bringing him back to Valentina’s doorstep just for her to shoot him herself or hire another person to do it. You doubt she wants him dead, though; she wouldn’t have put you through all the trouble to bring him just for that.

“No. No, I’m not going,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under its own weight. “Don’t make me go back. You don’t understand—she’s not just experimenting. She’s accelerating trials. Human trials. She wants to start now. Hundreds of people will die—under her name. Under mine. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t do it.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Because something in his voice stopped you.

Not defiance. Not arrogance. But fear. Raw, blood-deep terror. Not just for himself, but for what would happen if he gave in. If he lets you take him. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie—but the moment never came.

A shot tore through the air.

The woman jolted violently like someone had yanked her backwards on a string. Blood exploded from her shoulder in a wet, arterial spray, streaking across the white tile behind her in a brutal arc. She crumpled with a boneless thud, her limbs folding under her, and a gasp caught mid-scream in her throat.

“Mom!”

“Ciara—Ciara, stay with me, baby, stay with me—”

“I’m okay,” she choked, her face twisted in pain. “It’s just my arm, Kieran, I’m okay—”

You weren’t sure if she believed it, or if she was just trying to quiet the panic that was overtaking her daughter. The girl was sobbing, rocking slightly, her hands fluttering around her mother’s face, too afraid to touch her, too afraid not to.

The doctor’s hands were slick and trembling, slipping as he tried to apply pressure. You could see it in his eyes—he was calculating the damage. Tendons. Arteries. She was going into shock already.

You turned quickly, gun raised, your heart clawing its way up into your throat.

And then you saw him.

Walker stepped through the shattered entrance like a shadow breaking into sunlight. Forty-five long-barrel pistol raised. Seemingly a bit annoyed. Restrained. You knew that stance. You’d used it yourself.

Another shot cracked the air, just barely skimming over your shoulder.

You flinched, and the back of Ciara’s skull erupted like a dropped melon. A hot mist sprayed across her daughter’s face. The woman’s body jerked, her limbs flailing once in some primal response, and then slumped, twitching. Her head lolled sideways, half her face caved in. Blood spilled from the fresh ruin in thick, gloppy ropes, pooling with the rest. Brain matter clung to the tile like wet paper.

The girl let out a sound, high-pitched and animal. Her fingers scrabbled at what was left of her mother’s hair like she could pull her back from it.

The doctor wailed. “No—no, no, no!”

He threw himself over her body, sobbing into the wreckage of her shoulder and chest, pulling her close like he could hide her from the horror of her own death. You saw the way he rocked her, back and forth.

The girl hadn’t moved. She sat stiffly beside them, soaked in her mother’s blood, jaw trembling but silent. Her hands shook in the air, fingers curled and useless. Like she didn’t know what to do with them.

You stepped forward, placing yourself between them and the one who pulled the trigger.

“Agent.”

Walker turned his head, a soldier’s stiff stance in response to being called. Dust and ash clinging to the sweat on his face. Blood streaked down from his temple. It had started to dry there, dark and crusted. His uniform was torn in places, parts of it scorched, the deep blue now a mottled patchwork of soot and crimson. His shield, tight in his arm, was smeared with something thick and brown-red.

You raised your gun, the barrel pointed squarely at his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you asked.

His gaze barely twitched. He looked through you. Past you. His expression was unreadable.

“Completing my mission. What does it look like I’m doing?”

You shifted your stance, feet braced. Your arms didn’t lower.

“Valentina said no harm was to come to Murphy,” you said slowly, words carefully chosen. If he tried to get in your way, you had no problem shooting him down. “That was my directive.”

“I’m not here for him,” Walker said. Then he nodded toward the space behind you. “I’m here for them.”

You heard the words, but your body didn’t move—couldn’t. Not until the soft, broken murmuring behind you twisted into something sharper.

The doctor whispered into his wife’s hair, lips barely forming words, breath catching in his throat. The girl’s breathing was growing ragged now, her gasps shallow and quick, panicked like a cornered animal. You turned, slowly, lowering your gun just as the air cracked.

The next shot hit before you could even react.

It punched into the girl’s chest, a single snap of violence that echoed like the room itself winced. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, body folding like paper, knees giving way before she slid limply to the ground. Her head lolled to one side. Blood pooled beneath her.

Dr. Murphy didn’t move at first.

It was like the world had gone quiet in his ears. He still held his wife in his arms, rocking gently, whispering her name, some prayer or plea that was already too late. But then his head turned. Slowly. Mechanically. His eyes fell on the still figure of his daughter crumpled against the wall, and something inside him broke.

His mouth opened in a soundless gasp.

“Valentina sends her regards,” Walker muttered.

The words felt like gravel in your throat, even though you hadn’t said them. Your gaze dropped to the floor, to the blood painting the edges of your boots. Your arms were leaden at your sides as if the weight of the silence and the gore had pressed into your joints.

You’d done things before. Seen things. You’d killed. Followed orders. But never—never—had you lingered long enough to see what happened after.

The doctor began to shake.

His hands twitched, then clawed at his daughter’s body, dragging her closer, like he could hold her soul in place if he pressed hard enough. His voice came out strangled and raw, a broken incantation of disbelief.

“No... no—my girls—my life—”

His scream wasn’t a cry for help. It was the sound of something tearing in two. A howl dredged from the deepest pit of grief, so guttural and primal it didn’t sound human.

You didn’t look away. Maybe you should have. But you couldn’t.

He pulled both bodies into his arms, one cradled against his chest, the other draped across his lap. His sobs were jagged and helpless, filling the sterile, blood-streaked air with a kind of mourning that left no room for anything else. It drowned the fluorescent hum of the lights, the shuffling of Walker’s boots, even your own thoughts.

And you just stood there. Letting it soak into your bones like smoke.

You were supposed to bring him back alive. But what did that mean now?

What the fuck was left of him?

His life was smeared across the ground—blood and bone and heat barely fading from the bodies he once lived for. There was no man left to extract. Just grief hollowed out and dressed in skin.

“Fuck,” you muttered, jaw tight as you took a step forward. “Doctor… we need to leave. I need to get you out.”

His shoulders convulsed, a sound escaping his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Something feral. A humourless bark of disbelief.

“Leave?” he echoed, turning on you, eyes rimmed red, face a ruin of despair. “You want me to leave?” His voice climbed, then cracked into a full-throated scream. “You want me to leave?!”

And then he lunged at you.

It was messy, erratic—he wasn’t trained for this, but grief had given him teeth. He grabbed at your gun, and though your instincts screamed to stop him, to put him down cleanly, your mission brief roared louder: Do not harm the asset.

You hesitated and let the man land a weak punch on your cheek, which had Walker take a step closer as if to stop him.

The doctor ripped the gun from your hands before the soldier could get any closer, stumbling back on shaking legs. You stayed your stance, hands up in a signal of mercy, your heart hammering, and the side of your face stinging. Walker, of course, didn’t hesitate—he raised his weapon, eyes already calculating the best spot to drop the doctor in one shot.

“Don’t,” you snapped at Walker, stepping just enough to obscure the shot. “Put it down.”

“He’s armed.”

“He’s not a target.”

“He hit you.”

“And you killed his family. He’s just retaliating. Drop the gun.”

Walker scoffed, but he listened anyway, lowering his gun begrudgingly.

The doctor moved between you both now, wild-eyed and trembling, blood all over his coat, his hands, his mouth. He swung the barrel at Walker. “You… you took everything. You killed my—” His voice cracked, eyes darting from Walker to you. “Why would you—how could you—”

“Doctor, please.” You took a breath, steady. Your hands still raised, your body tense.

“Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, the sound tearing straight from his ribs. He aimed again at you this time.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body coiled and ready. If Walker took one step closer—

But he didn’t need to.

Because the doctor’s grip on the gun shifted, he turned it, not toward you or Walker, but toward himself.

He lowered his head, mouth trembling, teeth clenched as his fingers searched for the trigger. Pressed the muzzle under his chin. Closed his eyes.

“No—no, no!” you shouted, launching forward before you could even think.

Your body collided with his just as the shot fired.

The sound rang through the lab like a hammer to steel.

You crashed hard against the ground, tangled with him, skidding across the slick tile. Something warm sprayed across your shoulder. For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe.

The echo of the shot was still bouncing off the walls.

And then silence.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t even know if you could move.

Eyes wide, lungs stuttering, you slowly pried yourself off the doctor’s chest. Your hands trembled as you cupped his face, fingers brushing away blood and sweat, searching for wounds.

He flinched under your touch but didn’t resist—just sobbed, quietly and broken. You turned his face, checked his hairline and his neck, and pressed your gloved hand to his chest. Alive. Breathing. Unharmed.

You exhaled sharply, the relief hitting you like a wave. The gun slipped from his fingers, landing with a clatter on the floor as he curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands like he could smother the sound of his grief.

You stayed straddling him a second longer, sitting upright as your own breath steadied. Your heart still thundered, but at least it was still beating.

Walker rushed into view, fast and heavy, combat boots crunching over shattered glass and blood.

“He’s fine,” you managed, voice thin and breathless.

“You hurt?” he asked, stepping around to study you from above. “Did it hit you?”

You looked up at him, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He squinted, head tilting as he motioned with his shield. “No. You’re hit.”

You followed the direction of his gaze—down to your arm. The black fabric of your suit was torn clean open, the edges soaked through with dark red. You hadn’t even felt it. But now the burn was starting to settle in. Dull. Hot. Sharp around the edges.

A graze. Not deep enough to be dangerous, but enough to sting like a bitch. You pressed your palm to it, feeling warmth leak through your gloves. “It’s fine,” you said again, firmer this time.

Still kneeling, you leaned over to retrieve your gun, stuffing it back into the holster with one smooth movement. Then you turned to the doctor.

“Up,” you muttered, reaching for him. He didn’t respond, didn’t even look at you. His body had gone slack, boneless in grief, still rocking slightly where he sat in the blood of his family.

You grunted, grabbing his arm and trying to haul him to his feet, but he didn’t help—not even a little. Just a sob, a choked sound that made your skin crawl as he caught another glimpse of his wife’s body from the corner of his eye. He whimpered and covered his face again.

You huffed, digging into one of your pouches. “Fine,” you muttered.

The cuffs clicked cold and metallic around his wrist before he even noticed. He flinched when you pulled his arm toward you, but he didn’t resist. Just stared at the floor, wide-eyed and hollowed out. The second cuff snapped around your own wrist, the steel biting against your skin.

“You’re coming with me,” you told him. “Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He sat there, tethered to you, shaking like a leaf in the wind, breathing shallowly through the stench of gunpowder and blood. You watched him a second longer, long enough to see the tears still clinging to his lashes, long enough to wonder how the hell any of this could ever be justified.

“Pull that shit again,” you muttered, dragging him upright, “and I’ll break your fucking nose.”

His legs buckled halfway up, dead weight dragging you sideways until another arm helped steady him.

Walker.

You shot him a glance as he stepped in, sliding his arm under the doctor to haul him upright. His grip was firm, but not needlessly cruel. But it was the look he gave you as he steadied the man that made you pause.

Not a command. Not approval or disdain. Just a nod of his chin.

Then he unlatched his helmet.

You watched as he pulled it off, and his hair spilled free, dark and damp with sweat, falling across his brow in uneven strands. Dust clung to his temples. A bruise had already started to bloom high on his cheekbone, dark and ugly beneath the dirt.

The blood on his jaw had dried into the stubble there, and he clipped the helmet loosely to his belt.

“Place went up faster than intel said it would,” he muttered, voice low and even, like none of it surprised him. His eyes flicked to the ruined hallway beyond the lab. “We’ll need to move before reinforcements circle back.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on the doctor’s wrist. He was barely walking, feet dragging more than stepping, eyes still fixated somewhere behind him—on what he’d lost, maybe, or just the thought of going back to whatever Hell Valentina had waiting for him.

You didn’t pity him.

But you understood the kind of pain that makes a man want to disappear.

“Got a route?” Walker asked, keeping pace with you as you started moving.

His voice was nonchalant. Too casual for a man who had just torn through an entire building and left two corpses cooling in a corner. But maybe that was how he did it—cut quick, cauterize faster. No time to feel it.

“Extraction point’s two klicks west. There's a dry riverbed just outside the ridge—Val set up a drop zone there.”

He gave a grunt, the sound more acknowledgment than response. “I saw a few M-ATVs on my way in. Might still be operational. We could hijack one.”

“You don’t need to stay with me,” you muttered, eyes scanning ahead, boots crunching over broken tile and scattered brass. Your hand burned from where you were pressing into the bullet graze on your arm, warmth still bleeding through your suit in slow pulses. You let go to get a better grip on the doctor.

“I know.” He gave a half-shrug. “Just don’t feel like walking alone.”

You didn’t respond to that. You didn’t know how to. You just adjusted the dead weight of Dr. Murphy, who hadn’t said a word since you cuffed him, and kept moving.

The hallways had gone still now.

All that remained were the wraiths—blood smeared on cracked tile, flames hissing from ruptured walls, shattered glass crunching beneath your steps. A few papers fluttered in the breeze.

You weren’t used to working with other people like this. Not side-by-side, not shoulder-to-shoulder with someone like him. Someone who didn’t ask. Who didn’t need you to explain yourself.

Walker, you assumed, had spent years learning how to work in teams. Probably knew how to cover a partner’s blind spot without even thinking. Maybe that instinct never left him. Maybe that’s why he was still here with you.

You could tell he was trying—trying to be useful, or civil, or something close to decent. You noticed it when he helped you get Dr. Murphy down the stairwell after the man tried to throw himself down it like a live grenade, uncaring that you were still cuffed to him. You’d warned him you’d break his nose if he pulled that again, and when he did, you made good on your word. Walker hadn’t said anything about it. Just grabbed the doc by the other side again.

You wondered if this was his first time getting paired up on one of Valentina’s assignments. If you could even call this a partnership. You’d both been sent in for different reasons. The only thing you shared now was your trip home.

The doctor had gone quiet, dazed and small as he stumbled beside you, cuffed to your wrist. His breath came shallow, nose crooked and bloodied, but at least he was upright.

The silence didn’t ease when you stepped outside.

Smoke choked the air, thick and cloying, fires spitting from crumbled rooftops. Bodies littered the sand, some still twitching, others broken in ways that made you squint. Civilians peeked from corners and alleys, eyes wide, clutching children to their chests as they shrank away from you like you were another weapon aimed at their door.

But no one stopped you. No one dared. Not anymore.

Walker didn’t look at any of it. Not the blood. Not the children. Not the lives smeared across the concrete like warnings. He just kept walking, his shield slung across his back, helmet clipped to his belt, jaw locked tight.

You glanced sideways, just once.

He didn’t flinch at what he’d done. And maybe that was the part that unsettled you most. You’d killed before. Too many times. But you did it with precision. Purpose. A clean exit. You didn’t revel in it, and you didn’t leave a mess unless someone else had already started it.

But him?

You wondered if his orders had been to burn the whole place down. Or if that was just his style.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to hear the answer.

You just kept walking, your cuffed arm aching from the weight of a broken man, the throb in your wound matching the pace of your heartbeat.

The vehicle bumped along the uneven path, its engine grumbling beneath the weight of three people and too much blood. The windows were cracked halfway down, letting in the dry air, thick with dust and leftover smoke. You sat in the passenger seat, your arm aching under the hastily wrapped dressing you’d pulled from your kit.

The doctor slumped in the backseat, quiet, now cuffed to the truck’s grab handles. He seemed to have fallen numb to everything now. Good. That meant it’d be an easy rest of the trip.

Walker kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. His sleeves were rolled up now, sweat and blood drying against sunburned skin. He didn’t say anything for a while. You didn’t either.

Then, without looking at you, he said, “If we get there before o’ two hundred, I might make it back in time for my son’s birthday.”

You blinked. The words felt like a glitch in the moment. So strange. You tried to make out what they meant. But it seemed that he just wanted to talk to you. How funny.

You tried to meet him halfway at his attempt in conversation; you really did try.

You turned your head slightly, eyes dropping to his hand. His gloves were torn and frayed, the knuckles stained with blood; it was hard for you to tell if that was an outline of a ring or not. Was he married? Did he have people waiting for him back home? White picket fence and everything? Or was he lying to talk? He must be lying. It was practically impossible to have a family and do this kind of work.

“Your son?” you asked, cautiously.

He looked at you for just a breath—just long enough for you to catch the flicker in his expression—then turned his eyes back to the road.

“Yeah. My son.”

You waited a beat, watching the side of his face. There was something unreadable there, something tight in the way his jaw set.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Just... surprising, that’s all.”

“How?”

“I dunno. Didn’t expect it.”

“You didn’t expect me to have a family?”

“Didn’t expect you to be a father.” You said, letting your eyes linger on his suit, “How old is he?”

He hesitated. You caught it instantly, the pause was too long, too stiff. You frowned. Did he not even know his own son’s age?

Then he said, “It’s his first birthday.”

You sat back slightly, digesting it.

“...And you’re here?”

His eyes narrowed just barely. “So are you.”

“So what?”

“So, you’re no better than me.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Jesus.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Why’re you laughing?”

You met his gaze, something sharp in your smile now. “I never said I was better than you, man. Besides, me being here is completetly different than you.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m not missing my son’s first birthday. That’s for sure. I mean, what father agrees to work on his kid’s first birthday?”

“One who makes sacrifices.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’m not doing this for free, you know. I do this for them.”

“Right, yeah. You’re the man of the year.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew on. Even the engine seemed quieter, the tension swallowing up the rattling hum between you. Dr. Murphy continued to stay silent.

Walker didn’t say anything else right away. His fingers flexed once against the steering wheel, mouth stitched into a deep frown.

Then he said, dryly, “You got a family back home?”

You froze and shut your mouth. Then, just stared out the window, watching the desert smear past the glass in shades of dust and ash. You didn’t think the kid living across the hallway counted as such.

“Not anymore.”

“Then maybe you don’t get to judge.”

That made you scoff, “You’re the one who brought up your son. No need to get so defensive about it.”

He turned to look at you again—a sharp snap of his neck, hair falling over his forehead. “I was just…!” He started loudly, practically shouting, then caught himself, jaw clenching. “I was just starting a conversation. Y’know? Like normal people do? I don’t need you making up ideas on my life choices, you don’t even fucking know me.”

You shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “Could’ve just asked about the weather.”

“And say what? ‘Wow, look how dry and empty it is here’? Would that have worked better for you?”

“It’s a start.”

He glared at you again, jaw twitching. That almost made you laugh. He looked genuinely irritated as if your audacity personally wounded him. Was it that easy to piss him off? Maybe the father comment struck deeper than you’d expected. Maybe he was just weak under all that bark and bravado.

He threw up a hand in frustration, like the words were choking him. “You’re so—” His voice cut off mid-sentence, strangled. He shook his head, scoffed through his teeth, and turned back to the road. “Never mind.”

“What? Please, do tell.”

“Forget it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

You shrugged, watching him. “Alright.”

“What do you mean ‘alright’?”

“It means alright. End of conversation. Since you want to forget about it.”

He leaned against the window, propping his head on his hand. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

Walker looked straight ahead, deadpan. “Doing what?”

“You’re literally copying everything I say.”

“Uh, no. I’m literally not.”

“Yes, you—” You cut yourself off, biting down on the argument before it spiralled further. Your arm throbbed again, sending a sharp spike of pain through your side. You sucked in a breath and muttered, “Whatever, man.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Asshole.”

He arched a brow. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said asshole.”

“Asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m an asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“How am I an asshole?”

“Because you are.”

“Oh wow. Solid argument. Very compelling. Really makes your case.”

You gave him a sideways look, exasperated. But you didn’t say anything.

He scoffed. “You know what? I should’ve just left you in that compound.”

You barked a laugh. “Yeah, and you’d be what—driving in circles trying to find the extraction point without me? You didn’t even know where it was.”

“I was in the army,” he snapped. “I would’ve found it just fine.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Jesus Christ. Remind me never to work with you again.”

“It’s not exactly a choice.”

“Oh, I’m making a choice. Next time Val tries to team me up with anyone, I’m putting in a request.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“FINE!”

You turned your head back toward the window, jaw tight and eyes burning from more than just dust. Outside, the desert stretched endlessly and uncaring, the kind of heat that made even anger feel like wasted energy.

And yet... it was hard for you to bite it back.

“…dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

part two coming soon!

[fromrory]

You Should've Just Told Him !

POV:Wally West Pairing: Wally West x GN!Reader (with a fem!reader in mind tho) Tags: secret relationship, best friend’s sister, oblivious Dick Grayson, chaos upon discovery, fluff, established relationship Word count: ~1.2k Requested by: @simpingmyassoff Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: This is my frist time writing for Wally. . . Hope y'all like it (don't crucify me pls)

To be fair, it wasn’t Wally’s fault.

Things with you had just… happened. One night he stayed too long at the manor, the two of you talking into the early hours of the morning, laughing over mutual secondhand Bat Trauma™. Then another night. Then lunch. Then coffee. Then somehow you were in his hoodie and in his arms and he couldn’t imagine going a day without you.

It was supposed to be temporary. Quiet. Harmless.

But you were Dick Grayson’s sibling. And if Wally knew anything, it was that Dick would absolutely lose his mind if he found out.

So he kept it to himself.

Too bad Wally sucked at secrets.

“Dude, you’ve been smiling at your phone like an idiot for ten minutes,” Dick said, tossing a batarang into the air while they waited for burgers. “Who is she?”

Wally froze mid-scroll, then slowly locked his phone.

“No one.”

Dick raised a brow. “No one makes you text back that fast and grin like that.”

“She’s just…” Wally scratched his neck, avoiding eye contact. “She’s cool. Super smart. Funny. Gorgeous. I like her.”

Dick leaned in, suspicious. “You’re dating someone?”

“Maybe.”

“WHO?”

“Okay but like, you’re gonna freak out.”

“Why would I freak out?”

“Because... it’s... complicated.”

“Wally. You say that like I’m gonna find out it’s Harley Quinn or something.”

Wally snorted. “Definitely not Harley.”

Still, Wally refused to name you. And that drove Dick insane.

The next few days were a blur of detective-level obsession. Dick had names, theories, red string. He watched Wally’s every move, hacked into the Titans’ camera logs, tried to trace who he was texting so much. But your phone was under an alias and Wally had clearly learned something from hanging around the Bat-Family: no traces.

You, of course, were delighted.

“I’m just saying,” you said casually while painting your nails, “if this mystery girl is real, I think she deserves the world.”

“Don’t take his side,” Dick grumbled. “He’s hiding her. He’s hiding her from me.”

You just smiled into your cup.

A few days later, Wally and Dick were back at the manor, lounging on the couch mid-video game battle. Dick was winning. Wally was complaining.

“Your character’s rigged.”

“You chose him.”

“I thought he had lightning powers! This guy just throws knives.”

“You’re literally The Flash—”

Wally’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. Dick only glanced down by accident. But what he saw made his brain stall.

The lock screen lit up with:

✨My Perfect Problem💋 miss your face. also i stole your star wars shirt again. . . 💕

Dick blinked. Recognized the contact photo instantly. The name. The nickname.

That was you.

“...Wally.”

“Hmm?” Wally didn’t look up, busy button-mashing.

“WALLY.”

“WHAT?!”

Dick snatched the phone and held it up like it burned. “My sister?!”

Wally froze. The game was forgotten.

“I can explain—”

“YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?”

“Technically—okay yes—but also, we were gonna tell you!”

“WHEN? ON YOUR WEDDING DAY?!”

You chose that moment to casually stroll into the room, eating a cookie.

“Oh,” you said with zero shame, “did he find out?”

“YOU KNEW?!”

“I’m in the relationship, Dick.”

Wally stood up, hands raised like he was dealing with a hostage negotiation. “Look, man, I wasn’t trying to hurt you! It just… happened. And she’s amazing, and it’s real, and I didn’t want to mess up our friendship—”

“By dating my sister?!”

“Dude! She’s your cool sister!”

“I only have one!!”

You sat on the arm of the couch, entirely unbothered.

“I mean, if it makes you feel better, I’m the one who kissed him first.”

“That makes it worse!”

“I also kicked his ass at Mario Kart on our first date.”

Wally pointed, proud. “She really did. Blue shelled me at the finish line. It was kind of hot.”

“WALLY.”

Dick looked between the two of you—Wally, flushed and trying to appear calm, and you, smugly sipping your drink like you hadn’t just detonated a bomb in his world.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“This is... so much worse than when Damian found a girlfriend.”

Wally tried again, gently. “Dick. Look. I love her. I really do.”

Dick narrowed his eyes.

“You’d better.”

A beat.

“Also if you hurt her I will break both your kneecaps.”

“That’s fair.”

“And if I hear you’ve done anything weird in my house—”

“We haven’t! Except for that one time—”

“WALLY.”

“Right! Shutting up now.”

Later that night, after Dick stormed off to “go train until I forget this conversation ever happened,” Wally turned to you, exhausted but grinning.

“Well,” he said, pulling you into his lap, “that went... about as well as expected.”

You laughed into his neck. “Told you he’d scream.”

“I thought I’d get more than five words in before he threatened to maim me.”

“To be fair, that was restraint. For Dick.”

Wally pressed a kiss to your temple and sighed. “So… you still think we should’ve soft-launched?”

You snorted. “Wally, we hid this for three months. At this point, that was the soft launch.”

He smiled, holding you close.

“Guess we’re hard launched now.”

[chrissssssmut]

can i request cheater idol wonyoung x male reader whose hopelessly inlove with her, wonyo just wont break up or let go of him but kept on doing him dirty and mc being the lovesick fool he is and kept on forgiving her at first he was so heartbroken by it but then just cant let go of her too so in the end he just pretend he dont notice

YOU KNEW AND STAYED ANYWAY

Wonyoung x Male Reader

tags: angst, cheating, emotional manipulation, denial, poor reader

Your phone vibrates at 1:38 AM.

Again.

It’s her. Of course it’s her.

Wonyoung:

“Open the door. I forgot my keys.”

You stare at the text for longer than necessary. Not because you're surprised she’s coming back this late. You’ve long stopped being surprised. It's the fact that you're still here. Still waiting. Still hoping.

The front door creaks open, and she walks in like she owns the place.

Because she does.

Not the apartment—but you.

“Hey,” she says casually, kicking off her heels like she didn’t just spend the last seven hours God-knows-where with God-knows-who. Her lipstick is slightly smudged. The scent of some foreign cologne clings faintly to her dress.

You don’t ask. You just stare.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she sighs, brushing past you and heading to the bathroom. “It’s late. I’m tired. Can we not do this tonight?”

Do what, exactly?

You sit back on the couch, chewing the inside of your cheek. Your knuckles are white around your phone. You could ask her. You should ask her. But the words don’t come out. They never do. Because the truth? You already know.

She’s fucking someone else.

Probably more than one person.

And yet—you still love her. God, you love her so much it makes your chest ache.

She returns in a hoodie—your hoodie—and curls up beside you on the couch like nothing’s wrong. Like she didn’t break you again. Like she doesn’t keep breaking you.

“You waiting long?” she mumbles, burying her face in your shoulder.

You hesitate. “...No.”

She hums softly. “You always wait.”

“I always will.”

She doesn’t reply. But the corners of her lips curve up into the smallest, most dangerous smile.

It wasn’t always like this.

Back then—when she was still new to the idol scene and you were still her secret—she looked at you like you were the only person in her world. She'd sneak into your place after practice, laugh about her members' quirks, cook ramen at 3AM, kiss you with ramen breath and her hair in a ponytail.

She used to text you first. She used to ask if you ate. She used to hold your hand under the table during press dinners.

But now?

Now she barely replies. Sometimes you find her liking thirst traps on Instagram at 2AM. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the same guy’s name over and over again on her notifications. And sometimes—on nights when her makeup is too perfect and her perfume is too strong—she comes home too late, too quiet, too satisfied.

You asked her once. Only once.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

She laughed. Not a cute laugh. A cruel one. The kind that told you she knew just how far she could go without losing you.

“Why?” she said. “Would it matter?”

You didn’t answer.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to your lips, soft and slow. “Thought so.”

You wake up alone. Again.

She’s already gone, her side of the bed cold.

On the kitchen counter is a Post-it. You wonder if it’s an apology. A goodbye. Something meaningful.

But no. It just says:

“Don’t forget to do the laundry :) - W”

Smiley face and all.

You want to scream. Instead, you fold her clothes, cook her lunch for later, and wash the sheets that still smell like her and him.

Because you’re not just her boyfriend anymore. You’re her placeholder. Her doormat. Her background character.

But that’s okay.

If it means she comes home to you—even if it's just to sleep in your bed after fucking someone else—then it’s enough.

You lie to yourself every single day.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Later that night, she walks in like nothing’s changed.

“Did you eat?” she asks, kicking her shoes off.

You nod.

“Good.” She flops down on your bed. “I’m exhausted.”

She doesn't ask if you slept. She never does.

You crawl into bed beside her, pretending you don’t notice the faint red mark on her collarbone. Pretending her lipstick isn’t a different shade than the one she left with this morning. Pretending the name “Minjun” didn’t just pop up on her phone before she flipped it face down.

She turns to you, half-lidded eyes, lazy smile. “Can we cuddle?”

You want to say no.

But instead you open your arms, and she slips into them like nothing ever broke between you.

Like she didn't shatter you into pieces and hand the biggest chunk to another man.

You hold her anyway.

Because it’s easier to hurt quietly than it is to say goodbye.

Weeks pass.

She grows colder. Bolder. Stops lying. Starts coming home less. You don’t even ask anymore. You just know.

But you never leave.

You tell yourself it’s love. That deep down, she loves you too. That someday she’ll change.

She won’t.

One night, after hours of silence, she turns to you in bed and says it flat-out.

“I cheated again.”

No tears. No excuses. No shame.

Just a statement. Like saying the weather’s nice or the sky is blue.

You blink.

She watches you, like she’s testing how far she can bend you before you snap.

But you just smile.

A small, broken, hollow thing.

“I know,” you say softly.

Her eyes narrow. “You knew?”

“I’ve always known.”

A pause.

And then, with a voice too calm for the way your heart is cracking open again:

“But I love you, Wonyoung.”

She doesn’t respond right away.

And then she laughs—quiet, almost incredulous—and kisses you on the forehead.

“You’re insane,” she whispers. “You’re so fucking stupid for loving me.”

You smile, eyes wet, chest hollow.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “I know.”

But you hold her anyway.

And let her break you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because to love Wonyoung is to suffer—and you’ve decided it hurts less than letting her go.

WONYOUNG’s POV:

You don’t remember when it stopped being love.

Maybe it was after the first tour.

Maybe after the first guy.

Or maybe it was the first time you realized you could lie to him, and he wouldn’t leave.

That night still plays in your head sometimes.

The taste of another man’s mouth still on your lips, sweat still sticking to your thighs, and him—your boyfriend—opening the door at 2AM like you were just late coming home from the studio.

“Hey,” you said, tossing your heels to the side.

He didn’t ask where you’d been.

He just let you back in.

And that’s when it clicked.

He wasn’t going to leave you.

Ever.

At first, it was guilt.

You'd come home from someone else’s bed and scrub yourself raw in the shower, trying to rinse off the lies. You’d curl up next to him and stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you ended up in this mess. You never meant to hurt him.

But he made it so easy.

He’d cook for you, hold you, kiss you like you weren’t full of sin.

Like you were still the girl who used to fall asleep on his chest during movie nights, back when your biggest secret was dating in the first place.

But now?

Now it’s different.

Now you walk into his apartment smelling like another man and wait for him to notice. To yell. To fight.

But he never does.

He just looks at you with those tired, glassy eyes and says, “I love you.”

You wish he wouldn’t.

You thought about breaking up with him. Once. Maybe twice.

But every time you tried, something stopped you.

Was it guilt? Attachment? The convenience of having someone always waiting for you?

Or maybe…

Maybe it was the power.

The way he looks at you—like you’re God and he’s just some pitiful worshipper who can’t stop praying even after the miracles stop. There’s something addictive about it.

You could ruin him.

You are ruining him.

And he just takes it.

Smiling.

Bleeding inside.

Still cooking you breakfast the next morning.

You test the limits. You show up late with smeared lipstick. You “accidentally” leave your phone unlocked. You come home in different outfits than the ones you left in.

He sees everything.

And he says nothing.

Sometimes, you think he wants you to destroy him.

Sometimes, you think you want to see how far he'll fall before he breaks completely.

And sometimes, in the rarest, darkest parts of your heart—you think maybe he already has.

Tonight, it’s worse.

You fucked Minjun in the studio. Didn’t even bother changing your clothes. He didn’t last long, but that’s fine. It’s never about the sex anyway. It’s about proving you can.

You unlock the door to the apartment and see the lights off. Just the soft glow of the bedroom lamp slipping beneath the door.

He's already in bed.

You move quietly. Not because you’re afraid to wake him, but because part of you wonders if he’ll even care you’re home.

He doesn’t turn around when you slip under the covers. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Just lies there, facing the wall, silent.

You stare at his back for a long time, the heat of his body an arm’s length away. Close, but distant.

And suddenly—you don’t know why—you say it.

“I cheated again.”

Your voice cuts the air like a razor. Cold. Honest. Final.

You expect him to stiffen. To sit up. To scream.

But he doesn’t move.

“I know,” he says softly, still not facing you.

You blink.

You knew?

“I’ve always known.”

He rolls to face you then, eyes tired but not angry. Just... defeated.

And when he says, “I love you, Wonyoung,” you want to punch him for it. Or cry. Or disappear.

Instead, you laugh. It comes out bitter. Mean.

“You’re insane,” you whisper. “You’re so fucking stupid for loving me.”

He just smiles.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I know.”

And then he opens his arms.

And you go to him.

Again.

Because for all the people you could sleep with, for all the lies you’ve told and the games you play, this boy—this broken boy—still chooses you.

And maybe that’s why you keep coming back.

Because if he can’t stop loving you…

Then you never have to admit you don’t love him back the same way.

[bwabys-scenarios]

Hihi! Just wanted to say I absolutely LOVE your works esp the kurapika ones

Soo basically they take the reader out shopping specifically for undergarments and someone just so happens to walk in while they’re changing? Maybe w the phantom troupe + kurapika?

Panties and such(NSFW)

!!REPOSTS APPRECIATED!!

A/N: I’m going to assume you mean that the character walks in on reader, but if you meant a random person, sorry 😭🙏 also I’m only doing a two from the phantom troupe, doing all of them is just too much. I’ll do a part two if enough people want it, though! 🫡 REQUESTS OPEN! JOIN MY SERVER

characters: Kurapika, Chrollo, Feitan

warnings: creampie, reader wears lingerie, semi-public sex in Kurapika’s

NSFW: @lightshowerrr @jungtoast @nenggie @pannacottababy @aliceattheart @atransmuter

‼️If you want to be added to the taglist, please check out the taglist information then comment what you want to be added to! Make sure you have your age in your bio and that your blog can be tagged/mentioned!‼️

Kurapika

-you brought up the fact you wanted new panties, and he nodded along before processing what you said.

-“d-did you say… panties? As in… underwear?”

-a little flustered, but he insists on taking you, and paying for whatever you want.

-he brings you to a lingerie store, pouting when everyone assumes he’s a woman. that does work in his favor tho

-he keeps bringing you different sets of lingerie to try on, and he’s starting to get horny imagining you in each pair.

-eventually he pushes himself inside the dressing room, eyes going wide and cock hardening in his pants when he sees you pulling up a pair of lacy panties.

-he pushes them to the side, slipping his cock into you and pushing you up against the wall. “s-so pretty, angel…”

-you leave the store with several new sets of lingerie… some of them a bit… sticky…

Chrollo

-he’s the one that suggested it.

-“my love, it seems you don’t have much lingerie. You know how I’d just love to see you covered in lace, don’t you?”

-he takes you to the most well known, expensive lingerie store in the area.

-he’s a bit picky, and takes forever choosing what options for you to try on. He settled on mostly black lingerie, with a few pink and red sets… and one white one, with little angel wings on the top.

-Chrollo helps you into each set, his fingers gently tracing your figure. “Just gorgeous… oh my love, you look like an angel sent from above.”

-he’s quick to purchase every set you try on, and soon as you get home he’s on top of you, his teeth nipping at your jaw as his cock sinks into you.

-“that’s my pretty girl, so good for me…”

-he takes you out for dinner later that night, insisting you wear the lingerie he fucked you in. You spend the entire dinner feeling his cum oozing out of you, embarrassed as he stares at you with utter love and adoration.

Feitan

-“Bras? Don’t care about that. Steal it if want it.”

-that’s usually how it went when you asked Feitan to go shopping with you for anything. Either he’d say he didn’t care, or he’d offer to just steal it for you.

-so that’s how you ended up following him to the lingerie store in the middle of the night. He easily broke in, guiding you by the hand through the dark store until the two of you reached the lingerie.

-“okay. Pick your favorite.”

-you huffed at him, looking through the selection. “I’ve gotta try it on first…”

-you stripped, and this got Feitan excited enough… but he started stroking himself when you pulled on a pair of lacy panties.

-he continued to jerk off to you, until you caught him in the mirror.

-“F-Fei!”

-you blushed, but felt strangely flattered… “I’ll take care of it…”

-you sat in front of him, leaning down to take his cock in your mouth. “F-fuck…”

-seeing your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, your ass perched in the air was enough to have him cumming in no time.

-he helped carry home as many sets of lingerie as you wanted… maybe he liked seeing you like that more than he thought.

[dearhargrove]

Sink or swim

summary When the tsunami hits you're at the pier, watching in confusion and shock as the huge wave nears. You're swept away with a dozen others but gain back consciousness with a weirdly attractive guy and his.. son?

tags medical inaccuracy (I made everything medical up pls ignore it), blood and injuries, one POV change, cursing

word count 2831

a/n just watched the episodes with the tsunami and oh my god? I’m so in love with Buck, Chris and Eddie. These three are adorable. Also these episodes were just good as hell, wtf? Andddd I hope I didn’t make any of them OOC (out of character) but if I did forgive me yall 🫶🏻 also English isn’t my first language, so… 🥹

masterlist

Maybe you should've guessed what it meant when the sea started retreating and a huge wave built up more by the second. But somehow it seemed so surreal that you didn't. You clung to the thought that it was an optical illusion, after all there was no way a tsunami would hit that one time you're at the pier.

Now moments later you regret not running faster, earlier or simply finding a spot to hide. You're pulled under the surface every few seconds, swallowing mouthfuls of salty seawater that makes your nose burn and eyes blur.

You're choking when you're swept against a hard object, it's sharp edge digging into your waist. “Fuck!” you curse, though it ends in a gurgle when more water sweeps over you.

When you resurface you're facing an object that turns out to be a sunken fire truck. The red is striking against the blue and Grey around you and you could cry at relief when you manage to hoist yourself onto it.

You're exhausted, your side hurts and you're dizzy. Your phone is useless, the water having destroyed the technology. Cursing, you pocket it again and lean back. You're about to relax, aware that it could take hours for emergency services to reach you when you hear high pitched screaming. You look up, just in time to see someone with a yellow sweater being pulled towards you with the current, screaming at the top of their lungs.

“Jesus,” you swear and crawl to the edge of the truck, yelling to get their attention with your arm reached out as far as possible.

You almost faint when the person turns around and a small child looks at you, red glasses full of water and messy brown hair. He's crying, reaching out as he's struggling to stay afloat.

“Hey! I'm here, grab my hand!” You yell and lean over the ledge as far as you could. As soon as you saw that little boy you knew you'd jump after him if he couldn't grab your hand now.

“I got you, sweetheart, come on!”

Your assurance seems to help and he kicks his legs, managing to move closer to where you are. In a split second you grab his hand and pull him over the railing and onto the truck, holding the little boy close to your chest in relief.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, coughing a little as he adjusts his glasses. You try to look as calm and collected as possible, gently smiling at him and beckoning him further away from the railing and rushing water.

“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He shakes his head, biting his lip as he looks out at the water again. He must've been with someone else, you guess when he sits up at every piece floating by.

“Are you looking for someone?” You ask gently and he nods. He slowly speaks, hands fidgeting in his lap, “B-Buck. He's a firefighter.”

You stop yourself from cooing at this adorable child and nod, “We're gonna find him, okay? Just stay here and it'll be okay.”

He looks worried but slowly nods. You go back to sitting between him and the railing, looking out for anyone else.

Just as you spot someone, the small boy moves rapidly and pulls your shirt, “Buck! It's Buck!” He stutters loudly.

You whip your head back around to the rushing water and try thinking of a way to save him too. You couldn't just grab his hand, he would probably just pull you off the truck and you wouldn't risk leaving the kid by himself.

“Shit,” You mumble as you look for a way to help the man, the boy desperately crying out for ‘Buck’ behind you.

It seems you don't need to do much when something slams into the truck and seconds later the man pulls himself up and next to you.

And, damn. He was attractive. His dark blonde curls stick to his forehead as his blue eyes fixate on you and then the boy, strong arms holding him up as a smile builds on his lips, “Christopher!”

You move a bit as the two reunite, the boy- Christopher throwing his arms around the man's neck and giggling wildly.

You watch with a smile, the adorable sight momentarily distracting you from the tsunami keeping not just you but these two strangers trapped on top of a fire truck.

He turns around after a minute, keeping Christopher in his lap as he looks at you. He clears his throat and nods, “Thank you for saving him.” You shake your head and wave your hand in dismissal, unsure how to deal with compliments.

“No, really. I was going crazy when I couldn't find him,” his eyes are fixed on your face and you blame the heat creeping up your neck onto the temperature changes from the water and sun, smiling nervously. “It's all good. Your son is a sweetheart.”

He chuckles, “He definitely is. Though he's not my son,” he mentions, poking the boy's side when he mumbles something. You quickly nod, embarrassed. “Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed-” he shakes his head and a relaxed smile sets on his face.

“It's fine, don't worry. Did you have any luck reaching 911?” You shake your head and hold up your broken phone, screen flickering sadly as you do. He sighs and brushes a hand through his hair (you try not to stare at the hot sight because wow, what are the odds of meeting such an attractive man in the middle of a tsunami?).

“We're probably just gonna have to wait. It'll take time to get boats and units here. It probably looks like this everywhere,” he explains and you tilt your head in surprise before remembering that the kid had mentioned he's a firefighter. Meaning he knew the protocols.

“Right. Christopher mentioned you're a firefighter.” You smile when the boy perks up, a seemingly never faltering smile on his face. “Guess I'm lucky to be stuck with you. Safest I could be.” You shrug, a bashful smile on your face.

“Buck will s-save us all,” Christopher proclaims proudly and you coo at the cute boy. The man now seems a bit uneasy and sighs before his eyes widen, “Shit, right, I'm Evan. Everyone just calls me Buck, though.” You shake his outstretched hand and introduce yourself in turn, biting your lip as a nervous habit.

“So you're a firefighter?” You prompt curiously.

“It's a bit complicated right now…” He sighs, a frown setting on his forehead. You're about to apologize for overstepping when Christopher speaks up again, “He threw up blood.”

Your eyes widen and Evan- Buck pinches the boys’ side in reprimand. “Blood clots,” he elaborates as he looks at your slightly shocked expression. You hum sympathetically before realizing something. “Wait. You were the one trapped under that fire truck? On the news?”

He chuckles (which makes him even more attractive, what the actual fuck?) and nods, “Yep, that's me.”

You grimace in sympathy at the memory and automatically glance at his leg, “Is it all healed? You don't have to talk about it, it's fine if you don't-” he waves you off assuringly, looking relaxed.

“It's fine, don't worry. Yeah it healed fine, had some physical therapy and stuff but now I have blood clots kicking my a- butt.” He stops himself from cursing with Christopher on his lap and you almost smile at the adorable expression of confusion on the kid's face, when Buck presses his hands over both of his ears and whispers what he was originally going to say.

You laugh at the two and a relaxed and almost light atmosphere surrounds the three of you, momentarily disregarding your situation.

“It's kind of ironic isn't it?” He starts and you tilt your head in question. “You saved me, a firefighter, by pulling me onto a fire truck,” he elaborates and you can't help but chuckle, “Right. It should've been the other way around,” you sarcastically add and he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

You relax back against the railing, your eyes drawn to Buck again just to notice him already looking at you. You cock your head questioningly and he bites his lip before grinning, “Sorry, you're just- like, really beautiful.”

Your jaw drops momentarily before you compose yourself and hide behind your hands, “Stop! Geez,” you laugh and he does as well. You exaggerate a shake of your head as you look at Christopher who giggles happily and exclaims, “He likes you!”

Now both you and Buck fluster as he continues, “He's always angry but n-now he's happy.” You notice the small struggle of getting his words out but you couldn't care less, you'd wait hours for this sweetheart to finish a sentence if you had to.

“Oh, really?” You ask in mock surprise and he eagerly nods before Buck intervenes, “Woah, Woah. I'm not always angry. Just.. grumpy.” Christopher makes it a point to look at him and then at you, rolling his eyes and shaking his head which makes it hard to refrain from laughing.

When Christopher busies himself with leaves floating around them Buck lowers his voice a bit as he speaks to you again, “Don't get the wrong impression it’s just, it’s hard. Not being able to work, saving people and all that.”

You nod quickly, “No worries. I’d go insane if I was in your place. I’m guessing they’re keeping you from really doing anything ‘dangerous’?” You ask, careful in case of him wanting to change the subject.

He nods and drops his head back against a siren light, “It is. They’re trying to put me behind a desk! I mean, I’m supposed to be out here, saving lives, fighting fires. That’s my purpose.” He frowns and you hum to show that you’re listening.

“I know they just want me to recover, but…”

“It feels like they’re holding you back?” You finish for him. He chuckles in surprise at the accuracy of what you said and nods.

“I’m probably in no place to tell you this, but trust me, it’s worth it. Get better, do the light work and sooner than you think you’ll be back doing what you love. But if you start now and ignore your health.. it’s going to catch up with you. And it’ll be way worse than a few weeks behind a desk.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment before slowly nodding, “You're right. Thank you.” You smile and put a hand on his leg, making sure he doesn’t mind before adding, “I mean look at you, crushed by an entire ladder truck and you’re up and running already.”

“I’m just that great,” he sarcastically pats his own shoulder and you both break into laughter.

-

You don't know if it's been minutes, seconds or hours when you wake up, laying on top of destroyed concession stands and other things. Something is digging into your back, your leg is awkwardly bent and your ears are ringing.

Groaning you sit up, wincing in pain when a sharp pain strikes through your back at the movement.

Around you is just more trash and destroyed cars, you see an arm laying on one of the cars and decide to avert your eyes as quick as possible for your own sake.

Every step hurts but you keep going; walking through the flooded streets with your eyes looking for either of the two boys you’d spent earlier with or other survivors.

The sun is starting to set and you’re starting to get hopeless. You have no clue where you were, completely disoriented as you pass houses that look entirely the same. Your phone is useless and you’re alone. Shouldn’t you have met at least one person by now?

Your back has gone practically numb, same as your leg, when you see faraway lights in the distance. Your steps get quicker as you see people and to your utter relief firefighters. You don’t know if the tears in your eyes are of joy or utter despair from what happened but you couldn’t care less when a man with short, brown hair spots you and approaches.

You’re trying to walk closer when a small voice somewhere close stops you. You’re not sure if it’s your imagination but you turn around, squinting your eyes in the darkness. And then you see it. A small boy, waddling your way with his arms stretched out like he couldn’t see.

Could it be..?

“Christopher?” You see his head perk up and he tries going faster, stumbling over his own feet. Your heart drops in relief and you gather your last strength to run to him, “Hey, you remember me right?” He nods and you note the missing glasses.

“There’s help, come on,” you point out but he doesn’t look happy. He looks almost angry, “Buck.” You had almost forgotten about the charming firefighter. But your priority right now was Christopher.

“We’re gonna find him. Let’s get you help first,” you say with fake enthusiasm in your voice. He doesn’t look okay with that but stays silent and you awkwardly wrap your arms around him after making sure he’s okay and lift him into your arms.

It’s hard to avoid any obstacles while walking but you manage, seeing the brown haired man from a few minutes ago still there.

“Hey! I need help! It’s a kid!” You yell.

He waves you over while walking towards you and as soon as you can actually see him you’re once again surprised. What was it with these firefighters and their good looks? Jesus.

When he’s close enough you nudge Christopher, “There’s help, he’s gonna make sure you’re okay,” you nod at the man and he stands still before running the last feet over to you, basically ripping the child from you.

“Chris!” He cries, clutching the kid with all his might. Oh, this must be his father.

You smile, relieved that they found each other. He looks up at you with gratitude, “Thank you so much. Thank you.” You just smile.

“He’s found us himself. I couldn’t find him after..” you don’t even know what happened- you just know you passed out and woke up alone. Sighing you rub your temples and shake your head.

“You should get checked out, too. You’re barely walking,” the medic (you guess) advises. You take in the people behind him, the full cots and stressed professionals. “I’m okay. There’s people that need more help,” you nod.

He frowns and shakes his head, “I could tell you at least two injuries of yours that need treatment. Come on.” He nods his head in the direction of one of the tents and you chuckle but follow him. At least you try to. Four more steps and your legs give out, you clutch a random person's arm to prevent your fall, mumbling a sorry when they just barely catch you.

The ringing in your ears is back and you groan when you’re laid on one of the cots, your back protesting painfully.

Your vision is blurry and you can’t understand what’s being said - what the hell was happening to you?

-

“Wait, she’s- she was with me and Chris.” Eddie looks up in confusion as he hooks you up to an IV, checking your pupils with a small torch. “What?”

Buck nods, “Yeah, she saved Chris and then me. When the last wave happened she was swept away- we were all swept away.”

Eddies brows furrow and she looks down at you, your hair a damp mess, clothes dirty and bloody. “She saved Chris?” His best friend nods and crouches down next to you - Eddie notes the pained groan he tries to conceal as he does so - extending a hand and awkwardly patting your shoulder.

“Will she be okay?”

Eddie's answer is interrupted when you open your eyes and wince at the lights surrounding the tent.

“Hey, you feeling okay?” Buck asks before Eddie can get a word out, and you almost faint again seeing these two fine men looking down at you with concern. Great first impression, you think.

“Feel like I was in a tsunami,” you grunt and both of them laugh a bit. A third voice pops up next to you, “We were in one, silly.” Leaning over your head and looking upside down at you was Christopher, a smile on his face.

You huff a laugh and hum, “You’re right. Smart boy.”

Eddie looks at Buck at the exchange and he just shrugs with a grin. Chris walks to Eddie and leans into his side, eyes still on you.

“Is there something on my face, or..?” You ask half joking as three pairs of eyes stay trained on you.

“Just beauty,” Buck grins and there’s a second of silence before Eddie gags and rolls his eyes, “That’s so creepy, díos.” You laugh as Buck tries defending himself, simply looking just as cute to you as earlier.

[lascvitae]

APPLE CIDER ✵ AERI UCHINAGA.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU THAT MUCH

WAIT, I DO, FUCK .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ you wrote her a letter and to your surprise, she wrote back. now you’re leaving notes in windowsills, falling in love, and trying not to pass out every time she smiles at you.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. giselle x reader (no gendered terms) ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff like this is so cute and gay ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. mutual pining, yall pass letters, reader is lowkey a loser and awkward 😭 joe goldberg mention 🤓

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 1.9k

ᝰ.ᐟ katty me and who? but i experimented with this fic a LOTTT, thank you for requesting because it was honestly kinda fun 🤭

(🎧) now playing — apple cider by beabadoobee.

masterlist.

YOU DID IT. you actually did it.

you just dropped a full on handwritten, deeply humiliating, mildly poetic love letter into aeri uchinaga’s bag.

aeri. giselle. the coolest, hottest, most charming girl on campus. the girl who makes even calculus lectures feel like romance movie montages. the girl who dyes her hair every few months and you’re the confused background character who’s pretending that you don’t have a crush on her.

you slide into your usual seat, third row from the back, close enough to hear her laugh but far enough that she never turns around to catch you staring. you’re not proud of that last part, but hey, you’re in a university class full of insanely attractive women. survival instincts kick in.

you sit there, frozen, like you just committed a crime. because you kinda did. to yourself.

aeri walks in a few minutes later wearing a black hoodie and a backwards cap, sipping iced coffee. you watch as she tosses her bag on the floor beside her, completely unaware that inside is your heart, folded in half and written in black ink.

okay. don’t stare. don’t act suspicious. you are a normal person. you’re normal. you’re the anti joe goldberg. you are—

“hey. you good?” your seatmate, jimin, blinks at you.

“oh. no. i’m just… thinking.” you glance forward. aeri’s flipping through her notebook, scribbling something in the corner.

thinking about the fact that you just told the prettiest girl in this university that her hair smells like fruit punch.

thinking about how you signed it “from someone who’s trying really hard not to stare during class.”

thinking about if you should drop out right now or just wait until after midterms.

professor lee starts rambling about complex numbers, but you’re not hearing a word. you keep glancing forward, watching as aeri leans over her desk.

she doesn’t check her bag. not yet.

you tell yourself that’s good. that you don’t want her to read it right away.

but deep down, you do. you want her to find it. you want her to smile. you want her to wonder.

you want her to write back.

and maybe, you want her to know it’s you, too.

you don’t check the windowsill right away.

it’s stupid. you know it’s stupid. but you pass it twice. once after seminar and once after grabbing a snack from the vending machine, and both times you chicken out like the absolute loser you are.

so by the time you actually climb the stairs up to the third floor of the humanities building, you’ve already drafted a backup apology in your notes app just in case there’s no letter and she never responds and you have to pretend it never happened and maybe change your name and move—

it’s there.

a folded letter. tucked right where you said to leave it.

you stare at it for a full three seconds before grabbing it like you’re stealing top secret documents.

your hands are shaking again.

you sit on the bench near the window, cross legged like a kid, and open it with your fingers.

you’re bold. i like it. also, i haven’t had anyone tell me my hair smells like fruit punch since middle school, so thanks for that. (not sarcasm by the way) i’ll play along, but only if you tell me something about yourself. something small. — g

you fold the letter back up slowly. you read it twice. three times. you might pass out.

then you grab the notebook from your bag and start writing. again.

this becomes a thing for two days (you counted). you’re way too scared to face her in person but you also like her way too much — so you accept your fate.

YOUR RESPONSE.

it’s left on the third floor windowsill, folded once and written on lined notebook paper. your handwriting is a little neater this time. you tried really hard.

okay. something small: i drink apple cider year round. cold. not hot. is that weird? also, my lucky number is 4. and i write my 4s weird. sorry in advance. if you’re still playing… what’s your go to vending machine snack? (there is a right answer.) — still not staring

HER RESPONSE.

it’s written on a page torn from her sketchbook. you can tell because there’s a faint outline of a doodle on the back. she writes in all lowercase. her i’s have hearts instead of dots.

apple cider is elite. the sparkling kind in glass bottles? so good. maybe we’re soulmates. vending machine snack: m&ms. the peanut kind. if you disagree, this is over. also, i already figured out who you are. just kidding. or am i? (there’s a silly face drawn nearby.) — g

YOUR RESPONSE.

in the top right corner, you drew a little apple with a smiley face. you weren’t gonna… but you couldn’t help it.

first of all. peanut m&ms are the only valid choice. you pass. second of all: don’t scare me like that. third: what color would you dye your hair next if you weren’t thinking about being perceived. — the cider soulmate

HER RESPONSE.

it’s left with a little sticky note attached that says “open when alone :)” in gel pen. her handwriting is messier this time, but somehow prettier. the back smells like her. fruit punch and something warm.

i wouldn’t change my hair. i like being perceived by the right people. and your 4s aren’t weird. they’re just yours. tell me something else. what’s something you wish people noticed about you? — g

YOUR RESPONSE.

this one takes you the longest. you rewrite it twice. your hands are a little shaky again but for a softer reason this time. you tuck it into the windowsill the next morning just before your shift at the university café.

this is going to sound dumb. but i wish people noticed when i’m trying. like, really trying. i make a playlist for almost everyone i like. i remember people’s favorite drinks. i overthink goodnight texts. you probably already noticed this about me though. i hope you did. — me (still trying)

HER RESPONSE

it’s taped to the window with green decorative tape (where did she get that?). it feels like the kind of message you would fold up and keep in your wallet for a hundred years.

i noticed. i notice everything about you. meet me tomorrow morning. same windowsill. if you’re not there, i’ll understand. — g

so now you’re in the humanites building again. you styled your hair. wore your favorite sneakers. even used that fancy fragrance you wear when you want attention.

your fingers tremble a little as you walk up the stairs. you’ve read her note twelve times. maybe thirteen.

you’re holding your reply. it’s messier than the last one. shorter. it says:

i’ll be there. please don’t change your mind.

but now that you are, you’re not sure if you can actually do it. you’re standing just out of view from the windowsill. you can’t see her, but you feel her. somehow.

you wonder if she feels you too.

okay. just walk over, leave the note, and run away like usain bolt. no big deal. she probably won’t even be there yet—

“you came.”

your entire body freezes.

you turn so fast that it feels like your bones forget how to move. and there she is. hoodie on. headphones around her neck. same iced coffee in hand.

her hair is pulled back with a clip you swear she wore the day you first spoke in class. when she asked if you were in the wrong lecture and then laughed and said “just kidding” like it wasn’t the beginning of your entire joe goldberg era (you're normal).

“i— yeah. i said i would.”

she smiles and it’s the kind that makes your stomach ache. not because it hurts, but because you want to hold it. keep it. never let it go.

“can i read it?” she asks, nodding at the note in your hand.

you hesitate.

“it’s kind of… lame.”

“i like lame.”

you hand it over.

she reads it and doesn’t laugh. just looks back up at you with the soft expression she wears when she’s listening to something she loves.

“you know. i was really hoping it was you.” she says, folding the paper once and tucking it into her hoodie pocket.

your breath catches. “you… were?”

“mhm. who else would write about my hair smelling like fruit punch and weird number fours?” her smile grows.

you look at her and in that moment, it feels like she’s already yours.

“so, since you’re already trying so hard… wanna try going on a date with me too?” she says, stepping closer.

you freeze.

then nod. quickly. furiously. stupidly. completely in love.

“…yeah. i’d really like that.” you breathe.

taglist — @saysirhc @m00nqvv @yuyuy90

[scarluna]

KNOCKOUT (002)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 2/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas, emotional eating

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ GUYS PLEASE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO MAKE A TAG LIST, SOMEONE EDUCATE ME T____T Hence why I am unable to add yall there. :C Also, lemme know what you think of this chap. Wink Wink.

Time doesn’t feel real anymore.

I couldn’t tell you if it’s Monday or Thursday. If it rained yesterday or the day before that. I keep the blinds half-shut, the room dim enough that the daylight doesn’t mock me but bright enough that I don’t lose all sense of time.

I haven’t gone back to the park.

I haven’t gone anywhere, really.

Just rotting in my apartment, wrapped in the same blanket, wearing the same hoodie, scrolling through the same three apps on my phone like they’ll eventually give me a reason to feel alive.

They don’t.

Every day starts the same.

Wake up too late. Answer emails too slowly. Fake interest during work calls, mute myself and nod like I’m present. Lie when my mom texts asking if I’ve been “getting out more.”

"Yeah, totally. Been trying to take walks!"

She replies with a heart emoji. Like that’s enough to count as connection.

My dad called once. Drunk, probably. I didn’t answer. Let it ring out and told myself I’d call back later.

I won’t.

Even Vicky’s texts have started slowing down. She knows me well enough to give space when I go quiet like this, but part of me wishes she’d just barge in again. Force me out of my own head.

But I won’t ask.

I never ask.

I just sit here. Work. Eat. Scroll. Sleep.

Repeat.

The only real interactions I have are with food delivery drivers. Strangers I see for five seconds at a time but who, lately, feel like they’re starting to see me too much.

Like they know.

Like they can tell.

That I’ve ordered from the same chicken place four nights in a row. That I haven’t brushed my hair in two days. That my voice is hoarse from not being used. That I look like I haven’t been touched or held or smiled for real in longer than anyone should.

The last one gave me a weird look. Not mean—just… curious. Pitying.

Like he didn’t expect me to be the one behind the door. Like maybe he thought the name on the receipt belonged to someone different. Someone who didn’t open the door in a hoodie with food stains and bare feet and eyes that screamed don’t look at me.

I said “thanks” too quickly and slammed the door before he could say anything back.

And then I stood there.

Back against the door.

Heart pounding like I’d just run a mile.

Why does it feel like every moment lately is some slow-burning humiliation?

Why does existing like this feel so loud?

Even when no one says a word.

I eat half the food, then leave the rest on the counter like some kind of offering to the version of me who should be doing better by now.

I wish I could stop spiraling.

I wish the guilt wasn’t its own kind of meal—chewed on between bites, swallowed down with shame and soda.

But I can’t stop.

I can’t make myself care enough to break the cycle.

And deep down, I know what’s happening.

The same thing that always happens.

I’m fading again.

Not in a dramatic, cry-for-help way.

Just… fading.

Quietly. Slowly.

-

I didn’t sleep much.

Again.

The apartment smells like old fries and leftover stress. My laptop screen glows too bright in the dim room, and the clock on the bottom corner blinks 9:59 a.m.—one minute before the weekly team meeting.

I throw on a different hoodie. Kind of. Technically it’s the same as yesterday, just a slightly less-wrinkled sibling. Hair’s in a messy bun. Face untouched. My camera’s always off, and I plan to keep it that way.

I log into Zoom and brace myself.

The team meeting starts the same way it always does—bad small talk, muted laughter, awkward pauses while someone forgets they’re on mute.

And then Katherine’s voice cuts through like glitter and caffeine.

“So…” she says, practically bouncing in her chair. Her camera is on, obviously. Background blurred, face glowing. “Can we tell them now?”

Our manager, Greg, chuckles like he’s part of some secret joke. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

My stomach knots.

Greg leans forward. “Okay, team. We’ve got something fun coming up—real fun, not fake-corporate-fun.”

Katherine’s smile stretches even wider.

“We’ve booked out a section of Riot Club downtown this Friday night. Fully paid. Open bar. Food, music, everything.”

Someone lets out a “woo!” like we’re in a movie.

Riot Club.

Of course it’s Riot Club. I’ve heard of it—one of those trendy places where the lighting’s low, the music’s loud, and the people are confident. Beautiful. The kind of place where I’d normally rather light myself on fire than be perceived.

Greg keeps talking. “It’s a team-building thing. You know, for morale. We’ll have a reserved section upstairs, so it’s private, but feel free to bring your dancing shoes.”

Katherine claps. “This is going to be so fun. I’ve already got a dress picked out.”

Everyone’s reacting. Laughing. Making jokes about shots and karaoke and someone inevitably dancing on a table. People are already forming plans in the chat.

I just sit there, stiff.

Invisible.

Until Greg squints at the list of muted names and lands on me.

“Y/N—you in?”

My body freezes.

What?

No. No no no no no. This wasn’t part of the script. I was supposed to just sit through the meeting, nod silently, and then disappear like always.

But everyone is watching now. Katherine leans toward her screen with a curious smile. A few others are glancing sideways like they didn’t even know I existed before this moment.

And my mouth opens.

Before my brain catches up.

“Yeah,” I blurt.

It’s small. Quiet. But clear enough.

“Awesome,” Greg says, giving a thumbs-up. “Glad you’re coming.”

The moment passes.

The conversation moves on.

And I sit there, stunned.

What the fuck did I just do?

I didn’t mean to say yes.

I didn’t want to go.

I didn’t even want to be asked.

My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking slightly under the desk. The rest of the meeting blurs into static. I stare at the little camera icon on my screen, grateful it’s still red and crossed out.

They didn’t see the panic on my face.

Didn’t see the way I just agreed to willingly walk into a nightmare.

A club.

Downtown.

With people.

With Katherine.

With me, in the middle of it.

I log off the second the meeting ends and slam my laptop shut like I can shut reality with it.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale hard.

What the hell am I going to do?

An hour passes.

I haven’t moved from the couch.

My laptop’s still shut, my hands tucked under my thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweatpants. I’ve just been sitting here, replaying that moment over and over again in my head like a horror film on loop.

“Y/N—you in?”

“Yeah.”

God, why did I say that?

My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.

I flinch, already bracing for it.

Katherine (1:19 PM):

Omg I’m SO glad you said yes!!! 🖤 This is going to be so fun. Honestly didn’t think you were the club type but I love a wild card 👀

I swallow hard. The nausea in my stomach doubles.

I stare at the screen for a full minute before typing.

me:

I didn’t really mean to say yes. I panicked.

It sends before I can change my mind. I instantly regret it—but not enough to delete it. I just stare, waiting.

Three dots appear.

Then disappear.

Then return again.

My chest tightens.

Katherine (1:22 PM):

LOL honestly same thing happened to me when I went to my first team party But hey—if you panic-committed, then now you’ve got a reason to go And if it helps… I’ll come pick you up No pressure. No stress. Just a ride with a semi-decent playlist 😎

My throat clenches. That’s... really nice of her. Too nice. Too much.

Why is she being so nice?

me:

You really don’t have to do that

Katherine (1:25 PM):

I know But I want to You’re part of the team. You deserve to be part of the fun too Besides, it’ll be easier walking in with someone than alone, right?

That part hits harder than I expect.

Because she’s not wrong.

Walking in alone would’ve destroyed me. I would’ve hovered by the entrance pretending to check nonexistent texts for twenty minutes, trying to disappear through the floor.

But now the panic shifts.

Because if Katherine picks me up… if I go…

They’ll see me.

Not blurry camera me. Not muted Zoom square me. Not vague voice-on-a-call me.

Me.

My body. My face. My everything I try so hard to keep tucked behind oversized hoodies and safe little rectangles on a screen.

And I won’t have Vicky.

She’s too far away. Hours away. No teleport button. No last-minute rescue.

I glance at the corner of my room where the dress Vicky once made me buy is still hanging—tags on, dusty from months of pretending one day I’d wear it.

My fingers hover over the keyboard again.

me:

They’re all going to see me for real

I don’t even know if I meant to send that. But I do.

And she replies instantly.

Katherine (1:29 PM):

Yeah And that’s a good thing You’re more than just a voice on Slack. You’re cool. People will love you. And if they don’t? Screw them. I’ve got your back.

I stare at the message until the letters blur a little.

I don’t know what I expected. A brush-off? A vague “you’ll be fine”?

Not this.

Not kindness.

Not support.

And instead of feeling reassured, all I can think is: I’m going to let her down. She doesn’t know how weird I look. How awkward I am in real life. How I fold in on myself when people make eye contact.

My hands shake as I put my phone down.

I feel like a burden.

A walking, talking inconvenience.

But Katherine didn’t make it feel that way. She didn’t hesitate.

And now the clock is ticking.

Two days until the event.

Two days until I have to be seen.

Two days until there’s no hiding.

The next evening

The sky is already dark when my phone buzzes again.

Vicky’s calling.

I almost let it go to voicemail—I’m too wrapped in the knot of dread sitting in my stomach—but then I remember her last text:

"You better answer or I’ll assume you’ve turned into a blanket goblin."

Fair.

I accept the video call and flip the camera. My hoodie’s still on. Hair’s up. Bare face. Blanket wrapped around me like a depressed burrito.

Vicky’s face lights up the screen the second the call connects. She’s got a clay face mask on and a mug the size of a soup bowl in her hands.

“Yooo,” she says, squinting at me. “There’s my favorite gremlin. Look at you. So glowy. So... suspiciously bundled.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Hi.”

She narrows her eyes. “You look like someone who accidentally agreed to something horrifying. Tell me everything.”

I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the couch. “I said yes to going to a company team-building party.”

Her brows shoot up. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… willingly?”

“No. I panicked. They asked me in the Zoom meeting. Out loud. In front of everyone.”

Vicky winces. “Oof.”

“I said yes because my brain short-circuited and I didn’t know how to say no. And now Katherine’s all excited and she’s picking me up and everyone’s going to see me.”

I drop my face into my hands.

There’s a pause.

Then Vicky gently says, “Okay. Breathe. Just… pause the spiral for a second.”

I peek at her through my fingers. “I don’t want to go, Vick.”

“I know, babe. But maybe… hear me out… it’s not the worst thing ever?”

I roll my eyes.

She continues, sitting up straighter. “Look, I get it. Being around people is exhausting. Especially people who’ve only ever seen you from the neck up through a laptop screen with soft lighting and pixel blur. But maybe it’s also—kind of—a big deal that you said yes?”

“I didn’t mean to say yes.”

“But you did. And maybe that’s your soul doing some sneaky internal growth while your anxiety wasn’t looking.”

I snort, despite myself.

She grins. “I’m serious. You’ve been hiding for so long. What if this is your brain’s way of going: hey, what if we just tried for one night? Just one.”

“I don’t think I’d look good in anything…” I mumble. “Everyone’s going to look amazing and I’ll look like someone’s exhausted older cousin who wandered in by accident.”

“You are so dramatic,” Vicky says, sipping her tea. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. And if you want, we can raid your closet together. I can help you pick something. Virtual wardrobe montage, 2000s romcom style. Or maybe you still keep that pretty dress I gifted ya?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “Of course I do..” I took a glance at the dress hanging in my wardrobe whose doors were wide open and sighed quietly. Maybe I should just wear it?... “God, remember when we used to actually do that?”

“Yup. And you always looked better than me, so shut up.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“And you’re literally going to be fine. Put that dress I gave ya and some sexy smoky make up and you’ll get yourself a man immediately once they see how pretty you are.” She joked. Or did she?

I exhaled slowly, chewing on the edge of my blanket.

Vicky’s voice softens. “I know it feels terrifying. But it’s just one night. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be the life of the party. Just show up. Have a drink. Exist.”

I pause. “That’s already a lot.”

“I know,” she says. “But I also know you. And I think… deep down… some part of you wants this. Wants to be seen. Wants to be out there, even just a little.”

My chest tightens at that. She’s not wrong. That part does exist.

I just don’t know if I can handle it.

She raises an eyebrow. “Also, let’s not forget… there’s always a chance Jungkook shows up.”

I groan. “Oh my God. Vick—”

“I’m just saying! Downtown club? Underground fighter with rich-kid rebellion vibes? Sounds like his kind of scene.”

I bury my face again. “He doesn’t even know my name. I was literally wearing a blanket and panic-wheezing the last time he saw me.”

“Which is iconic,” she says with a smirk. “A mystery girl with a nicotine aura and oversized hoodie chic? He’s probably haunted by you.”

I laugh, this time louder. It feels weird to laugh this much.

It feels good.

I sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” she says simply. “And if it sucks? You leave. You can lie, say you feel sick. Blame a mysterious food allergy. I’ll back your story from four towns away.”

I smile at her through the screen, heart aching in that familiar way. “I wish you were going with me.”

“Me too,” she says. “But you’ve got this. And if nothing else, you’ll get free drinks and something to text me about at 2 a.m.”

My chest still feels tight, but a little less so.

Maybe, just maybe, I can survive this.

Maybe.

Friday. 7:45 p.m.

Any minute now.

Katherine said she'd be here at 7:50 sharp, and her texts have been consistently enthusiastic in that exact “I-will-drag-you-out-with-love-if-I-have-to” tone.

The clock on my phone reads 7:45.

I’m standing in front of the mirror.

And I can barely look at myself.

But I do.

Because I have to.

The dress Vicky gifted me hugs my body in places I usually try to erase. It’s soft black fabric—slightly structured but flowy enough to move in. Not tight. Not shapeless. Somewhere in between. It cinches a little under my chest and floats down from there, and yeah—it technically hides the parts I always try to shrink… but it doesn’t make them disappear.

Nothing could.

My arms. My thighs. My belly.

Still there. Still mine.

I shift my weight. My shoulders are hunched, posture defensive like I’ve spent a lifetime trying to take up less space. I force myself to stand straighter, but it feels foreign—like wearing someone else’s confidence.

My hair’s curled, but not polished. Messy on purpose. Loose and imperfect. I let a few strands fall over my face to soften everything, hide a little behind the veil of effort.

My makeup… I surprised myself.

A soft wing of eyeliner that actually looks even. Mascara that didn’t smudge. Clip-on earrings—little silver hoops—because I’ve always hated needles. And the lipstick.

God.

Red.

Bold. Loud. The exact kind of color that draws attention, and I don’t know what possessed me to wear it but here it is. On my mouth. Like a statement I’m too scared to say out loud.

I bite my bottom lip, testing it.

Still there.

Still vibrant.

And then the boots. Chunky, black, reliable. My little leather jacket. A crossbody bag just big enough for my phone, my ID, and my emergency excuses if I decide to flee.

The whole look… it’s not perfect.

But it’s mine.

And it’s been so long since I looked like this. Since I tried.

Since I showered, styled my hair, painted my face with intention instead of hiding behind foundation and prayer.

It’s strange.

I look almost like a version of myself I used to imagine. Not the girl on Zoom. Not the girl curled under blankets avoiding the world. Not the ghost who scrolls through Instagram and feels like she lives on the outside of her own life.

No—this version?

She exists.

And she's going out tonight.

I take one more look.

And then another.

I wish I could say I love what I see. That I feel powerful. Beautiful.

But really—I just feel… real.

And maybe that’s enough.

My phone buzzes.

Katherine (7:47 PM):

Outside! 🚗✨ You ready, queen?

My stomach flips.

This is it.

No turning back now.

I swipe on a final layer of confidence, inhale slow through my nose, and grab my bag.

One shaky step toward the door.

And I whisper to my reflection—so quiet I barely hear it myself:

“Let’s just try.”

The door clicks shut behind me.

The night air hits my skin like a soft warning—cool and sharp against the warmth trapped under my leather jacket. The street glows in soft orange hues from the overhead lamps, casting my shadow long across the pavement.

My boots clink softly with every step.

Each one feels louder than it should. Like they’re announcing me to the world.

I spot it almost immediately.

A red Chevrolet Camaro, sleek and shining like something out of a movie, parked right in front of my building.

Of course it’s Katherine’s.

It fits her—bold, polished, unapologetically attention-grabbing.

She’s already in the driver’s seat, one perfectly manicured hand on the wheel, the other holding her phone, probably cueing up a playlist. The interior lights glow faintly, outlining her profile like she stepped out of a commercial for glam and success.

I pause at the curb, take a breath, and circle around the car.

The closer I get, the more aware I am of everything—how my dress moves, how my hair feels, how exposed my legs are above the boots. I hope the lipstick hasn’t smudged. I hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.

I open the passenger door and slide in, the leather seat cold against my thighs.

“Hey!” Katherine beams, bright as ever. “Oh my God, look at you! You look gorgeous!”

I blink. “Me?”

She nods so fast her ponytail bounces. “Yes, you! I mean, I always suspected you were hiding a baddie under those hoodies, but damn.”

I laugh, quietly. “Thanks… you look amazing too.”

And she does.

Her platinum hair is curled and glossy, her skin glowing like a dewy Instagram filter. She’s in this glittery blush-toned mini dress that hugs her like it was tailored just for her. Her lips are glossy pink, heels sparkling like something ripped from a Barbie runway.

She looks like she belongs in a club.

I… look like someone playing dress-up in her big sister’s closet.

The confidence I built in my room wavers just a little. Just enough to notice.

But I breathe past it.

I try.

Katherine pulls away from the curb, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air drift in.

We make small talk. Work stuff. Light jokes. I let myself laugh, even if it sounds a bit too high-pitched.

“You nervous?” she asks, glancing over at a red light.

I nod. “A little.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You already did the hardest part—you showed up. Everything else is cake.”

I nod again, forcing a small smile. “Cake.”

We were supposed to arrive at 8:20.

But traffic hits just outside downtown. One of those long, inching slogs where brake lights stretch out in front of us like a never-ending warning.

Katherine doesn’t seem fazed. She just leans back, taps her fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song playing, and throws occasional commentary about the guy in the next car who keeps checking her out.

I, on the other hand, sit perfectly still—my fingers clenched tight in my lap, counting down the seconds, watching the time slip away like it’s water running through my hands.

8:30.

8:40.

8:50.

Finally—finally—we pull up in front of Riot Club.

The street is already buzzing. Neon lights pulse against the sidewalk. There’s music thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat, and the line to get in snakes down the block.

Even with our name on the list, even with a reserved section upstairs—just seeing the crowd makes my breath hitch.

People everywhere.

Laughing, talking, dressed like they’re made for the spotlight.

My smile falters.

Every instinct in my body screams go home. I could walk back to the car. I could make an excuse. Say I got sick. Say I forgot something. Say anything.

But Katherine’s already opening her door.

She climbs out in one graceful move, standing tall in her heels, dress glittering like it’s alive.

She walks around to my side and opens the door before I can stop her.

Her hand extends toward me like a challenge.

“You ready?” she grins.

I glance at the club entrance. The crowd. The bouncer. The stairs.

My throat tightens.

But I reach out and take her hand anyway.

Because it’s too late to turn back now.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to.

The bass hits first.

Even before we step fully inside.

It pulses under my skin, loud and relentless, like someone’s holding a speaker up to my chest and daring my heartbeat to sync with it.

The bouncer checks our names—Katherine flashes him a smile that probably gets her through most doors in life—and just like that, we’re in.

Riot Club lives up to the name.

The air is thick with heat and sweat and perfume that doesn’t quite mask the alcohol. The lights are low—deep reds and pulsing blues, flickering like a heartbeat in strobe—and the music...

“Dime por qué lloras / De felicidad…”

“El Teléfono” is blasting through the speakers like it’s 2008 again and we’re dancing in someone’s garage after drinking vodka from a water bottle. The beat pounds so hard the floor itself vibrates. People crowd the dance floor, hips moving, arms lifted, heads thrown back in laughter.

Everyone looks like they belong here.

I feel like I just walked into someone else’s dream.

We push our way through the crowd, Katherine’s hand hooked around my wrist, guiding us like she’s done this a thousand times. And maybe she has.

I stumble once. Apologize to someone who doesn’t even hear me.

And all the while, my brain spirals.

I’m twenty-six years old.

I have a full-time job. I pay my rent on time. I buy my own groceries. I have a plant that hasn’t died yet. I’m technically a grown woman.

But walking through this crowd?

Hearing this music?

Heading up the stairs to the VIP section of a club like I’m someone who does this regularly?

It feels wrong.

Like I stole this night from someone else’s life and I’m going to get caught at any moment.

Because no matter how much time has passed—no matter how many birthdays have stacked up—I still feel sixteen sometimes.

Sixteen and anxious and deeply unsure of myself.

Sixteen and pretending to be cool when I never knew how to dance.

Sixteen and quietly guilt-ridden about staying out past ten, even when no one cared.

My parents never checked in. Never enforced curfews. I could’ve stayed out till dawn and no one would’ve blinked.

But I still tiptoed home.

Still felt like I was doing something wrong.

Still played the part of the good girl.

The quiet one. The one who didn’t drink too much. The one who didn’t get into trouble. The one who didn’t let anyone too close.

And now here I am.

In a club. Wearing red lipstick. Walking past strangers with glitter on their cheeks and drinks in their hands. Climbing the stairs to a private section like I belong here.

And I don’t.

I don’t.

I grip the railing tighter.

Katherine glances back at me once, beaming, shouting something I can’t hear over the music. I nod, smile faintly, keep walking.

Even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t know how to say it. Not without sounding ungrateful. Not without disappointing her. Not without confirming what I already believe:

That I can’t do this.

That I don’t fit.

The VIP section is a little quieter. Not by much. Just enough that the bass doesn’t feel like it’s rattling my teeth. There’s a sleek couch setup, a long glass table filled with small plates, fancy drinks, and coworkers already laughing, already loose.

They see Katherine.

They see her.

And then they see me.

Eyes flick over me in passing—some smiles, a few nods, one girl I recognize from Zoom gives me a friendly wave—but no one says anything just yet.

Still, I feel it.

Seen.

And not in the romantic, movie kind of way.

In the raw, terrifying, naked kind of way.

The kind where the hoodie doesn’t save you anymore.

I sit at the edge of the couch, trying to make myself small. The leather squeaks under me. I smooth my dress out, sip water from a sweating glass, and try to remember how to act like I belong in my own life.

Maybe if I fake it long enough, I’ll start to believe it.

The lights up here are softer.

Warmer.

Still dim, still flickering from the music below, but not as harsh. The kind of glow that makes people look a little better, a little more relaxed, a little less intimidating.

I sit with my drink—water, for now—gripping the glass too tight and trying to remember how to function.

A few coworkers drift over. People I recognize from work chat and project check-ins and endless Slack threads.

Samantha from accounting compliments my earrings.

Miguel from marketing asks if I like reggaeton.

Liam—who’s always joking in meetings—offers me a plate of mini empanadas and says, “You clean up nice.”

They’re all friendly. Genuinely.

There’s no cruel undertone. No judgment. No whispered looks.

Just warmth.

But I’m still quiet.

Smiling politely, saying thank you, answering questions with short but safe replies. My hands never quite stop fidgeting in my lap or tapping the rim of the glass. My eyes scan the room too often, like I’m waiting for someone to tell me I’m not supposed to be here.

Because I don’t feel like the girl they’re talking to.

I’m still wearing that invisible hoodie. Still hunched, still hiding behind practiced small talk and careful laughter.

But if Vicky were here?

I’d be different.

She’s seen me sobbing in the dark, surrounded by snacks and shame and silence. She’s seen my worst spirals, my messy breakdowns, the parts of me I try to keep hidden from the rest of the world.

And she stayed.

That’s the difference.

That’s why I can be silly with her. Loud. Soft. Raw.

With other people? I’m just this version. Polished edges and apology eyes.

Until—

“Alright, alright, look at this crew!”

Greg walks in like he owns the room—because technically, he does. Our manager. Balding but confident, shirt half-tucked, wearing some kind of printed button-up that says cool boss energy more than business formal.

People cheer, a few stand to greet him.

He raises a glass of something amber and laughs. “Glad you all made it out of your caves. I was starting to think half of you were AI.”

More laughter. Even I smile.

Then his eyes sweep the room.

They stop on me.

And something shifts in his expression. Not unkind—just… surprised.

“Y/N?” He squints, then chuckles. “Wow. I didn’t recognize you without the hoodie and messy bun.”

The comment makes me freeze for a split second—but he says it casually, without malice. Just surprise.

I laugh.

A real one, kind of. The kind that’s a little unsure, but still genuine.

“Yeah,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “I almost didn’t recognize me either.”

People chuckle softly. Katherine beams.

Greg walks over and clinks his glass gently against mine. “Well, you look great. Glad you’re here.”

He takes the empty seat beside me and starts chatting with everyone—asking Miguel about his dog, teasing Samantha about her Spotify Wrapped, telling Katherine he still doesn’t understand TikTok.

And slowly—so slowly—I start to relax.

I take a deeper breath.

My shoulders loosen.

I set my empty water glass down on the table, flag down the server, and when she leans in, I hear my voice say:

“Can I get a cherry vodka and Red Bull?”

She nods.

My heart hammers.

Bold.

Stupid?

Maybe.

But I want to feel something. I want to taste something sweet and fizzy and wrong. I want to be a little more than this shell. Just for one night.

Just for a few hours.

The music shifts to something smoother, more danceable. People start standing up, moving closer to the balcony railing that overlooks the dance floor.

I lift the drink when it comes. It’s pink and fizzy and tastes like rebellion.

And for the first time tonight—

I let myself smile.

Not the polite one.

The real one.

The vodka’s hitting.

Not in a dizzying, blackout kind of way—but warm and weightless. Like I’ve floated half an inch above all the anxiety pressing on me for years. My limbs feel light. My smile keeps slipping out easier.

I’m laughing with coworkers. Actually laughing.

Samantha and I bond over our mutual hatred for Slack emojis. Miguel and Katherine are fake-arguing about who danced worse in high school. Liam keeps sliding plates of snacks toward me like I’m going to vanish if I don’t keep eating.

I let myself exist here.

Music hums through my bones. Bass in my ribs. My third vodka tastes like childhood candy and bad decisions. I sip it anyway.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Maybe an hour. Maybe five minutes. Time doesn’t work properly in clubs.

I lean back into the plush couch, my knees tucked close, boots dangling off the edge. I’m warm, surrounded, not invisible for once—and weirdly okay with it.

Until it happens.

Voices at the stairs.

Low, laughing.

Footsteps on metal.

I glance toward the staircase, not really focused, eyes soft from the buzz. Just another group coming up to the VIP—nothing unusual.

But the shift in energy is immediate.

A few people at our table—Katherine, Miguel, even Greg—perk up, smiling, waving.

“Yo! You made it!” someone calls out.

I blink.

Samantha lifts a hand, grinning. “That’s my cousin—he actually showed up!”

I follow their line of sight without thinking.

A small group of guys is climbing the stairs. Most of them dressed in that effortless, too-cool-to-try way: dark shirts, silver chains, tattoos peeking under sleeves. Confident. Comfortable.

And at the back—

No.

No way.

Everything stills.

The vodka buzz disappears like it was never there.

Because he’s there.

Jungkook.

Climbing the stairs, slow and deliberate, head slightly tilted as he surveys the space. Black button-up open just enough to show the tattoos crawling down his chest. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy, damp at the ends. Silver hoops in both ears, a glint of light catching the ring on his lip.

He looks like a storm barely leashed.

Like he’s too real to exist in the same night I’m pretending belongs to me.

My heart lurches, tight and hot.

I don’t move.

Katherine shifts beside me—and I can feel her stiffen.

She knows.

She remembers.

“Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath, wide-eyed. “That’s Jungkook.”

I already know.

Of course I know.

He reaches the top of the stairs just as a few people from our group go over to greet them. There are hugs, loud voices, handshakes.

And then—

He looks up.

And sees me.

Our eyes lock.

Just for a second.

But it stretches.

His expression doesn’t change—no dramatic reaction, no double take. But I see something flicker in his gaze.

Recognition.

Memory.

Stillness.

Like maybe he’s just as surprised as I am.

Maybe.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Because in all the daydreams, in all the hypothetical versions of this night where something wild and cinematic happens—I never once imagined he’d walk through the same door.

And I never imagined I’d be seen like this.

Not by him.

Not without the hoodie.

Not without the shield.

Just… me.

In red lipstick and messy curls and boots that suddenly feel too loud.

The moment breaks when someone claps Jungkook on the back and laughs too loud.

Just like that, the energy shifts again—back to motion, to noise, to people moving around her like the ground isn’t still tilting beneath her feet.

The guys from the stairs reach our group, folding in with the kind of ease that only people born into comfort can pull off. One of them—tall, handsome, full of charisma—grins and raises his drink like a toast.

“This the famous marketing team?”

Laughter.

Greg stands, already pulling chairs closer, greeting them like old friends.

“Glad you made it, man. We were just talking about how you never show.”

Someone’s cousin. Someone’s friend. A small flood of introductions happens as people shift to make room.

They’re laughing, shaking hands, slapping backs, sliding into the booth with practiced ease. And then one of them—black curly hair, a cheeky grin—gestures around the group.

“I know Katherine, and Sam, and this loud dude—” (he points at Miguel, who mock-scowls) “—but I don’t think we’ve met everyone. Introductions?”

Katherine, ever the social butterfly, takes the lead.

She starts going around the table with names and small “she’s the one who handles client crises at lightning speed” or “this guy eats peanut butter straight from the jar at work” types of comments. Everyone laughs along.

But they’re getting closer.

And then Katherine’s hand gestures toward me.

“And this,” she says with a soft smile, “is Y/N.”

My stomach drops.

All eyes shift to me.

I feel the weight of it instantly.

His eyes, especially.

I can feel them on me like heat through glass.

I stiffen. My cheeks flush—instant, impossible to stop. My fingers tighten around my glass, and for a second, I debate saying I forgot how to speak.

But I don’t get that choice.

Everyone’s watching. Expecting.

So I force it out.

“I—uh—hi. I’m Y/N.” My voice is small. Nervous. But it doesn’t shake.

One of the guys smiles, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

Another throws out a “cool name.”

I nod, offering a tiny, polite smile.

But I can feel how red my face is. I can feel the way I’ve curled into myself again—shoulders hunching, legs crossed, one boot tapping lightly against the floor.

And when I glance—just a flicker, just for a second—

Jungkook is watching me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not amused. Just… there.

Still.

Present.

I look away fast, heart rattling in my chest like it's trying to crawl up my throat.

Greg says something to the group that makes them all laugh, and the attention shifts again.

Relief and embarrassment swirl together in my stomach like oil and water.

No one said anything weird. No one laughed at me. No one even stared too long.

But still—I feel like I just stood under a spotlight with a sign around my neck that said this is what anxiety looks like.

I take a slow sip of my drink, the cherry vodka suddenly too sweet, too sharp.

And all I can think is:

He knows my name now.

The music thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat.

It’s late now. Maybe close to midnight—maybe later. Time has gone slippery.

Most of the group has thinned out. Some are on the dance floor, bodies weaving under flashing lights. Laughter spills from the stairs every few minutes. Katherine’s nowhere in sight—last I saw, she left giggling with one of the guys, disappearing into the haze of music and bodies.

The couch is quiet now.

Except for me.

And him.

I’m sitting at the far end, drink mostly watered down from melted ice, cradled between both hands like it’ll anchor me to the moment.

Jungkook sits at the other end, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, thumbs moving lazily over his phone screen.

The silence between us is loud.

But not awkward.

Just heavy. Like static before a storm.

I glance at him once—just a peek—and catch the slope of his nose in profile, the soft curve of his bottom lip, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheekbones in the low lighting.

He’s real.

And somehow still unreal.

I look away.

Focus on the condensation dripping down the side of my glass.

And then, after what feels like an entire hour compressed into ten seconds, he puts his phone face-down on the table.

I feel it before I see it.

His eyes on me.

I look up.

And he’s looking directly at me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not soft. Just... real.

And then he speaks.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

My breath catches.

“I’m not—” I start, then stop.

He raises a brow, like he’s giving me a second chance to be honest.

“You are,” he says calmly. “At the store. At the park. That night at the fight. You keep running.”

His voice is quiet. Low enough that it doesn’t rise above the music, but it slices straight through it anyway.

He leans back slightly, his gaze still locked on mine.

“I try to talk to you,” he says. “Be friendly. Say hey. But every time, you act like I’m about to bite you.”

I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I…” I swallow. My cheeks are burning. “I’m just… not good at—”

He waits.

I try again. “At talking. To people. I’m not used to... this. Attention. Or—whatever this is.”

His head tilts slightly, the edge of his lip quirking. “But you’re here now.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re here,” he says, motioning around with a small gesture. “At a loud-ass club. In makeup. In a dress. Sitting across from me. Talking.”

I fidget with the straw in my glass, fingers slippery with nerves.

“I didn’t really mean to come,” I admit, voice barely above the music. “They asked in front of everyone, and I panicked and said yes. Then Katherine guilt-tripped me into following through.”

Jungkook chuckles. It’s soft. A little amused. “And the park?”

I bite my lip.

He continues, voice low, not teasing. Just… curious. “You sit there like you want to disappear. But you keep showing up.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Because he’s right.

I do keep showing up.

Even when I don’t know why.

Even when I’m terrified.

“I just…” I try to find the words, voice catching halfway through. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

That gets him.

His brows draw together, like he’s actually confused by that.

“Waste my time?” he repeats, slowly. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “Because... I’m not like the people you’re usually around.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not interesting,” I murmur. “Not fun. I’m awkward. Quiet. I don’t look like…” I gesture vaguely toward the dance floor, where people are laughing, effortless, magnetic.

His expression doesn’t change.

He just watches me.

And then he says, simply, like it’s obvious:

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to be.”

That silence comes back—thick and humming between us.

I can’t look at him.

But I feel it.

The shift.

The undeniable fact that I’ve been seen.

And not just noticed.

Seen.

The moment between us teeters—suspended in some strange, weightless pause where I almost feel like maybe, maybe, I belong in it.

But then, the universe does what it always does.

It reminds me.

A voice cuts through the moment. “Yo, Jungkook, what’s up, man?”

I blink, and a coworker—Jake, I think, from another department—plops down on the other side of Jungkook, grinning, already pulling him into some conversation about mutual friends and “remember that night at Noir?”

Jungkook gives me one last glance, like he’s trying to hold the thread of whatever just passed between us.

But the moment breaks.

I stand quietly, smoothing my dress out of habit.

“I’ll be back,” I murmur, not sure if anyone hears me.

I slip away from the couch and head toward the exit—out of the music, out of the lights, out of that sudden, overwhelming visibility.

Outside, the air is cooler.

Crisp, biting.

I dig into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes and lighter. My fingers are clumsy, the adrenaline from earlier still lingering in my veins. My boots click lightly against the pavement as I make my way a little off to the side of the club entrance.

But I’m not alone.

A group of guys—maybe four or five—are huddled nearby, already smoking. Laughing in that careless, half-drunk way that makes everything sound louder, meaner.

I light up and keep my distance. Hug the wall. Eyes down.

I just need a minute.

A breath.

But then I hear it.

At first, it’s just fragments.

“Did you see that chick inside—” “—the one with the big boots and the red lipstick?” “Dude, she was huge.” “Right? I didn’t know they let heavyweights into VIP.”

My heart sinks.

My hands freeze.

They don’t say my name. But they don’t have to.

I know.

My throat closes.

My eyes burn.

I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just keep smoking like maybe the nicotine will hold me together. Like maybe if I stay perfectly still, they’ll forget I exist.

But the words keep echoing.

Fat.

Huge.

Laughter.

It doesn’t even matter if they meant it to be cruel.

It still hurts.

And I hate how used to this I am.

I hate how practiced I’ve become at not reacting.

My eyes sting harder, and I blink fast, trying to will the tears back. My lips tremble, but I take another drag like that’s going to help.

Then I hear footsteps.

Heavy ones.

And before I can look up, I hear a low, familiar voice—tight with something dangerous.

“Is there a problem?”

I glance to my side.

Jungkook.

Standing there.

Still. Cold. A different kind of presence entirely.

The group falls silent immediately.

One of them—a guy in a bomber jacket, who was laughing the loudest—straightens up, eyes wide.

“Oh shit—Jungkook, bro—nah, man. No problem here.”

The others murmur quickly in agreement.

Jungkook doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just stares at them.

The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

The guy in the bomber jacket laughs nervously. “Didn’t know you were out here. We’re just chilling, man. All good.”

Jungkook’s voice is calm. Steady. But it cuts.

“You sure?” he asks, head tilted slightly. “Because I heard something different.”

More stammering. More backpedaling.

They recognize him.

Not just as a guy—they recognize who he is. What he’s capable of.

“There’s no problem,” one says again, voice lower now.

Jungkook looks at them a beat longer. Then turns, stepping between them and me, placing himself just enough that it feels like a shield without saying it out loud.

He doesn’t look at me yet.

Not until they’re gone.

And when they finally scatter, awkward and mumbling and fast-walking down the block, he finally turns back.

His voice is soft now. So different from before.

“You okay?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

But my eyes give me away. They always do.

He looks at me, really looks at me, and says, “You don’t have to act like it didn’t hurt.”

And something inside me almost breaks open.

Because no one’s ever said that to me before.

Not like that. “Would you like me to drive you home? I am with my car and I haven’t drank any alcohol..”

I shake my head again, trying to keep my voice even though everything inside me is fraying. " I—I’m okay. I’ll just get home on my own."

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

Instead, Jungkook crouches a little so his eyes are level with mine. His expression is careful—not pitying, not forced. Just… present.

“Okay,” he says softly, like he actually means it. “Cab then?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“I know we barely know each other,” he continues, like he’s reading the swirl of panic in my chest. “So I won’t offer to drive you. But I can call a cab. One of the companies I trust. They’re discreet. Safer than calling some random app.”

My throat tightens.

This shouldn’t be this hard—saying yes to help. But my brain is spinning. My skin still feels too thin from earlier. From everything. And yet, the way he says it, like he’s handing me a choice instead of cornering me into one… it makes something in me ease. Just a little.

I nod. Barely.

He stands back up and pulls out his phone.

The silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just there.

He doesn’t fill it with words.

And I’m grateful for that.

I swipe at my cheeks again, trying to fix the damage, but I can feel the dried salt along my skin. I probably look like a wreck. Red-rimmed eyes, broken voice. Meanwhile, he’s standing here looking like a painting with bruises—too vivid, too unreal.

I shift awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “For… being like this.”

His brow furrows.

“Don’t do that.”

I blink, startled.

“Don’t apologize for feeling something.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Whatever it is you’re carrying,” he says, eyes never leaving mine, “you don’t owe anyone an explanation for it. Least of all me.”

And goddamn it—

That does it.

The tears threaten again, fast and hot, and I hate that he’s seeing it, hate that I’m breaking apart in front of someone I barely know, but also… some traitorous part of me is grateful he stayed. That he didn’t walk away the second things got messy.

His phone vibrates, and he glances down at it.

“Cab’s three minutes out,” he says. “Black Toyota. Plate ends in 52.”

I nod again, trying to gather the pieces of myself, trying not to fall apart in this alley outside a warehouse full of noise.

He doesn’t speak again.

But he doesn’t leave either.

We stand there in quiet, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. Close enough to feel his presence—warm, grounded, steady.

I don’t look at him.

But I feel his gaze on me, not heavy or invasive. Just aware. Like he’s keeping watch. Like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time.

And for some reason… that’s what almost breaks me.

Not the noise. Not the night.

But the kindness.

The softness in a place built for hard things.

I don’t know what this is. Or what it means.

But I know this much:

I won’t forget it.

Not tonight.

Not him.

Not the way he didn’t try to fix me.

Just stood close enough to make the silence feel safe.

The cab pulls up, headlights cutting through the haze of the alley. I turn to thank him one more time, my voice small, frayed at the edges.

“Thanks again. For… everything.”

Jungkook nods once, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his bruised jaw catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. He doesn’t smile—not really—but there’s a softness in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before.

As I reach for the car door, he speaks—low and steady.

“Next time you see me…” His voice pauses like he’s picking his words carefully. “…don’t avoid me.”

It’s not a request. Not a demand either. Just… something in-between.

A truth offered.

I swallow hard and look at him, really look at him, the air thick between us.

I nod once.

And I get in the cab.

The ride home is quiet. My phone stays in my lap, untouched. The driver makes a couple polite comments, but I’m too far gone to answer. I keep replaying his words in my head.

Don’t avoid me.

He noticed. Somehow, he noticed I was trying to disappear.

By the time I reach my apartment, the exhaustion hits like a freight train. My body feels heavy. My mind is foggy.

I strip off the dress, drop it carefully onto the chair like it’s made of glass. Wipe off the makeup with shaking hands. My face feels raw without it, but also… clean.

I throw on a giant sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, the familiar cotton hugging all my softest parts. The mirror reflects someone who looks like she almost let the world see her—and didn’t die.

I fall into bed like gravity doubled, pulling me straight into the mattress. The last thought in my head is him.

And then nothing.

The next morning

It’s still early when I wake.

Too early.

But the light filtering through the blinds is soft and peach-colored, like the sky is still deciding what kind of day to be. I don’t usually do this—wake up before the world—but something feels different today.

Lighter.

Not good. Not fixed.

But less heavy.

I pad into the kitchen, make my usual coffee. Black, no sugar. The bitterness feels like a small punishment I’ve earned.

I open the balcony door and step outside into the cool morning air, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands. One cigarette, one lighter, one breath.

I sit down in the old rusted chair I thrifted years ago and take the first drag, then sip the coffee while the smoke curls up and disappears.

My phone buzzes.

Vicky 💜 Morning weirdo. You awake or still emotionally hungover?

I smirk, thumb tapping quickly.

me: Awake. Balcony. Smoking. Watching the world not fall apart. You?

Vicky: Laptop. Lecture in 30. Hair in a bun. No bra. We thrive.

She calls me seconds later.

I answer, camera off.

“Morning, professor.”

She groans. “Don’t. I already spilled soy milk on my notes and the Wi-Fi’s acting like it’s allergic to responsibility.”

I laugh, and she immediately softens.

“You sound better,” she says.

I stare out over the rooftops, watching the sun ease its way up over the buildings.

“I feel… less awful.”

“Want to talk about it?”

So I do.

All of it. From the moment I ducked into that bathroom and overheard those girls, to the way my brain spiraled out of control so fast it almost derailed the whole night.

“I know it was stupid,” I say quietly, flicking ash off the edge of the balcony. “Like… why did I let it get to me that bad?”

“Stop.” Her voice cuts in, firm but warm. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“I just—I felt like I was nothing again. Like I was thirteen, hiding in the locker room, praying no one noticed how much space I took up.”

Vicky sighs softly, the sound of her fingers clicking on keys in the background. “Y/N… you reacted like a person who’s lived through real pain. That’s not something you just… outgrow. It lingers. Triggers happen. Doesn’t make it less real just because it looks small from the outside.”

I blink hard, pressing my lips together.

“And,” she adds, voice sly now, “you didn’t let it ruin everything. You still showed up. You let someone help you.”

I hesitate.

“He called me a cab,” I admit, softer now. “After I told him I didn’t feel safe getting in a car with someone I barely knew. He just… listened. Said he’d order it for me if that’s what I wanted.”

There’s a pause.

Then a delighted gasp.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s so hot. Are you kidding me? Gentleman behavior and emotional intelligence? Marry him immediately.”

I snort. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s kind of terrifying. But also not? Like, he looks like he could ruin your life but also fold your laundry.”

Vicky cackles. “Danger with a heart. A classic. We love to see it.”

I smile, blowing out a stream of smoke and watching it fade into the sky. My chest still feels bruised, but not broken.

“He told me not to avoid him next time.”

“And are you going to?”

I pause.

Let the silence stretch.

Then quietly: “I don’t want to.”

Vicky hums. “That’s my girl.”

She sighs. “Okay. Gotta go pretend I’m an expert in child development now. But I love you. And I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me.

“Love you too.”

She hangs up.

And I sit there for a while, cigarette gone, coffee cold, but heart just a little warmer than yesterday.

Maybe next time… I won’t run.

Maybe next time… I’ll let him see me.

Really see me.

Even the parts I’m still learning to look at myself.

I’m still on the balcony, staring at the last swirl of smoke disappearing into the sky when my phone buzzes again.

Katherine 🖤 Hey girl. You okay? You left kinda abruptly last night.

My heart skips a beat.

I pull my hoodie tighter around my arms and unlock my phone with a thumbprint I wish could delete anxiety.

me: Yeah. I just wasn’t feeling great. Needed some air.

She replies almost immediately, like she’s been waiting.

Katherine 🖤: That’s what Jungkook said. He told everyone you weren’t feeling well and called you a cab. Total protector mode 🥺

My stomach flips.

He told them?

I can’t decide if that makes me want to curl up and die or… smile.

me: Wait—he told you that?

Katherine 🖤: Girl. The second someone asked where you went, he just said “She wasn’t feeling well. I got her home safe.” Dead serious. And then he dipped.

me: He left?

Katherine 🖤: Yup. Like 10 minutes after you. Wouldn’t even take a drink. Just left. Honestly? Kind of hot.

My blush hits hard and fast, warming my cheeks like I just stepped into a furnace. I pull my knees up on the chair, hiding behind the ceramic coffee mug like it might cool me down.

Katherine 🖤: Also… I got laid 😇

I blink. Hard.

me: WHAT???

Katherine 🖤: Yeahhhh. One of Jungkook’s friends. Tall, dimpled, criminally good at neck kisses. Literally the best sex of my life. Like I think I astral projected at one point??

me: Oh my god, Katherine.

Katherine 🖤: Don’t “oh my god” me. You’re the one who got rescued by a bruised, tattooed underground prince and rode home in a cab he summoned like a damn knight.

me: I rode home. You rode a man.

Katherine 🖤: LMAOOOOOO okay point for you. But still. How are we in the same city and you get the brooding fighter who leaves parties early for you?

I bite my lip, trying to smother the growing smile, but it’s useless.

Jungkook.

The way he stood there in that alley.

The way he didn’t push, didn’t question, just… saw me. Called a cab. Stayed until I was safe. Told them I wasn’t feeling well so I wouldn’t have to explain myself later.

And then left.

For me?

Katherine 🖤: Just saying… if you don’t text him, I might.

I roll my eyes, thumbs already moving.

me: Back off. He’s terrifying and possibly capable of reading minds.

Katherine 🖤: Perfect. He can hear me thinking you better text her, you emotionally unavailable legend.

I laugh, clutching the mug to my chest as the city wakes up around me.

Something about today feels different.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But maybe… like the beginning of something.

Like maybe I'm allowed to be seen.

Bruised, messy, soft, and still worthy.

And maybe the boy who left early to make sure I got home safe... maybe he saw that too.