#FORKS ARE SCRAPING THE BOWLS

[evilvampwhore]

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

[gojosconsort]

OMG I love your writinggg

I'd kill to see a husband Kento who's holding himself during dinner to not just ruin his poor and overly sensitive and innocent wife in front of the poor salad in the dinner table lmao

Have a great day/night/evening! ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔσ”

“so, how’s your day?” you ask your HUSBAND!KENTO, voice all soft and perky, twirling your fork through the salad like you’re not fucking tearing him apart. the dining room glows under the chandelier, that bowl of lettuce and tomatoes sitting there, untouched. kento stabs a cherry tomato with too much force, popping it as he keeps his hands busy while he pictures shoving his cock down your throat, spit dripping all over the table.

“fine,” he says, chewing slow to focus on something—anything—but the way you smile, all innocent in that floral dress hugging your curves just right. his slacks tighten, and he shifts, the chair creaking under him while he fusses with his napkin, picturing bending you over right here, ripping that dress up, fucking you ‘til you scream. he clears his throat, loud and rough, but it’s useless against the thought of pinning you down and fucking you raw.

you take a bite, lips parting, a slick of dressing catching the light, and he spears his plate again, scraping hard, thinking about pinning you down, marking that smooth throat ‘til you’re hoarse. “you sure you’re okay, honey?” you ask, tilting your head, eyes wide and sweet. that dress shifts, flashing collarbone, and he grips the fork tighter, knuckles whitening as he sees himself biting it.

“Just tired,” he mutters, a weak lie as he shoves another bite in his mouth to stop himself from lunging across the table. you nod, buying it, and keep eating, brushing your lips with those delicate fingers while he imagines those wrists in his firm grip behind your back up, pounding you from behind ‘til you’re sobbing—and he nearly chokes. the table’s solid. he knows it’d hold.

he adjusts his tie, fumbling for control, and chugs his water, but it’s pointless against the heat pooling in him while he imagines spreading you wide right here, fucking you ‘til the plates rattle. “—and then she says the deadline’s next week, but i think—” your voice fades to static as you ramble, and he stares at your throat bobbing with each swallow. he’s lost in thoughts of gagging you with his tie, filling you ‘til you’re dripping his seed all over the floor.

“kento?” you frown, pausing with that soft worry, and he exhales hard through his nose, setting his fork down with eerie calm, the clink sharp in the quiet. he’s losing it, hands itching to grab you, ruin you.

“finish your salad,” he says, low and tight, standing and stalking around the table while he thinks about flipping you over, tying you up, making you beg ‘til he’s buried in you. his hand grazes your shoulder—you shiver, and he feels the threads of his restraint snap one by one. “then we’re done here.”

the salad could wait—he couldn’t.

[whambambatfam]

Webs of a Wing

Chapter 3

It's scrunkly time.

I hope you guys like it, I wasn't so sure about this one. T∆T

Reader ages 12 - 15

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Not long after Grayson's departure from the manor... He came along, Jason Todd.

Coming in, rough around the edges, and bringing joy to the hollow halls. Ones you've roamed like a ghost on your own for years. He's got more adolescent defiance than your whole clique put together. The type of energy that shook up the old bones of this old house and awakened hope in your heart once again.

This was the kid's first time having a solid roof over his head, warm bed to sleep in, decent food to eat and people to worry about him, a real home. Unlike Bruce, who couldn't come to terms with your relations or Dick, who felt threatened by it. Jason was loud and clear in his intentions, he wanted to make the most of his new family. Including you.

A boy with black hair, blue eyes, and a stocky build for a twelve year old stands besides Alfred. “Master Jason will be living with us in the manor. He'll be a brother of sorts to you, just as Master Dick.” but you didn't want this to be like your and Dick's unstable relationship.

Alfred smiled at the determination set on your face as you gave him your name, “It's nice to meet you.” your hand quickly outstretched to the boy, “Uh, I hope.. we can be.. friends?”

Jason's face lights up your offer, taking your hand in his, “Yeah, friends. ‘Never had a sibling before.” Tugging you closer, his hand in yours pulls you along, “Come on, show me around.”

From then on, your days spent with only Alfred for company had a new, refreshing addition. 

Alfred has allowed the two of you to start cooking your own breakfast unsupervised. Given that you don't burn the kitchen down. “How many times have you done this?” Jason huffs as he picks egg shells from the bowl he's whisking. They slip through the tongs of the fork as he scrapes them along the side.

Pouring your egg mixture into the frying pan, you smile teasingly at him. “Only a few.” You take the bowl from his frustrated hands, “Try this, it might be more your speed.”

He accepts the wrapped loaf of bread with a scowl. Pulling out the toaster with a grumble, “I'm not an idiot, I know how to fend for myself.” 

“I never said you were. I've seen you do all kinds of stuff.” You move to the sink, wetting your fingers to pluck the last bits from the bowl. “

Jason turns away, stuffing four slices into the double toaster. “So it's just cooking that i suck at?” He drops his head on the counter, arms crossing as he grumbles.

Returning to the stove, you move your own cooking egg to the side. “No! You're the best at, like, everything you do.” Tipping the contents into the pan it sizzles to life again. “A few shells won't change that.”

There's pink clinging to his ears at your praise, “I'm not good at everything..”

“Oh my- obviously!”

“What!?” Sputtering, he whips his head around.

“It's bruning!” Yanking the plug from the toaster, the blackened squares pop up together. Three out of the four of them come out half charred. 

“Tha-that doesn't count.” The heat creeping up his neck flushes his face. “You distracted me!” 

“Uhuh, yeah.” You slide the omelet onto a plate for Jason as he replaces the burnt bread. “Your eggs are done.”

Jason is quick to deflect the old butler's inquiries on the smell of burnt bread. You'd hate to have your kitchen privileges revoked. When you offer to teach him how to crack eggs and use the toaster, he tells you to shut up with an obscured smile.

You were happy. Even when the newest boy wonder was busy training his nights away with the Bat. Talking about Bruce, spending time with him, connecting with him like you never could. Even when Dick started to hang around again. Coming to the manor, eventually joining the occasional patrol. Now Nightwing, protector of Blüd Haven. Brand new spandex, stupid big collar, and everything.

It didn't hurt to see him appear to come around slowly to his successor. Eventually accepting his replacement with relative ease. When you would always just be a thorn in his side, locked in a one-sided fight for first.

"You know how to fight, right?" The two of you were sitting outside. It was as muggy as Gotham usually is but it felt nice to be out.

He snorts, tossing a stone hard across the water. "Of course. Can't get by on the streets without." The small rock hops only twice before sinking.

Swiping a smooth stone from the shoreline, you run your finger along it, inspecting each divet and groove. "Can you.. teach me?" 

Sure, you were trained in martial arts but, being on the mat differs from being on the street. While your work in Gymnastics has helped you slip through and run when need be. You knew you might have to fight back one day. Maybe you wanted to.

There's a huff of exasperation behind you "Yeah, no, not happening." 

Dick Grayson's approach was silent until he wanted you to know he was there. Arms crossed and face already set in an unimpressed look.

“What?!" Jason jumps to his feet, making his way swiftly over, "I could totally do it!" 

"Then what?" With a raise of his brow, he scoffs, "Get grounded forever?" 

"It's not like I'm gonna take them-" Dick cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Stop, Jay. You're only going to get the both of you in trouble." The older siblings' hands make their way to his hips.

Tossing your rock across a water's surface, it skips along three times before sinking. “I'm not exactly new to it.”

You're almost surprised when Dick actually responds. "I'm sorry, kid. Bruce isn't going to be happy about it either.” 

As if he would even notice. "You wouldn't have to be so.. worried if I could be taught to defend myself.” Sighing in irritation, you turn your gaze back to the water.

“You don't need to, we can protect you just fine." Dick steps up behind you, patting your head. The contact catches your breath painfully and you have to fight the urge to swat it away. "And if you really don't want anyone to worry. Stay home. Stay safe." Stay out of the way. 

When he finally leaves, you feel like you can breathe again. Jason's abrupt grasp pulls your attention back to him, "Dickie and the old man can blow smoke." His grin was brighter than the sun, his hand clasping yours as he pulled you to your feet, "Let's go."

You can't fight the pull at your own lips, feet stumbling to catch up to his sudden pace. "Right behind you."

No, it didn't hurt. Because you won't let it, because, despite it all, he always came back to you. 

After packing your schedule with martial arts training Mondays and Wednesday before stitch work and knitting circle with Alfred. Gwen decides to join your gymnastics, her studies leaving her sitting at a desk too long. Tuesdays you drag both girls to self defense classes, you've seen enough shit go down with the birds. Also, it's Gotham, they should be better equipped to handle themselves. Your photos with Mj for the paper is due Thursday morning in time for the paper to come out on Friday. That leaves the weekend up for grabs. This one in particular was claimed by both your friends and brother.

“Whatcha readin’?” 

Jason jolts in his seat, slapping his hand over his mouth to subjugate any embarrassing noises. With a bark of your name he whips around to find you snickering over his shoulder. 

Cerulean eyes narrow as he grumbles at you. “How do you do that.. it's unnatural.” 

It was unnatural to he who trains under the Bat. You used to hate being unintentionally sneaking. Mj and Gwen can pick you out of a crowd of clones, there's no way you could sneak up on either of them. But, other people? Shrieking when they finally realized you were in the same room as them. That only made you feel even more invisible, and not in the ways you wanted.

You scoff, “That's dramatic.” Now, with Jason, you can finally get a laugh from it. Settling down on the couch beside him, you recognize the book in his hand, “Hey, that's one of mine!”

Swiping it away before you have the chance to snatch it, “Ha! Shouldn't have left it out.” he lifts the novella over his head, tongue stuck out at you.

“It was in my room, on my bed.” You huff, jumping for it as he stands, holding it over your head. 

“Yeah, it was, wasn't it?” Jason smirks, waving the book just out of reach, “Y'know, you actually have taste. Sometimes.”

“Give it back!" Grabbing his forearm you try pulling it down but do better at lifting yourself off the ground.

"I'm almost done." He chuckles into his fist at your frantic cat like swiping.

"Wow. So, this is the totally cool brother you've been talking about?” At the sound of a new voice, he snaps his attention to Mj. Arms crossed as she leaned against the archway to the living room.

“Dunno.. Sounds like a bully to me.” Gwen chimes in coming up besides her. She mirrors Mjs stance, doubling the judgemental

The book falls from Jason's hands and you catch it. Tucking it away safely under your arm.“Wha- uh, no! I am totally cool, ask them!” Jason whips around to hiss at you, face flushed with mortification, “Why didn't you tell me you were bringing your friends over?”

You roll your eyes, “I did. That's, like, the one thing we talked about before school this morning.” You can just barely hear the strained ��Oooooh, right.’ as he mumbled something about a long night under his breath. Of course, he tries to make a ‘smooth’ recovery only to be blasted by your friends. You do, eventually, come to his defense.

It's nice to bring these two sides of yourself together like this. Jason may make an ass of himself but at least he knows how to not lose face completely. It makes you proud when, at the end of their stay, they sing his praises. Insisting on involving him again in their next visit to the manor. 

He came home, he sought you out, he wanted that connection you craved. The one thing you wanted, for one of them to look away from the stage of their busy lives and find you there. Waiting at home, creating that solace from a bustling world beyond these solid walls.

Creeping your door shut, you slide the lock closed. Having someone walk in on you was never a worry before. Now, whether it be doing homework together, exchanging books, deciding anything, general complaining and gossip, avoiding chores, especially hiding from Bruce and occasionally just to annoy you. Your brother struts in whenever the whim strikes him. The prick.. Shuffling to the bed, you land on it heavily alongside your bookbag. Books, pencils, and such escape their confines, your camera ferried out on top of the pile.

With a stretch and sigh, you get ready to nip pick. Three folders, each with a plethora of candids, articles, and notes. One in particular is becoming just a smidge overcrowded. Threatening to spill its contents every time it's jostled a bit too much.

What can you say? Your brother serves more than just justice in that cute lil Robin suit, and his action shots are the best. The guy is out there having fun and it shows. Your friends even agree when you can't help gushing over your late night photography sessions.

Well, after calling you crazy for going out at night in this city. Especially, with how close to the fighting you had obviously gotten. It may have taken a while to convince them that you weren't going to get yourself caught up in the middle of a Riddler maze or Two-face shoot out.

Deciding which should go in and which should come out is always a tedious process. The one with better exposure or with neater composition? You've already got a shot of him perched on that same gargoyle but, this one's a year old now. Maybe you could keep both, like a comparison, but you couldn't possibly.. maybe.. Then you'd go over your count and need to tosse another and you'd have to pick which and-Your cell rings. 

Lost in thought, the noise makes you jump like a cat at the loud sound. Swiping the noisy thing off the sheets, you answer with a huff.

“Heyyyy.. Sorry, I can't make it tonight..” Jason's voice came through the phone with tight regret, “I've got, uh... something came up. Tomorrow, I promise.”

It was a phrase you've heard before, more times to count. They'd use such weak excuses, only for tomorrow to never come. There was no later.

“Yeah, it's okay Jay.” The response was automatic, coming without a thought. How could you deny their call to action? There were always going to be things more important. “I get it. Just.. be safe, okay?”

“Of course, not like I'm doing anything crazy. I'll be with Bruce, we're fine.”

So, it didn't hurt that he tried keeping you in the dark like they did. You knew his concern was real, his care genuine. At least you want to know that he meant it, that he wasn't trying to push you aside. You'd just have to trust him.

“Up there! It's Batman!” A young boy yelps and tugs at his mother's arm, finger raised to the sky.

Eyes cast upwards, you watch as they jump from one building to the next. Capes billowing in the wind behind them. Following close, you run along sidewalks and duck through alleyways to keep up.

Pulling your camera up, you snap shots of Robin as he leaps off a rooftop. Capturing him mid-air, bright yellow fluttering behind him. The domino hardly masking his face of sheer joy paired with intense focus. His were always your favorite, filling his folder was easy. You wish you could show him some of the pictures you have of him. Maybe someday the two of you could go through it together. Would he find it creepy? Hopefully not...

You would never dare voice it but, you were envious of them. When they took to the soggy Gotham skies, gliding with ease above it all. Mouth hung agape, you watched the wind blowing through Jason's hair, and Dick with his flips and twirls. Even Bruce, using his cape to glide alongside them.

Well, maybe you told- “Alfred!” Your ride’s here and your mad dash through the city has been cut short.

“Crime alley is no place for an upstanding teen.” He tuts with a smile as you reach the car. Always a pinch of sugar with his scolding, “Come along, let's get home.”

Hopping in beside him, you can't keep your eyes off the stars. “I want to fly like them one day...” With a hum, He drives you two back to the manor.

Life is feeling better by the day. It's as if everythings clicked into place. The years you get with him are the most whole you feel. The only real sense of normalcy throughout your youth.

That night, he was home late despite not being on patrol. You overheard, well eavesdropped, that Jason was put off duty. Still he was out on his own, positively pissed, and came home after dark. Heading straight to his room, he brushes off Alfred, insisting on being left alone.

You can't help finding yourself standing anxiously at his door anyway. It didn't feel right, letting him fester in his anger alone. Knocking yields no results but, calling out his name softly earns you the same in return.

Opening the door slowly you peek in to see him, sitting on his bed with a box. His face is grim but he waves you in, motioning for you to sit with him. You do, placing yourself at the foot of his bed. Across from him with a box of papers and photos between you. Jason fiddles with an old looking photo, scanning it over and over. 

"I know you don't like talking about it, but," He swallows thickly before his eyes can meet yours pensively. "You, um, got a mom, right?"

It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of you. Yeah, you didn't like to talk about it, let alone think about it. "I guess, technically." You shrug it off the best you can, "I mean, ya know, everyone's gotta come from somewhere."

He rolls his eyes, dropping the picture back into the cardboard. "Yeah, no shit, that's not what I'm saying."

Really? You came to check in on him. Now you’re being snipped at over something he knows you're sensitive about. "Well, then, I don't want to know if your just-" Before you can fully lift yourself off the bed, he's gripping your wrist.

"Wait! I'm sorry, don't go!" His fingers tremble around his hold on you. He tries not to squeeze you too tightly while still keeping you close. "I-I just.." His other hand grips the box enough to crumple the cardboard under it.

"Jay..." You sigh, this unusual distress from your brother making giving in easier "I don't know. Maybe before but, I don't remember back then." Just nightmares of things you couldn't grip the memory of fully. Thinking of your mother and what she may have gone through with you? Only if it could help with whatever's eating at him, "I can't remember anything before being here. Blurry faces, locations I can't place. I didn't even know what her name was. Can't remember her face.."

When you sit back down he finally releases you. A hand runs through black curled, "I shouldn't have asked. Sorry if it's..."

"No, it's whatever. Who cares? Just..." You shrug, looking over the darkening Gotham sky, "Must not have been anything good." Fingers twist into the sheet below you in unease.

It did hurt though, every question slipping through your finger never to be answered. Flitting past your mind painfully when you linger too long on the past.

Your eyes are drawn back to Jason as he pulls a paper from the box. "I got some stuff earlier and..." He shows you old documents and photos that he was given by an old neighbor. You recognized the little Jason with, from what you're told, his father and stepmother. 

His explanation paused as you cooed at his baby face, which he does not appreciate. So, the woman who raised him, who passed, wasn't the same as his birth mother, who's alive. "I think I can find her but I don't know how long it'll take. I"

"That's," Blinking a few times at plie of evidence towards his childhood, you look back at him. "alot, but I'm sure if anyone could do it, that's you."

"You're not gonna.. try to talk me out of it?"

"Would you listen?" You raise a brow at him, his shoulders shoot up in turn, guilt evident. "Exactly." With a smirk you help him pack away everything. His face still knit pensively even after he sets the box aside, you scan the partly packed suitcase. It starts to feel too real but you know there's no helping it. So, you offer him all you can, taking his hand in yours, "Look, I don't know where you're going or what you're doing exactly but,” You squeeze his fingers and he returns it, “I trust you and I'll always be here for you."

Jason pulls your connected hand, rigging you into a tight embrace. "Thanks." His chuckle waivers against your shoulder, arms constricting around your midsection.

You repay his embrace in kind, forgiving the crushing weight of his hug as you blink away tears. "Just, please, stay safe. Okay?"

"Of course, look at who you're talking to, I'm the definition of cautious." He pulls away enough to give you a winning grin and you return it with your hardest 'You're joking, right?' face. "Alright, fine. I'll be careful. I'll be safe. Promise.”

“So, how are you getting there?" You sit crossed legs on his beds as he packs his bag. Chin resting on your palms you tilt your head as his rifles around his pocket.

“These!” He presents her a literal handful of credit cards. "I'll be flying, first class, duh” he notices your dropped jaw. "Please don't tell Alfred..." 

Teeth snapping shut, hands dropping to your lap, you blink at his little card haul, “Jason," you sighed, exasperated, “Where are you going?"

“The.. middle east?” Chuckling nervously as he stuffs them away, he watches the concern grow on your face at just how far he would be going.

“Your- Please, if you listen to anything I say. Jason.” You grab his shoulders, setting him with your sternest look “Do not die.”

“Oh my- Seriously?!" Rolling his eyes he shrugs your hands off, “I'm not gonna die!"

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[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° stranger, that's all i see

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the 7th ( and last ) part to my seven petals, all poison series! ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.8k

♡ content — sae itoshi x fem! reader , sae and reader are 30-31 ish , established relationship ( married ), divorce hinted at ( and said toward the end ), one sided relationship, sae falling out of love with reader, harsh sae, tbh idk what else to add :), not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Ten years ago, you fell in love with a rising star in Spain. A whirlwind romance, a quiet wedding, a promise of forever. But forever is starting to feel like a one-sided vow. Sae Itoshi still wears his ring—but the space beside you in bed stays cold. And love, as it turns out, doesn’t survive on silence.

── .✦ when i look into your eyes, a soulmate who wasn't meant to be

You used to think silence was romantic.

In the beginning, there was something beautiful about sitting next to him in a café with nothing to say, yet feeling everything. Fingers lightly brushing over ceramic coffee mugs, eyes meeting across the table, your knee barely grazing his under the small table. 

You always thought he was a storm kept still just for you. Even his quiet held weight, meaning.

But now?

Silence is a weight you carry alone.

You stare at the seat across from you—his seat. Your fork scrapes across porcelain as you push asparagus and roasted chicken around your plate, untouched. 

Another dinner alone. 

Another meal you plated with too much hope. 

You still try, out of habit. 

You’ve been trying for ten years.

Your eyes flick to the digital clock on the oven.

9:47 PM.

You used to wait.

Now, you just clean up.

You met him in Madrid, fresh out of university, wide-eyed and brilliant with a pen. 

You were a translator at first, then a sideline reporter, and then a full-on broadcaster with glowing reviews. Your Spanish lilted and playful, your insight sharp. 

You caught his eye with the way you didn’t flinch at his silence. How you challenged him, even when others backed away.

Sae Itoshi was the prodigy.

You were just...you.

He said he liked your honesty. You liked his contradictions. He was all ice, but when he touched you, he burned.

You dated for a year. Engaged the next. Married the one after that. It was fast, but it made sense. You were both dreamers in your own ways. He had a career that stole him from the world. You had a world you were willing to shrink, just to stay in his orbit.

At twenty-four, you thought love was enough.

You’ve grown into a different version of yourself—your thirties are here. Your friends are planning holidays with their kids, attending parent-teacher nights, adopting dogs they name after old musicians.

You show up to everything alone.

“Oh, where’s Sae?”

You used to smile and say, “Training.”

Now, you sip your drink and shrug. “You know him.”

Because you do know him. Or at least, you did.

But that version of him—the boy who kissed you in your rain-wet hallway after a win, the man who promised you Venice and three kids and a house with a garden—is gone. 

Or maybe he never existed outside the breathless version of him you imagined in your twenties.

When the season ends, he’s home more. Kind of. You wake up to the sound of him showering. You hear him shuffle around the kitchen, pouring cereal, never coffee. He leaves the bowls in the sink.

He doesn’t ask how you are. He doesn’t notice the way your hand lingers on the fridge, or how your eyes are always just a little too glassy.

It’s not cruel. It’s just...empty. And that hurts more.

The house is quiet—too quiet for something so big. The kind of silence that fills your chest like smoke and refuses to leave.

You stand in the living room with your arms crossed, staring up at the one thing in this house that still feels alive.

A portrait.

Large and centered above the fireplace, preserved like a shrine: your wedding photo.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been standing there, just looking at it. But time doesn’t matter. Not in this house. Not anymore.

You, in that dress you spent weeks hunting for—a soft ivory with a dramatic, low back and a train that shimmered every time you moved. You remember how the lace felt under your fingertips. How your cheeks hurt from smiling too much. How your mother cried when she buttoned you in.

And Sae—

Sae looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. His hand was at your waist, his mouth pressed against your temple, and the corner of his lips lifted just slightly in a way no one else ever saw.

You remember everything. The flowers you picked out together. The laughter that rang through the courtyard when your uncle accidentally tripped on the runner. The music—God, the music—you two danced to that soft jazz track he liked. He didn’t even want a first dance until he saw how badly you did.

Your fingers tremble as they drift to the ring on your hand.

You twist it, slowly.

You remember the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when he slid it on. “You sure about this?” he asked, and you’d smiled, breathless. “Always.”

That girl is a ghost now. Her voice lives only in your memories.

You feel your throat tighten.

Then— A voice, sharp and cold, cuts through the haze:

“What are you staring at?”

You jump, heart in your throat.

Sae stands at the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s home earlier than usual. His hair still wet from a shower, his jersey only half-tucked into black sweats. 

He looks tired. He always does now. 

And the worst part is—he doesn’t even try to look at you.

You swallow the lump forming. “Oh. Just our… our picture.”

You smile, soft and nostalgic, still twisting the ring like a habit you can’t break.

“Oh.”

He looks up at it.

His expression doesn’t change. Blank. Like the photo means nothing.

“We need to take that down.”

He says it like he’s mentioning the weather. Like he’s telling you the laundry’s done. Then he walks off into the kitchen, door swinging behind him.

That’s it. The first conversation you’ve had in weeks.

Just seven words. And not one of them about you.

You stay there for a while longer, staring at the photo. At the girl who thought promises meant permanence. At the man who once looked at her like she hung the moon.

You fight for the first time in weeks one morning, over something stupid.

“You said we’d go visit my parents,” you remind him. “They’ve been asking.”

“I have meetings,” he replies, not even looking up from his phone. “You can go.”

“I don’t want to go alone, Sae.”

He finally looks up, brow slightly knit. “Why not?”

You nearly laugh. It’s not funny, but it is—it’s hilarious how little he sees you these days.

“Do you ever want to do anything with me?” Your voice wobbles.

“What kind of question is that?”

You blink. “An honest one.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

There it is.

The sentence that breaks you. Not because it’s harsh. But because it’s indifferent.

You leave the room before he sees your tears.

You have the conversation one night in bed. 

You can’t sleep, and his breathing is slow beside you, too far on the edge of the mattress.

“You know I wanted a family,” you whisper into the dark.

He’s silent for so long, you think he’s asleep. Then—

“I never asked you to stay.”

It’s a knife without sharpness. A dull blade. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Your breath hitches. “Is that what I’ve been doing? Staying?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

And so do you.

The day you leave, he doesn’t fight. Not really. 

He just watches you pack a small suitcase. You leave the rest. You leave the house. 

You leave the life you waited too long for.

But before you walk out the door, you turn to him. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still wearing the shirt you folded for him yesterday.

“I loved you so much, Sae.”

He looks at you like he almost believes you didn’t. “You still do.”

You nod. “Yeah. And that’s the saddest part.”

It’s raining when you step into the cab. Of course it is.

But for the first time in years, the silence inside you starts to sound like peace.

Not absence.

Just...quiet.

The apartment you live in now is smaller. There’s no grand foyer. No marble countertops or a view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Just one bedroom, a couch you picked out by yourself, and a kitchen with mismatched plates and mugs.

It’s quiet here, too.

But not the kind of quiet that swallows you whole.

This one... this quiet lets you breathe.

Still, some mornings are harder than others.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, the rim of your coffee cup pressed to your lips but untouched. 

Your phone buzzes, face-down on the wood. You ignore it. 

You’ve gotten good at that. Letting people reach for you without having to reach back.

But something nags at you. So you flip the phone over.

A headline lights up the screen.

“Sae Itoshi: Better and Better, Even After Divorce.”

At 32, Japan’s prodigal midfielder is aging like fine wine—and nothing seems to slow him down.

Your stomach drops before you can stop it.

The article auto-loads, as if your phone already knew you’d read it.

There’s a photo. He’s on the field in a sharp navy kit. His hair longer than you remember. Still unreadable. Still beautiful in that cold, impossible way.

You skim, even when you don’t want to:

“After a decade at the top, Itoshi continues to impress. His stats have only improved, his stamina unshakable. When asked about his divorce that happened a year ago, the midfielder declined to comment, simply stating, ‘My focus is football.’”

Of course it is.

You set the phone down slowly.

He’s still shining. Maybe brighter than before. And not a single thing has changed.

No stumble. No pause. Just a chapter closed, and a new one opened without you.

You, though?

You left with nothing but your name.

No shared bank accounts. 

No alimony. 

No custody battles—there was nothing to fight over. 

Not even a goldfish to argue about.

You walked away with your clothes, your pride, and a ring in the bottom of a drawer.

And somehow, you’re the one mourning.

Not the man he is now. You don’t even know him.

You mourn the boy who whispered “I love you” in a chapel under Spanish stars.

The man who once kissed your hand like it was sacred.

The version of him who looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Not the stranger who took his place.

And still—

Still, when it rains, you think of him.

Still, when you cook too much food, you instinctively plate two servings.

Still, when the crowd cheers on your TV and they zoom in on him—jaw tight, eyes ruthless, chest rising beneath that number ten—you feel something tug deep in your ribs.

You press the phone face-down again, like it’ll help the ache go away.

The coffee’s cold now, but you drink it anyway.

Because you’re still learning how to live without someone who’s very much alive.

Because some love doesn’t die with divorce.

It just turns into something you have to shove down til it disappears.

ohhh sae you stupid, stupid man

well, that's the end of this series!! I hope you all enjoyed it!

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[bettysupremacy]

okay hear me out!!! Abby telling mike all the things her and y/n did that day, very cliché things but still so cute!! (loosely based off of best day by taylor swift... but...)

it’s like you knew my weak spot was Taylor Swift

“It was the best day ever.” Abby muffles, mouthful of salad.

Mike stands in the kitchen, back to her. He looks silly in a pretty pink apron Abby had picked out at the store, but he doesn’t mind. He wears it to let her giggle at the bow tied behind him. Steam smokes from the pots and pans around him.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks, stress keeping a low profile. He turns the burner nobs to lower settings.

“Yeah,” She emphasizes. “Really, we went to the mall, did you know there was a store just for dolls?”

“Yuh uh.” The pasta water is boiling over, shit. “What’s it- what’s it called? The girl doll store?”

“American Girl Doll.”

“That’s the one.”

Abby shrugs, flicking her bangs before stabbing wildly into her bowl. “It was so amazing, they have a cafe in there.”

Mike’s heart spikes at the thought of you spending money on his sister. It’s thoughtful, truly, but that’s his job now. He took on this roll. “You uh,” he mixes the pasta sauce. “you eat in there?”

“Yes.” She gushes, finishing the remnants of the salad Mike had made her. “But that was hours ago, and I’m hungry again.”

“That’s okay. That’s totally fine. Pastas almost done.”

“Good.” She juts her hand out to Mike, letting him lean over to toss her bowl in the sink with a clatter. “I got lemonade and a cheeseburger.”

“Wow.” Mike smiles, finally at ease with the chaos of cooking. He wipes his hands off messily, resting his them on the counter as he watches Abby with a light grin. “You’ve never eaten those for me.”

“Yeah,” She shrugs flippantly. “it was my first time.”

“I know, you like it?”

“It was soooo good, is the pasta done?”

Mike turns over his shoulder, “Shit, yeah.” He rushes to flip off the timer that now counts down from ten.

“Jar.”

“I’m not putting money in a jar.” He scoffs. “This is my own home.”

He spoons the pasta into a clean bowl, ditching the spoon for a fork when he realizes it’s a hopeless cause. He forks more than he thinks she’ll eat, but that’s okay, because at least she’s eating. She doesn’t have to finish it.

“We didn’t buy a doll.” She pulls the warm bowl in front of her, mixing the pasta sauce into her noodles. “They were creepy, I didn’t like them.”

“I don’t like them either.”

“But she got me a cupcake and ohhhhh my godddd, Mike.” She squeals. “It looked just like Chica’s, I didn’t want to eat it!”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

Halfway through the bowl she taps out. To be expected. Mike isn’t mad. Instead he grabs her plate, scraping the leftovers into dingy tupperware. It’s quiet besides the rumble of AC and Abby. She taps the counter to the tune of a television show she’d been watching earlier.

“Go uh,” He trails off, distracted with the dish.

“Shower?” She helps.

“That.”

“Ok.” She hops off the counter bench, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand messily. “Mike?”

“Yes?” He eyes her over his shoulder.

“I like her. Can we hang out again?”

He laughs turning back around. “Maybe. Go shower.”

[foxtrology]

it ain't me babe (2)

joel miller x reader

series

ao3 link

warnings: no y/n, smut, fluff, age gap, female reader.

word count: 15.k

─────

Six months.

It had been six full months since that night on the porch—since the snow, the whiskey, the ache. Since she’d asked him if it was one-sided, and Joel had looked at her like the truth might kill them both.

It’s not, he’d said. And then nothing had happened.

Not in the way people might’ve expected. There was no kiss. No grand confession. No tangled sheets or impulsive mistakes. Instead, something quieter took root. Something steadier.

They fell into a rhythm.

Mornings meant breakfast at the mess hall—her, Joel, and Ellie sitting in their usual corner table. Ellie griped about early patrol shifts while poking at eggs with a fork, Joel drank his coffee like it was penance, and she—well, she watched them both with a quiet kind of fondness she’d never known how to name.

After breakfast, it was patrol. Joel paired with her every time, without question. They rode side by side through snow-packed trails and frozen rivers, never needing to talk much, though sometimes they did.

She told him about the horse she’d trained to recognize clicker sounds. He told her about a guitar he used to play—used to, because the sound made him too damn sad now.

Afternoons, he’d show up at the stables. Said he was just “helpin’ where help was needed,” but she knew better. He helped muck stalls, repair fences, haul hay bales like they weighed nothing. Never hovered. Never gave orders. Just…showed up.

And when he left, he always found Willie and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. The dog adored him now—probably more than anyone else in Jackson, aside from her.

Their conversations grew longer. Their silences more comfortable. They began moving through the world like a unit—not loudly, not publicly, but with an understanding that didn’t need spelling out.

And her father hated it. He hadn’t said it outright. He didn’t need to.

It was in the way his jaw locked whenever she returned home late from patrol with Joel.

The way his fingers twitched when Joel’s name came up at dinner.

The way he stood just a little straighter when they passed each other in the street, like he needed to remind everyone—including himself—who she belonged to.

“You’re riding with Jack tomorrow.”

The statement came over stew. Blunt. Cold. She looked up from her bowl, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

“No, I’m not,” she said.

Her dad’s eyes were level. “Already cleared it with Tommy.”

“You what?”

“Joel’s off patrol. Jack’s taking his place. You’ll be riding the south route.”

She set the spoon down with a soft clatter. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually. And I did.”

Her voice dropped, flat and dangerous. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“And you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, right,” she snapped. “Because I must’ve lost all sense the second I let a man speak to me.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m protecting you.”

“From what? Joel? He’s not a threat.”

Her father’s voice rose for the first time.

“He’s everything I ever taught you to avoid. Older. Hard. Violent. That man has a trail of bodies behind him longer than the Snake River.”

“He also fixed my trough last week,” she shot back. “And brought a heater during the blizzard. And makes sure I eat when I forget to.”

“That’s not love,” he said, low. “That’s penance.”

She stared at him. Her chest hurt.

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know men like him.”

She stood, chair scraping against the floor. Willie lifted his head from where he laid under the table.

“I’m not a child,” she said. “You don’t get to control who I ride with.”

“I’m not controlling you. I’m reminding you who you are. What you’ve survived. And who you owe that survival to.”

She froze. The words sliced deeper than he intended—and from the way his expression shifted, he knew it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she said, grabbing her coat. “You always do.”

And then she left. Willie followed silently, tail low.

The next morning, she showed up at the stables before sunrise, saddle already over her shoulder. She could see Jack near the gate, rubbing his gloved hands together, clearly waiting for her.

But Joel was there, too—leaning against the barn, one boot braced against the wood, coffee in hand.

She didn’t speak. Just walked past Jack and tossed the saddle onto her horse’s back with more force than necessary.

“You’re not paired with him,” Jack called.

She didn’t look at him. “That so?”

“Tommy said—”

“I don’t care what Tommy said.”

She mounted the horse in one smooth motion.

Joel stepped forward. Quiet. Watchful.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She met his eyes. “I ride with who I trust.”

He didn’t smile. But his gaze softened.

She turned the horse toward the gate. “You coming, or what?”

Joel swung up onto his mount without a word, and together, they rode out before anyone could stop them.

By noon, the snow was falling sideways.

They took cover near an old ranger’s outpost, the kind built back when the woods had still been part of a national park. Inside, the floor was littered with leaves and mouse droppings, but it was dry. Sort of.

She sat with her back to the wall, arms crossed. Joel crouched near the door, scanning the trees like the storm might spit out clickers just for fun.

“Your old man’s not gonna be happy,” he said finally.

She snorted. “He hasn’t been happy in years.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “You and him ever fight like that before?”

“All the time. Just not about you.”

His brow furrowed. “So I’m the problem now?”

She rubbed her hands together for warmth. “No. The problem is that you’re not the kind of person he can control.”

Joel didn’t respond.

“But you don’t try to control me, either,” she added. “That’s why he doesn’t trust you. And why I do.”

Joel glanced down at his gloved hands.

“People talk,” he said after a moment. “About me.”

“I know.”

“They say things. About what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”

She looked at him. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I do care,” she corrected. “But not in the way you think.”

He shifted against the wall. The silence stretched, long and brittle.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, finally.

“Neither do I.”

“But it’s...somethin’.”

She nodded.

“Yeah. It is.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just looked like he wanted to. She sat still, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“I ain’t good at this,” Joel said. “I never was.”

“You don’t have to be good at it,” she said softly. “You just have to show up.”

“I'll show up whenever you want me to,” he said.

She smiled, small and real. “I know.”

Outside, the wind screamed against the cabin walls. But inside, it was quiet. And warm enough.

By the end of the week, Maria got involved. She cornered her outside the stables, one hand resting on the curve of her pregnant belly like a shield.

“We need to talk,” Maria said.

She wiped her hands on her jeans. “About what?”

“Joel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You always this subtle?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Your father’s concerned.”

“Of course he is.”

“And I’m concerned, too.”

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Because Joel’s a threat.”

“No,” she said. “He was a threat. There’s a difference.”

Maria’s expression didn’t change. “You’re young. And he’s Joel.”

“And you don’t like him,” she said.

Maria didn’t deny it.

“I’ve known men like him. My whole life. They only love in moments of calm, and they burn everything when things get hard.”

She nodded once. “Well, I’ve known men like my dad. Who protect so hard they forget how to let go. Who teach you not to trust anyone until you don’t even trust yourself.”

Maria went quiet.

“I’m not asking you to like him,” she said. “But don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Maria’s voice softened. “He’s not going to give you what you want.”

“I’m not asking him to.”

“You will.”

That, she didn’t have an answer for.

That night, Joel fixed her tack room door. It had been creaking for weeks. She hadn’t asked. But she found him there anyway, kneeling in the dark, screwdriver in hand.

She stood behind him, arms crossed, “You always break in like this?”

“Door was open,” he said.

“It’s always open.”

He glanced up. “That ain’t safe.”

“I know.”

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. He stood. Dusted off his hands. The space between them felt thinner than usual. Closer.

“They’re going to keep pushing,” she said.

“I know.”

“They want me to stop seeing you.”

His jaw tightened. “That what you want?”

“No.”

He looked at her like that meant something he didn’t know how to handle. She stepped closer. Just a little.

“I don’t scare easy, Joel.”

“I know that too.”

She was inches away now. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. But she felt him anyway. That quiet heat. That slow, aching want he didn’t know what to do with.

“You ever gonna kiss me?” she asked.

Joel swallowed. And then—finally—he did. It was slow. Careful. Like he thought she might shatter.

She didn’t. She leaned in and kissed him back like she’d been waiting two goddamn months. And maybe she had.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He touched her cheek once, soft. And she let him.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the world held still.

The air between them was warmer now—like the kiss had ignited something neither of them wanted to name yet. Her eyes were still closed, her breath caught halfway in her throat.

Joel hadn’t moved away. Not fully. Just hovered there, gaze flicking between her eyes and her lips like he wasn’t sure if one kiss had been a mistake or a beginning.

Then—

Willie barked. Not once. Not twice. A full, echoing string of sharp warnings from just outside the barn.

Both of them jerked slightly—guilt and tension crackling between them like live wire.

The tack room door creaked open with a creaking groan, and then—

“Oh my god, finally.”

Ellie stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows halfway up her forehead, mouth open like she’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Willie trotted in behind her like he’d done his duty and was now ready for his treat.

Joel took one step back from her, rubbing the back of his neck in that guilty, awkward way she was starting to recognize. His cheeks flushed with unmistakable red, jaw clenched tight as he looked everywhere but directly at Ellie.

“Jesus, Joel,” Ellie deadpanned, “you look like I caught you watching old people porn.”

Her mouth fell open.

Joel groaned, low and pained. “Ellie…”

“What?” Ellie said, spreading her hands like she was the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, I knew something was going on. I’ve seen the way you two hover around each other. The glances. The weird carpentry flirting. It was just a matter of time.”

“I don’t hover,” Joel grumbled.

“You are the definition of hovering,” she shot back. “You probably invented hovering.”

Joel muttered something that might’ve been a curse.

Willie barked again and padded over to sniff Ellie’s boots before flopping down on a saddle blanket like he was bored of all of them.

She couldn’t stop the laugh that rose in her chest—not the full kind, just a huff, but it cracked the tension wide open.

Ellie pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Anyway, I was sent to get you two for dinner before I walked in on your moment. So let’s go. I’m starving and Tommy said if Joel doesn’t show up soon, he's feeding his stew portion to the sheep.”

Joel blinked. “He’s not—”

“He is. I asked.”

The walk to the mess hall was quiet at first—mostly because Joel didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t stop replaying the feel of his lips against hers.

It hadn’t been dramatic. It hadn’t been desperate. It had just…been. And that was somehow worse. Because it meant it was real.

She didn’t know what it meant for tomorrow, or next week, or what she’d say to her father when he inevitably found out, but in that moment, she let herself feel it.

The quiet buzz beneath her skin. The warmth lingering behind her ribs. The small, strange twist in her stomach when she saw how Joel’s fingers still hovered near hers, like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t quite know how.

Ellie, walking ahead with Willie bouncing beside her, didn’t let the silence last long.

“So, what’s the plan now?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with that trademark glint in her eye. “Gonna get married in the greenhouse? Willie can be the ring bearer.”

Joel let out a long sigh.

“Dina can officiate,” Ellie continued, undeterred. “She’s got a great voice.”

“You need to stop talkin’,” Joel muttered.

“You’re blushing,” she pointed out gleefully. “Oh my god, you are actually blushing. This is the best day of my life.”

“Ellie,” he warned, voice gravel and threat.

Ellie turned to look at her. “Can I be the flower girl?”

She grinned. “Only if you promise to wear the dress.”

“Gross! No!”

Joel stopped walking. “No one’s wearin’ a dress.”

Ellie and Willie both ignored him.

The mess hall was warm, loud, and full of the usual clatter of evening routine. Kids darted between tables. Someone had rigged a record player to spin an old folk album in the corner, the scratchy notes of a guitar weaving under the din.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, she saw them—her father and his old friend Jack, sitting at their usual table near the north wall. The second Joel entered behind her, both men straightened, shoulders tightening like they were preparing for a fight.

Willie, oblivious to the tension, trotted directly over to them, tail wagging, ears up. He sat politely by Jack’s knee, earning a scratch behind the ears, then nudged his nose toward her father’s hand with quiet expectation.

Her father didn’t pet him at first. Then, after a moment, he gave one short scratch behind the ear. It was muscle memory, not affection.

Jack whispered something to him, and both men’s eyes tracked her across the room like spotlights. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking toward the far end of the room where Ellie and Dina had already claimed a table.

Joel hesitated behind her for half a second before following.

Dinner was stew. Again. Joel said nothing about it, but she noticed the way he always stirred it clockwise, slow and deliberate, like his thoughts were louder than his appetite.

Ellie, on the other hand, had no such distractions.

“So,” she said between spoonfuls, “Dina and I were talking, and we decided we’re forming a community watch group for your relationship.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A watch group,” Dina chimed in, grinning. “To monitor and track all romantic developments in this emotionally repressed post-apocalyptic will-they-won’t-they we’ve been forced to live through.”

Joel groaned. “Christ.”

“Language,” Ellie teased. “You’ve got children present.”

“You are the child,” he muttered.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re judging you,” Dina continued, spoon tapping against her bowl. “We’re just… observing. For science.”

“This ain’t science,” Joel said, exasperated. “It’s harassment.”

“Only if we write it down,” Ellie said. “Right now it’s just casual undercover work.”

Joel glared at her.

Dina shrugged. “Also, your kid’s been beaming all evening. Pretty sure that’s a good sign.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I’m not his kid.”

Joel looked like he was about to argue, but stopped. Something passed over his face—a flicker of something unspoken and fragile.

He didn’t correct her. But he also didn’t deny it. She caught the shift. Stored it away. Something in her chest tugged a little harder.

Across the mess hall, she could feel her father’s stare like a second spine. She glanced up once—just briefly—and met his eyes.

Hard. Unblinking. Jack was whispering something again, and her father didn’t blink.

She felt Joel shift beside her. His body didn’t move much, but his attention did. Like he could feel it too.

When dinner was over, Ellie and Dina walked ahead, heading towards her home, already planning something chaotic for the next day. Joel and her hung back by the door.

Willie returned to her side, brushing against her leg. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Joel.

Outside, the air was biting. The wind had shifted direction, blowing off the mountains, colder now.

She paused just outside the mess hall. Joel did, too.

“You feelin’ watched?” he asked, quiet.

“I’m always watched.”

He didn’t look at her. Just scanned the street.

“You think he’s gonna say somethin’?”

She shrugged. “He already did.”

Joel’s jaw worked for a moment. “You want me to back off?”

She turned to face him.

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were tired, but not unsure.

“I ain’t gonna make this easy,” he said.

“I didn’t survive this long looking for easy.”

A long pause. Then, “You wanna come by?” he asked, voice low. “I got coffee. Better than the bark stuff.”

Her heart skipped. She didn’t answer. She just started walking in the direction of his house, Willie trotting beside her.

Joel followed. And somewhere in the dark, behind windows and whispers and flickering porch lights, she knew people were watching.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care. Because tonight, the snow was falling quiet again. And she wasn’t walking alone.

Joel didn’t say anything as they moved through the snow-covered street, his footsteps falling into rhythm with hers like it had always been this way. Willie trotted beside them, his nails clicking on the wooden porch when they reached Joel’s house.

The wind howled around the corner of the street, whipping at her flannel, tugging strands of hair loose from her braid. Joel stepped up behind her and opened the door without a word, holding it just long enough for her to pass through before following behind and closing it against the cold.

Inside, everything felt...still.

The house was dim. Warm. Smelled faintly of wood smoke and old coffee grounds. A low fire crackled in the hearth, half-burned logs glowing faint orange. Joel dropped his coat onto the back of the chair, his boots thudding gently as he kicked them off. She followed suit, letting the silence settle, comfortable now. Familiar.

Willie padded straight for the fireplace, circled once, and flopped onto the worn rug with a dramatic huff, nose between his paws.

“You want coffee?” Joel asked after a moment, voice low.

She nodded. “Only if it doesn’t taste like bark.”

A hint of a smile touched his face. “No promises.”

He moved into the kitchen while she wandered the room, taking it in slowly—she’d been here before, once or twice, but never long. Never like this. The place was clean in that practical, utilitarian way—everything had a purpose. A place. But there were little things too, a chipped mug resting on the windowsill, an old paperback tucked spine-up under a pile of tools, a photo frame turned face-down on the table near the window.

He didn’t talk about the past. She didn’t ask. But the ghost of it lingered everywhere, like woodsmoke clinging to the walls.

Joel returned with two mismatched mugs, steam curling from the surface. He handed her one without a word, then lowered himself onto the couch, settling in with a tired exhale. She joined him, tucking her legs beneath herself, mug cradled between her palms.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire, Willie’s low breathing, and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling.

“You ever think about what normal used to be?” she asked quietly, voice half-lost in the rim of the mug.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

“Used to,” he said eventually. “Stopped. Hurts too much.”

She nodded.

“I don’t remember much of it,” she said. “Bits and pieces. Cartoons on TV. My dad cussing at traffic.”

Joel huffed a breath. “Traffic.”

“Right?” she smiled. “Feels made up now.”

He glanced at her, something softening behind his eyes. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you,” she said. “Just... a bigger one.”

That made him chuckle. A real sound, low and rough.

“You tryin’ to call me old?”

“I don’t have to try.”

He gave her a look. She grinned into her cup.

After a while, she leaned into the back cushions, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move. Just shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him. It wasn’t about her safety. It wasn’t about patrol, or her dad, or the town. It was just him, asking if she was okay. Right now. In this moment.

And she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m good.”

The words lingered in the air between them, soft and real. Joel’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught.

She leaned in first. Their second kiss wasn’t like the first. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry.

A slow, burning press of lips that deepened too fast, like they’d been holding back too long. Joel’s hand came to her cheek, his thumb rough with callus, palm warm. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding herself.

He made a sound low in his throat, the kind that went straight to her chest and rattled loose something she hadn’t realized she’d been locking away.

She shifted closer. Into his space. Onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs as she straddled him without hesitation.

Joel froze for a second. Not because he didn’t want it—God, he did—but because of how much he wanted it. His hands found her hips, firm but not possessive. Guiding. Steady.

She kissed him again. And again. His scruff scraped her jaw in the best way, grounding and raw, his mouth tasting like coffee. She buried her hands in his hair, tugged just enough to make him groan into her mouth.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Every kiss was a confession.

Her hips pressed against him, her chest flush with his, and he kissed her like he was memorizing every second of it. His hands slid beneath her flannel, fingertips brushing her back, but never moving further than that—like he needed to hold her close but was afraid of pushing too far, too fast.

She broke the kiss first, barely, her forehead resting against his, breath ragged.

“I don’t wanna stop,” she murmured.

“I know,” Joel said, voice rough, trembling against her mouth. “I know, darlin’. But…”

His hands slid to her thighs, holding her there like an anchor.

“I wanna do this right,” he said. “Wanna do you right.”

She blinked.

He swallowed hard. “You matter to me. More than I know how to say. And I ain’t gonna mess this up by rushin’ into somethin’ and makin’ it feel like it don’t matter.”

She touched his face. Soft. “It already matters.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I need to go slow.”

She nodded. Pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. Slid her arms around his shoulders and tucked herself there, breathing in the scent of him—something undeniably Joel.

Willie lifted his head from across the room, let out a soft sigh, then dropped back down with a thump. Joel chuckled.

“He your chaperone?”

“He's judgmental,” she mumbled into his neck. “Keeps me humble.”

Joel wrapped his arms around her fully then, pulled her close until her chest was pressed against his and her breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Letting it be quiet. Letting it be enough.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her arms went slack. She shifted once in his lap and mumbled something unintelligible into his shirt. Joel looked down and found her asleep.

Her face softened in sleep, all the fight and fire melting into something quiet and safe. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then ran a hand slowly down her back.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What are you doin’ to me.”

He sat there for a moment longer, just holding her.

Then, slowly, gently, he stood. She stirred in his arms, murmured something, but didn’t wake. Her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her hand still clutching a fistful of his shirt.

He carried her upstairs. His knees popped once on the landing, and he muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath, even though Willie was the only one awake enough to hear.

He nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, crossed the room, and pulled back the blankets with one hand. Laid her down like she was made of glass.

She curled into the pillow immediately, one hand searching. Joel stood for a moment, watching. Then he leaned down, brushed his lips to her temple.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”

Willie padded in and laid down at the foot of the bed, ears flicking once before he sighed and settled.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window. Stared out at the snow falling under the moonlight.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to run. Didn’t feel the weight of what was behind him. Only what was here. What was coming.

He looked back at the bed, at her curled up with the covers tangled around her jeans. And for once, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like grief. It felt like hope. And that scared the hell out of him.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window, boots off, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. The snow outside fell in thick, slow flakes, heavy enough to mute even the wind. The kind of snow that blanketed everything until it looked soft—peaceful. Clean.

He’d always hated how quiet winter could be. Made it too easy to think. Too easy to remember.

The fire downstairs had burned low by now, and the house had taken on that particular kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. Upstairs, the only sounds were the occasional creak of the wood beneath them, the whisper of her breath as she slept in his bed, and the slow, rhythmic thump of Willie’s tail every time she shifted under the covers.

Joel watched her. Curled up in a tangle of blankets, mouth slightly parted, one arm reaching for something even in sleep. She looked young. Soft. Peaceful in a way he’d never seen on her face before—like some part of her had finally stopped bracing for the next blow.

And that did something to him. Twisted up something he’d buried so deep it had almost turned to bone.

Sarah. The name alone was enough to hollow out his chest.

She would’ve been in her thirties now. A grown woman. Might’ve been a mother herself. Might’ve had her own porch, her own slow mornings, her own dog sprawled on the rug like he owned the place.

Instead, she was a ghost. Still thirteen in his head. Still asleep in that pink hoodie, curled up against the passenger seat, trusting him with everything.

Still dying in his arms while the world burned around them.

Joel dragged a hand down his face. It didn’t stop the ache. Never had.

He hadn’t let himself think about Sarah—not deeply, not honestly—in a long time. Couldn’t. Because thinking about her meant remembering what it had felt like to lose her. And remembering that felt like trying to breathe underwater.

But tonight, with her��this woman wrapped in his sheets and tangled up in his chest—it was harder not to think about Sarah. About the difference.

About the similarities.

Joel had known her father carried his little girl into the apocalypse. Had watched that little girl grow up in the kind of world no child should. Watched her learn how to hold a knife and set a trap and smile without softness.

Her father had kept her alive. Joel hadn’t. That truth stuck like glass in his throat.

No matter how much good he tried to do now—no matter how many fences he fixed, patrols he ran, meals he shared—it never changed the fact that his daughter had died in his arms, and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

But her? She had made it. Not just survived—but lived. That meant something.

She stirred under the blankets, murmured something incoherent, and rolled over, one hand stretching toward the empty space beside her.

Joel’s heart gave a slow, painful thump.

He stood. His body was stiff—back aching, joints creaking like old wood—but he moved slowly toward the bed. The sheets rustled as he sat on the edge, watching her face for any sign that she’d wake.

She didn’t. Just made a small sound in her sleep and shifted closer.

Joel hesitated only a moment more before slipping under the covers beside her.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she immediately moved toward the warmth, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like she’d always belonged there. One leg slung across his. Her arm curled against his chest, fingers resting just over his heart.

He froze. Then breathed. His hand came up slowly—tentatively—and settled against her back. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The weight of her. Real. Alive.

He closed his eyes. And tried not to fall apart. She didn’t know what this meant to him. Not yet.

She didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shared a bed with anyone. Not for sex, not for convenience, not for heat—but just to be near. To be held. Even in sleep.

She didn’t know how deeply she was undoing him. Didn’t know that part of him—the one that had been cold and locked up for twenty years—was slowly beginning to thaw in her presence. That she was rebuilding things in him he hadn’t thought repairable.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to deserve it. But she was here. In his bed. In his life. And for tonight, that was enough.

Joel pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Closed his eyes. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself fall asleep with something warm in his chest.

Not fire. Not grief. Something gentler. Something dangerously close to love.

That was what settled in Joel’s chest as her breathing warmed his collarbone, her leg still draped across his hip.

The early hours of morning crept in slow and gray, winter’s hush resting heavy against the windows. She slept like someone who hadn’t in a long time—deep, weightless, unguarded. And he held her like he knew the truth, that trust like this was a rare, fragile thing. Not a gift, but a risk.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with her in his arms. Hell, he hadn’t meant to let her fall asleep at all. Not here. Not in his bed, tangled up in him like she belonged there.

But she did. She did, and now he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to wake up without her.

And then someone started banging on the goddamn door.

Joel’s eyes flew open, muscles tensing as he jolted upright halfway, hand instinctively going for the pistol he kept under the side table. Beside him, she flinched, groaning into his shoulder, already stirring.

The knocking didn’t stop. It was angry. Sharp.

A fist slamming into wood like the person on the other side wasn’t just impatient—they were furious.

Joel was already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle her too hard.

“What—?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, blinking blearily as Willie jumped to his feet at the end of the bed, growling low in his throat.

Joel peeked through the slat in the curtains. His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

“What?” she asked, sitting up, rubbing her face. “Who is it?”

Joel turned, jaw tightening. “It’s your dad.”

That woke her up real fast. She pushed the blankets off her, already climbing out of bed, hair a mess, flannel wrinkled, socks half off her feet. “Fuck.”

The knocking turned into pounding.

Joel moved fast. Fixed his wrinkled shirt. He didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to deal with the man who looked at him like he was one wrong breath away from being put down—but he also wasn’t about to let him wake the whole town.

He opened the door. The man standing on the porch wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t red-faced. He wasn’t even speaking. But he was seething.

Her father stood there like a storm barely holding itself together, coat half-buttoned, gloves stuffed into one hand like he’d left in a hurry. His mouth was a hard, straight line. His eyes—

They were looking past Joel. Straight into the house.

Joel barely got a word out before the man pushed past him into the living room.

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs, one sock on, flannel buttoned, her jeans—

Unbuttoned. She blinked at her father. He blinked back.

Then his gaze dropped. Saw the undone fly of her jeans. The bare strip of her stomach. The bed-rumpled hair. Joel standing half between them, tense, protective.

And something inside him snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” her father hissed. “This is what you’re doing now? This is who you are?”

Joel stepped forward, voice low. “Look—”

“No,” her father snapped, rounding on him. “Don’t you fucking speak to me.”

“Then don’t come poundin’ on my door at six in the goddamn morning—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Hey!” she cut in sharply, stepping between them, hands up like she was breaking up two dogs on the edge of a fight. “Stop. Both of you.”

Her dad looked at her like he couldn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him.

“You spent the night here?” he asked, voice too quiet now. Too cold.

“Yes,” she said.

“You slept in his bed?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, already spiraling, “And what, you just couldn’t wait? Had to—what? Throw everything away for a warm body?”

Joel stiffened behind her. Her mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking serious?” she barked. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” he snapped. “I find out from Esther, of all people, that you didn’t come home last night. She saw you sneaking into his house—”

“We weren’t sneaking!” she shouted. “Jesus, Dad—do you hear yourself?”

“You’re in his bed—”

“Because I fell asleep.”

He scoffed. “With your pants undone?”

Joel stepped forward again, voice low but hard. “You might wanna stop talkin’ to her like that.”

Her father’s eyes cut to Joel, and the air snapped tight between them. “Don’t act like you’re not loving this. You’ve been sniffing around her since day one. You think I don’t see it?”

“I never touched her without her say-so,” Joel said, jaw clenching. “Never crossed a line.”

“You think that makes you good?” he sneered. “You think that makes you different from the men who came before you?”

Joel’s face darkened, but he didn’t respond. Her voice cut the tension clean in half.

“I undid my jeans,” she said, voice flat, arms crossed. “Because I was sleeping in fucking jeans, and I wanted to breathe. That’s it. I didn’t sleep with him. We didn’t even take our clothes off.”

Her father’s mouth opened—then closed again. The silence that followed was brutal.

She stared at him, tears burning hot at the corners of her eyes. Not because of shame. But because she knew this wasn’t about Joel. Not really. It was about control. About fear. About her growing into someone her father couldn’t protect from everything anymore.

She turned on her heel, “I’m going home to take a shower,” she muttered.

Willie immediately rose to his feet and followed.

Joel stood frozen in the doorway as she brushed past him, barely catching her sleeve. “You okay?”

She looked up at him. And nodded.

“Thanks for not yelling,” she said softly.

He gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes flicked back to her dad—still standing in the middle of the room like he wasn’t sure whether to hit something or collapse.

Then back to Joel.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice gentle. “You will.”

She left. The cold slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, but it felt good. Grounding. Willie padded beside her, ears flicking, nose twitching at the air.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Didn’t even curse. She just walked. Because there were things she couldn’t fix right now.

Her father’s fear. Joel’s guilt. The parts of herself still learning how to be wanted without being someone’s responsibility. But this? This was hers. And she’d made her choice.

Back inside Joel’s house, the silence was thick. Her father hadn’t moved.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face, then walked to the front door.

“You ever raise your voice at her like that again,” he said, quiet, dangerous, “we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Her father said nothing. Just stood there, shoulders square. Joel didn’t press. Didn’t push. But he meant it. He always would.

Because whatever this was between them—it wasn’t just about kisses on a couch or coffee and half-smiles.

It was about her. And Joel wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. Joel meant it.

He meant every damn word, even as her father turned slowly to the door, not saying a thing. Just stared at Joel with a glare that could’ve split ice, shoulders rigid, fists clenched like he was still deciding whether or not to take a swing.

Joel didn’t move. He just looked back. Calm. Solid. And then her father spoke, low and cold,

“You touch her wrong. You hurt her. You make her cry one time—I will kill you.”

Joel didn’t blink. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Her father stared for one more long second—then turned and walked out without another word. The door slammed behind him.

Joel stood there, shoulders tight, breath slow.

The sound of her fading footsteps down the snowy road still echoed in his ears. And something in his chest felt a little emptier than it had before. Not because she was gone. But because she’d walked out carrying pain she didn’t deserve.

And that? That tore him apart. She didn’t cry on the way home. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back.

But by the time she made it to the porch, her jaw was locked so tight it hurt, her fingers half-numb from how hard she’d clenched her fists.

Willie waited quietly as she opened the door, his tail flicking gently, eyes on her like he could feel it—like he knew something inside her had cracked.

She stripped off her flannel, tossed it onto the kitchen chair, and didn’t stop until she was in the bathroom, steam already clouding the mirror.

The shower was hot. Too hot. She didn’t care. She stood under the spray, hands braced on the tile, eyes closed, chest heaving.

It wasn’t just her dad. It was Esther.

Fucking Esther.

Who the hell did she think she was? Running her mouth to him of all people. Just because she saw her walk into Joel’s house and didn’t see her leave?

She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, dragging her nails down her arms like she could scrape the frustration out of her bones.

Esther had been circling Joel since the day he arrived in Jackson—always lingering too long at the gate, always talking just a bit too sweet whenever she handed him a plate at the mess hall. She was kind, sure. Capable. The kind of woman who got along with everyone. But he had said it himself,

“I’m not interested.”

He’d said it weeks ago. Quiet and certain, when they were sitting on his steps, sharing jerky and silence like it meant something.

And she’d believed him. Still believed him.

But Esther didn’t know how to let go. And now she’d run to the one man she knewwould go ballistic.

She turned off the water, furious all over again. The towel she wrapped around herself felt suffocating. So did the house. So did the thoughts racing like wildfire in her head.

She needed to work. She needed the barn.

The air smelled like hay, cold metal, and horse musk—the kind of grounding, raw scent that reminded her where she came from. What she’d built.

She got to work without saying a word. Shoveled feed. Replaced water buckets. Brushed out dried mud from hooves, oiled leather reins, unlatched stalls and mucked out shit with a rhythm that felt damn near religious.

Willie laid in the hay beside the mare she liked best—Sparrow, a stubborn gray with more attitude than sense. He didn't bark, didn’t move. Just watched her with those solemn eyes that always made her feel like he knew.

She didn’t want to cry. But her hands shook.

And when she dropped the bucket and it clattered loud against the wood, she whispered a sharp, “Fuck,” and bent down fast, pressing her forehead to the cold side of the stall, eyes shut.

She didn’t even hear the barn door open. But she felt him. His presence always arrived like a change in the air. Subtle but weighty.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

Joel stopped a few feet away. She could hear his breath. The soft shift of his boots on straw.

“I didn’t invite you here,” she said, voice flat, still facing the stall.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She stayed still for a long moment. Then turned.

His eyes were already on her. Not angry. Not expectant. Just... watching. Waiting.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and picked up the bucket again.

“I’m working,” she muttered.

“I can see that.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He nodded once. “Didn’t come to talk.”

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitated.

“Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” she said too fast.

Joel just looked at her. It made her stomach twist. That goddamn soft patience in his eyes. Like he could see through every wall she’d built and was willing to wait on the other side.

She turned back to the stall. He walked in farther. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he moved too fast.

“You’re mad at me.”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad at Esther.”

He blinked. “Esther?”

“She’s the one who told him I didn’t come home,” she said, slamming the latch harder than necessary. “Probably because she saw me go into your house and assumed the worst.”

Joel frowned. “Why the hell would she—”

“Because she likes you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Everyone knows that.”

His brows pulled together. “I don’t give a damn what she wants. I told you—”

“I know,” she cut in.

The silence hung heavy for a moment. She dropped the bucket in the feed room and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I just… I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Of being watched. Of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m some idiot kid who can’t handle her own heart.”

Joel stepped closer.

“You’re not a kid.”

She looked at him, eyes hot. “My dad—he looked at me like I betrayed him.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He was wrong.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it still fucking hurt.”

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close. Like a shield.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said. “Not me. Not him. Not Esther.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time since she left his house, her shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened.

“I don’t either.”

That cracked something open. Because there was something about hearing him say it—this man who had seen the end of the world and walked through hell and back—that made her feel less alone in her own confusion.

“I keep thinking about what it would’ve been like if the world hadn’t ended,” she said. “If I’d been... normal. Had a mom. A real childhood. If he hadn’t had to give everything up to keep me alive.”

Joel’s face twisted. Just slightly.

“And then I think about you,” she added, voice barely a whisper. “What you lost. Who you were before. And I just…”

She stopped. Joel stepped closer. Close enough to reach her if he wanted.

“I look at you,” she continued, “and I see someone who’s still standing. Still showing up. Even when you’ve got every reason not to.”

He didn’t speak. He just reached out and cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

“You’re worth showing up for,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. And then she leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, arms coming around his waist.

Joel held her. Held her like she was something fragile and real and his.

Not because she asked. But because he wanted to.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the barn stayed warm.

They didn’t kiss. Not this time. There was no heat between them in that moment—just something softer.

He stayed while she finished her chores, silent except for the occasional question.

He handed her tools when she needed them. Held a halter while she tightened the buckles. Rubbed Sparrow’s neck while she brushed her out. Even fixed the crooked hinge on the tack room door without being asked.

Willie followed them everywhere. She didn’t talk much. Neither did Joel. But it was the easiest silence she’d known in weeks.

And when he finally left—after squeezing her shoulder once, firm and warm—he didn’t say goodbye.

Just said, “See you later.”

And for once, she believed it. And she let herself breathe. Just for a minute.

She believed him.

The morning after felt warmer. Not just in the way the sunlight cut through the bedroom blinds, or how Willie laid curled like a living furnace at the foot of her bed—but something deeper. Something steadier.

Maybe she hadn’t fallen asleep in Joel’s arms again.

But she had walked away from him knowing she could walk back.

And that meant something.

Until a loud, violent banging rattled the front door, followed immediately by Willie barking like the apocalypse had come back for round two.

She shot upright in bed.

“Jesus fuck—”

Willie launched off the mattress, bolted toward the stairs.

More pounding.

“Hey! Open up! I know you’re in there! You’re not dead, are you?”

Ellie.

She stumbled out of bed, half-blind with sleep, grabbing for yesterday’s flannel and barely jamming her arms into it as she headed down the hall.

Willie barked again—excited now, more tail-wag than threat.

The banging returned.

"I swear to god—"

“Ellie, stop!” she yelled, just as she missed the last step and nearly pitched forward in her socks. She caught herself on the banister and muttered, “Mother—fuck—”

Willie sat by the door, looking far too proud of himself.

She yanked it open with one hand and blinked hard at the daylight slicing through her skull.

Ellie stood there, fully dressed, grinning like she was on something.

“Wow,” the kid said, stepping inside without invitation. “You look like you just fought a horse in your sleep.”

“I am asleep,” she grumbled. “Or I was. What time is it?”

“Like nine.”

She groaned.

“It’s patrol shift changeover,” Ellie said, dropping onto the couch like she lived there. Willie immediately jumped up beside her, tail thumping, tongue out. “So I figured, why not go bother the only person in this entire town who tolerates me.”

She flopped into the chair across from them, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t tolerate you. I endure you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, already scratching behind Willie’s ears. “He missed me.”

“He was asleep.”

“He lives to see me.”

“Okay, settle down.”

There was a beat of silence before Ellie said, offhanded, “Joel let you be his patrol partner pretty fast.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just saying,” Ellie said, voice casual, eyes still fixed on Willie. “You two were barely talking, and then suddenly, boom, you’re his patrol partner, you’re eating with us, and now he’s all”—she waved her hands vaguely—“emotionally available.”

She laughed, surprised. “You think I made Joel emotionally available?”

“I mean,” Ellie shrugged, “you kinda did. He talks to you. Listens to you. You’re like—Joel whisperer or something.”

“I don’t control him, Ellie.”

“Yeah, but he loves you,” Ellie said.

The words hit like a gunshot. Not a loud one. Not violent. But sudden. Sharp.

She stilled. “What?”

Ellie looked up, brow raised like duh. “He loves you. I mean, maybe he hasn’t said it. Joel doesn’t really say things. But it’s obvious.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Ellie—”

“He won’t let me go on patrol,” Ellie interrupted. “Still. After all this time.”

She blinked. “He’s just being protective.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Of me. Which is nice, or whatever, but I’m not a little kid. And he won’t even talk about it. If I ask, he just shuts down. Like I said something bad.”

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling.

Ellie’s tone softened. “I thought maybe… since he listens to you, maybe you could say something.”

There was something raw behind the request. Not whining. Not pushing. Just longing. For trust. For independence. For the kind of respect Joel was afraid to give because it meant letting go.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

Ellie grinned. “That means yes.”

“No,” she said, standing. “That means get up. I’m taking you to breakfast. You broke into my house like the cops and now I need caffeine.”

The sun had risen higher, casting a weak gold across the snow. Jackson buzzed with usual morning movement—kids dragging buckets of feed, older folks de-icing steps, the smell of smoke and fresh bread trailing from the mess hall chimney.

They were halfway down the path when they turned the corner—

—and there they were.

Joel. And Esther.

Side by side. Next to the patrol horses.

She stopped walking.

Ellie looked up, squinting. “Is that—?”

Joel noticed them first. His eyes immediately locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened like he’d just walked into a trap, and for a split second, she saw the flash of something like guilt flicker across his face.

Esther, ever smooth, said something with a smile and handed her reins off to the stablehand. Her hand brushed Joel’s sleeve. Brushed it.

And that was it. Her stomach twisted.

Joel took a hesitant step forward. “Hey—”

She didn’t stop walking. Just kept going. Right past him.

Didn’t break stride. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even flinch.

He called her name—low, like he was trying not to make it a scene. She didn’t answer.

Ellie blinked, half jogging to keep up. “Uh… should I ask?”

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re walking really fast.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Not usually while breathing fire.”

She pushed open the mess hall door with more force than necessary. The warm air inside hit her hard. Bread, eggs, chatter.

Ellie followed, slightly out of breath. “Okay, so we’re mad.”

She didn’t respond. She just grabbed a plate and moved through the line like a soldier, jaw clenched, hands tight.

Joel hadn’t done anything. Not really. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t even flirting.

But Esther’s touch… the way she smiled… the way he’d let her...

It felt like the universe was laughing in her face. He hadn’t even fought for her attention. Just let her walk past like he didn’t know what to say.

And maybe he didn’t. But that hurt more.

They ate in silence for a while. Ellie kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

“So,” she said finally, “want me to put a dead rat in Esther’s laundry bag?”

She blinked. Then let out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.

Ellie grinned. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“No rats,” she said. “Yet.”

Ellie leaned on the table. “You want me to talk to Joel?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because I’m really good at guilt-tripping him.”

“I’m sure.”

Ellie looked at her like she was studying a creature in the wild.

“You love him,” she said.

She stared at her tray. “I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “I think I do,” she admitted. “Or I’m about to.”

Ellie’s voice was gentle for once. “He’s scared too, you know.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Just don’t make him chase you too long.”

She sighed. “I’m just… tired of being made to feel less than. Of having to compete for something that already hurts to want.”

Ellie reached across the table and stole her toast.

Then said, “Yeah. But you’re not less than. You’re the only one who ever made him smile.”

And that? That meant more than she'd admit. She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. Just walked past, flannel sleeves pushed up, eyes forward, boots cutting sharp lines in the snow like she couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze trailing behind her.

Joel opened his mouth to call her name again. But stopped. Because the way she didn’t look at him?

That said more than any words could. And it hurt more, too.

“Everything okay?” Esther asked, voice sweet and lilting behind him, like she hadn’t just brushed his sleeve with her hand two minutes ago.

Joel didn’t answer.

He turned back toward the horses, jaw tight, throat thick with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Esther had already mounted. Her bay mare flicked its ears as Joel swung up onto his own saddle, the leather groaning beneath him. He adjusted his gloves. Kept his eyes on the trail ahead.

They were heading west today. Scouting route seventeen. Same one he used to ride with her. Familiar snowdrifts, twisted trees that looked like skeletal hands in the winter light. Empty cabins and frozen creeks.

Joel didn’t speak for a good twenty minutes. Didn’t need to. Esther, though—she always needed to.

“I don’t think she likes me,” she said lightly.

Joel didn’t look at her. “Don’t see how that’s my business.”

“She glared at me,” Esther added. “Twice. And I’m very sure it wasn’t because I had something in my teeth.”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt and tugged the reins to guide his horse through a patch of ice.

“She’s young,” Esther said then, her tone shifting—less breezy now. A little too knowing. “How old is she again? Twenty-five?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Esther smiled faintly. “You know she was five when it happened, right? The outbreak. Just a baby. And now she’s…”

Joel glanced over.

Esther trailed off. Shrugged. “I don’t know. I just worry about you, Joel.”

He stiffened. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, someone has to,” she said. “Maria said you don’t exactly make good choices when it comes to... attachments.”

Joel stopped his horse.

Right there on the trail, frost-laced trees on either side, wind blowing gentle through the brush.

He turned to look at her. Slowly. Eyes hard. Dark.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?”

Esther’s mare sidestepped, sensing the shift in his posture.

Esther didn’t back down. She never did.

“I’m just saying maybe you don’t realize what people see,” she said. “An older man. A girl half his age. Alone together. In his house. In his bedroom.”

Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“She’s not a girl,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “She’s a woman. A goddamn survivor. Smarter than most people in this town. Stronger than all of ‘em.”

Esther blinked. He had raised his voice before. But not like this.

“And you,” Joel continued, cutting his words sharp and clean, “you don’t get to talk about her like she’s some helpless thing. Like she don’t know her own mind.”

Esther’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Then something colder.

“Joel,” she said, voice softer now. “I was just looking out for you.”

“No,” he said. “You were lookin’ down on her. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you do it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Joel clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward, leaving her behind on the trail without another word.

The wind was colder than before. He didn’t feel it.

Didn’t feel the weight of his pack, or the ache in his knees, or the saddle digging into his lower back. All he felt was the burn in his chest. The kind that didn’t come from cold or pain—but from regret.

Because he hadn’t gone after her.

Hadn’t grabbed her hand, hadn’t said, “It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want her there.”

He hadn’t told her the truth.

That he only said yes to the patrol with Esther because Maria asked, and he didn’t want to cause a stir. That he’d barely said a word all morning. That all he’d been thinking about was her. The way she’d walked away.

The way her voice trembled last night when she said, “I’m tired of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel had made a life out of silence. Out of staying still until danger passed.

But this? This wasn’t survival. This was her. And he didn’t want to survive her.

He wanted to keep her.

They reached the checkpoint an hour later. Joel didn’t speak. Just logged his name, scoped the ridgeline, did the job.

Esther tried twice to start conversation. He ignored both. On the way back, she didn’t try again.

By the time they reached the gates of Jackson, the silence between them was bitter.

Joel dismounted. Handed off his horse. Nodded to the guard. Started toward the stables.

He didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

The barn was empty. He stepped inside anyway.

The smell hit him first—dust and hay and her. A little saddle oil. The warm scent of animals and earth and life.

Willie sat by the feed room door, ears pricking up when he saw Joel. He stood and padded over, tail thumping once.

Joel scratched his ears. “She here?”

Willie gave a soft whine. Turned toward the back stalls. Joel followed. And there she was.

Brushing Sparrow’s flank, back turned to him. Flannel sleeves rolled up, hands moving with practiced ease. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He watched her for a second. Just stood there and watched.

He never believed in miracles. Not since Sarah.

But this woman—this strong, stubborn, loyal, blinding woman—was the closest thing he’d seen to one in twenty years.

And he’d let her walk past him without a word.

He stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She paused. Didn’t turn around.

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

Silence.

Then she said, “You busy with Esther?”

The words were quiet. But sharp. Joel flinched.

“I didn’t ask to ride with her,” he said.

She kept brushing. Slow. Even.

“Maria assigned it. I didn’t want it. Didn’t talk much. Just did the job.”

Still brushing.

“She say something?” she asked, voice tight.

Joel hesitated. “Yeah.”

She stopped. Turned. Eyes cool. Distant.

“What’d she say?”

Joel looked at her. Really looked.

And said, “Didn’t matter. She’s wrong.”

She folded her arms. “Try me.”

He stepped closer.

“She said she worried about me,” he said. “Said you were young. Implying things. Said people might think I was takin’ advantage.”

Her jaw clenched.

Joel’s voice softened. “I told her to stop. Told her you’re the strongest person I know.”

She blinked. Slowly. Joel took another step.

“I don’t care what people think,” he said. “I care what you think.”

A long pause.

Then—

“I think you should’ve come after me,” she said. Quiet. Honest. “I think you should’ve stopped me.”

Joel’s heart broke a little.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I did.”

He nodded. Painful. Slow. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to cry or swing.

“You let her touch you.”

“I didn’t want her to.”

“But you let her.”

“I froze.”

She turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that don’t fix it. But I am.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then said, “I believe you.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled. And for the first time all day, something inside him settled.

Not all the way. But enough.

Willie laid down at their feet with a sigh.

Joel reached out, tentative. She let him touch her hand. And that? That was everything.

The way she let him touch her hand—quiet, small, steady—it unraveled something in Joel’s chest so slow and deep it almost hurt.

Not pain. Something else. A loosening. Like he didn’t need to hold his breath anymore.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there with him, surrounded by horses and soft golden dust, the early afternoon light filtering in through the warped wooden slats of the barn. Sparrow shifted her weight in the stall behind them. Willie let out a groan from the hay and laid his head back down.

Joel didn’t let go of her hand. He couldn’t. And for once, she didn’t pull away.

She exhaled quietly, shoulders dropping from where they’d been hitched near her ears for most of the morning. The flannel she wore was worn through at the elbows, and he could see the faint line of a scar on her forearm—white and thin, like a whisper from another life.

He wondered what she’d had to survive to earn it. He wondered how many more there were. And he hated that there’d ever been a world where she had to.

“Listen,” he said, voice low, thick with gravel and hesitation, “I’ve been thinkin’—”

She gave him a look. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “Let me finish.”

She arched a brow. “You’re finishing a lot of sentences lately. That’s suspicious.”

Joel gave her a pointed stare. “You want me to say it or not?”

She smiled—small, but real. “Say it.”

Joel rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. His hands were rough, but he was careful with them.

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna come by tonight,” he said. “To mine.”

She tilted her head.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll cook. You eat. Willie sleeps on my couch. That sorta thing.”

She blinked. Paused.

Then, “Wait.”

Joel froze. “What?”

Her smile deepened. “Is this a date?”

Joel went quiet. Very quiet. His fingers tightened slightly in hers, but not unkind.

She watched him shift on his feet, and then—just as she suspected—he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes narrowing, jaw working like it betrayed him to even think about being vulnerable.

She laughed. “Oh my god. It’s a date.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You said dinner. And cooking. And Willie sleeping on the couch, which means I’mnot.”

Joel sighed. “You are the most insufferable woman—”

“You are blushing,” she grinned.

“I’m not—”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

Joel glared at her.

She leaned in slightly, still holding his hand. “You do realize I’ve slept in your bed, right? That ship has sailed, Miller.”

He groaned and muttered, “Lord help me.”

She laughed, loud this time, and Willie thumped his tail on the hay in approval.

Joel stared at her for a long second, expression softening.

Then, quieter, “I’d like to cook for you. Yeah. Like a date.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Yes,” he said too quickly.

She squinted.

“You’re lying.”

“I ain’t.”

“You absolutely are.”

Joel sighed, hand still on the back of his neck. “I can…make things.”

“Like what?”

“Things that go in a pot.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Joel.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I got a recipe. Or somethin’ close to it.”

She was grinning now. “You’re gonna poison me.”

“You’ll live.”

“We’ll see.”

They stood in the barn for another few quiet minutes. And then—like gravity pulled them toward it—he leaned in.

She met him halfway. The kiss was slow. Soft. Warm. Different from the hungry, breathless ones before.

This one said I missed you. This one said I’m still here.

His hand found her cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, fingers sliding gently beneath the curve of her ear. She felt her knees loosen, the ache in her chest ebb. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, her breath came soft against his mouth. She didn’t let go. Neither did he.

She looked at him and whispered, “I’ll come over tonight.”

Joel nodded. Once.

His voice was soft. “Ellie’s staying with Kat.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered. “Maria’s makin’ her do a girls’ night.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “So we’ll have the place to ourselves?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

Something in his face changed then—something soft and weathered and a little raw.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Just us.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, let herself stand there for another breath or two.

The barn creaked gently around them. The smell of hay and leather filled the air. Willie gave a soft, approving grunt. And for a moment—just a small one—it felt like the world hadn’t ended after all.

She pulled away first, but only just.

Joel didn’t move—not right away. Just watched her as she stepped back, her fingers lingering in his for one more second. The light outside was softer now, dusk beginning to settle. The kind of quiet that made everything feel more real.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, soft. “You will.”

She turned to go. And then—almost like he couldn’t help it—he reached out and caught her wrist gently, tugging her back just enough to steal another kiss.

This one was quick. But it lingered.

She smiled against his mouth. “You’re greedy today.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You got no idea.”

Then she was gone. Willie at her side.

And Joel Miller was left standing in the middle of the barn like someone had just struck him over the head and handed him a second chance at life.

Which meant now he had to figure out how the hell to cook dinner.

The kitchen looked like a crime scene.

Joel stood at the counter, arms braced on either side of a wooden bowl, staring down at a pile of possible ingredients like they might start a fire if he looked away.

There was a can of tomatoes from last month’s ration rotation. A jar of dried basil that Ellie looked at in disgust. A sealed bag of pasta—thank god—from a trade he’d made with the supply team. A block of cheese that was hard enough to build a house with. And something that might have been garlic, but was currently fighting for its identity as “aggressive winter root.”

Joel scratched his jaw. He hadn't cooked in a long time. Sure, he’d boiled meat over fire. Fried beans in old pans on the road. Made tough coffee. But dinner?

A real one? With flavor? With a tablecloth? That was new.

He looked at the stove. Looked at the tomatoes. Then looked at the sad little saucepan Maria had given him in the welcome basket six months ago.

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s make somethin’ edible.”

The sauce was the first problem.

He opened the tomatoes with a dull pocketknife because he couldn’t find the can opener. Half of it sloshed out wrong. Missed the pot. Landed on the floor. Joel swore under his breath and grabbed an old towel from the drawer. The dried basil came out in a clump. He tried to stir it in. It just... floated.

Joel stared down into the red mess, watching the leaves sit stubborn and wrong at the top of the watery sauce. He picked up the maybe-garlic and sniffed it.

Immediately regretted it, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He chopped it anyway. Because he didn’t know what else to do. Scraped it into the pot with the side of the knife like he remembered someone doing on a cooking show in the late ‘90s.

The smell hit his face like a punch.

“Yeah,” he said to no one. “That’s flavor, all right.”

The pasta boiled over. Twice. He swore again. Louder. Dropped a wooden spoon on the floor. Burned his hand grabbing the pot handle without a towel.

And that’s when Ellie walked in. She stopped in the doorway, a bag slung over one shoulder, winter beanie sliding half off her head. She blinked once.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Is this... are you cooking?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “Don’t start.”

Ellie stepped farther in, nose wrinkling as she approached the stove. She sniffed the pot. Peered into it.

“Is that... even edible?”

“Go away.”

“Dried leaves?” She leaned closer. “Oh my god. Is that the weird basil I told you not to use?”

“I said go away,” he grumbled, trying to stir the sauce.

She looked around the kitchen. Then looked back at him.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is this for her?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie gasped dramatically. “You’re making her dinner. You’re making her dinner?!”

He finally turned. “Ain't you stayin’ with Kat tonight?”

Ellie ignored him entirely. “You stole the tablecloth from storage, didn’t you?”

He glared. “Borrowed it.”

“That’s the one with the little blue flowers!”

Joel said nothing.

“You said hate the little blue flowers when I tried to bring it home.”

“I hate you right now.”

Ellie walked over to the table, which he’d spent nearly an hour wiping down and setting with two salvaged plates and three mismatched forks, just in case. She touched the fabric, grinning.

“You even folded the napkins,” she said. “You’re so in love with her.”

Joel grabbed the pot off the stove and turned away. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“Can I stay and watch?”

“No.”

“Can I hide in the pantry?”

“No.”

“Can I leave you a note to read her?”

“Out.”

Ellie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But this is adorable and I am going to make fun of you for it for the rest of your life.”

He turned. “Ellie.”

She met his eyes.

Then, more quietly, she said, “She makes you better, you know.”

Joel’s expression softened.

“I see it,” she added. “You’re... calmer. Less grumpy. You don’t stand like someone’s always about to punch you.”

He exhaled. “You sayin’ I used to be worse?”

“Oh yeah. You were the worst. Now you’re just... mildly awful.”

Joel shook his head.

Ellie smiled. “She’s good for you.”

Then she grabbed her bag, shoved a piece of bread from the counter into her mouth, and said around it, “Good luck, Romeo.”

He heard her boots clomp out the front door. And the house fell quiet again.

Joel stood there in the middle of his kitchen, tomato sauce on his sleeve, steam rising from a pot that smelled vaguely of regret, and looked around at the space he’d tried to make nice.

The tablecloth. The mismatched forks. The wine bottle he didn’t know how to open sitting unopened on the counter.

He hadn’t dated. Not really.

Not even Sarah’s mother. They’d been kids, trying to do right by a baby they hadn’t expected. And after the world ended... there was no room for courtship.

No room for dinner. For flowers. For trying to be something to someone.

Until now. Until her.

Joel looked at the clock. Thirty minutes until she showed up.

His hands trembled a little. He rinsed them, ran a comb through his hair, and changed into a flannel that didn’t smell like sawdust.

Then he stood by the door. And waited. Heart thudding slow and scared in his chest. Because this time? This time he wanted to get it right.

So he stood there, heart quietly thudding behind his ribs, fingers twitching at the seam of his shirt as he watched the clock tick closer to evening.

The sun had dipped low by now, throwing long, amber lines across the hardwood floor. The fire in the hearth was crackling low, flickering against the walls. The scent of tomato, basil, and something vaguely herbal hung in the kitchen like a nervous fog.

He adjusted the table again. Then adjusted the chairs. Then turned the record player back on, because the silence had gotten too loud.

It was an old Johnny Cash album—scratched slightly, but still warm. Familiar. Something he remembered his mama humming in the kitchen back in Texas, long before the world went to hell.

He moved into the kitchen. Checked the pasta again.

Still warm. Still... edible? He hoped.

He hadn’t tasted it. Too nervous. Too focused on making sure the table was clean and the napkins were folded right and the goddamn wine bottle had a corkscrew, it didn’t—he had to jab it with a knife and now it leaked.

Then—

He heard Willie’s bark. Soft, friendly, two doors down. His breath caught.

And there she was.

She walked slow, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in days.

The street was quiet except for the wind gently tugging at the trees and the crunch of snow under her boots. Willie padded beside her, tail swishing, nose pointed toward Joel’s porch like he already knew where they were going.

She wore a knit sweater—deep green, the kind that made her eyes look brighter in the winter light—and jeans tucked into worn leather boots. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands blowing in the breeze. She looked warm. Comfortable.

Joel stared through the window like a man watching something sacred approach.

He opened the door before she could knock.

Her eyes flicked up. “Eager?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just didn’t want you waitin’ in the cold.”

Willie trotted past him into the house like he owned the place.

She stepped inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her eyes scanned the room—the flickering firelight, the table—neatly set, if a little lopsided, the record player humming soft country from the corner.

Her lips curled into a smile. “You got a mood going.”

Joel shut the door behind her. “Tryin’.”

She looked at the table. Then at him.

“Did you steal that tablecloth from the mess pantry?”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Borrowed.”

She laughed. God, he loved her laugh. It wasn’t always easy. She didn’t offer it freely. But when it came, it was whole. Real. Like it didn’t know how to lie.

“You smell like tomato,” she said, pulling off her coat.

Joel took it from her automatically, hanging it on the hook near the door. “Might’ve boiled over once or twice.”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned to him fully. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

She tilted her head.

Joel sighed. “A little.”

She stepped closer, hands brushing lightly down his arms. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

She laughed again. And he felt his lungs finally expand.

Dinner was ready—if by “ready” you meant slightly overcooked pasta with a sauce that almost looked intentional.

Joel ladled it into mismatched bowls, wiping his hands on a towel. She helped grab the utensils without being asked, setting them out with a quiet ease that made the space between them feel lived-in.

Willie laid by the fire, already half-asleep.

She sat at the table, hands folded neatly, watching him with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

Joel sat across from her. Fidgeted. She lifted her fork.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s bad, don’t lie.”

She tasted it. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then looked him dead in the eye and said, “Joel. This is amazing.”

He blinked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re smilin’.”

“Because it’s good!”

He gave her a long, skeptical look.

She twirled her fork through another bite. “It’s warm. It has flavor. That’s more than I can say for anything we’ve eaten in weeks. You didn’t burn it. There’s no ash. And I didn’t chip a tooth.”

Joel smirked. “High bar.”

“I’m serious,” she said, softer now. “You did good.”

Something in his chest unwound. They ate slowly. Talked quietly.

She asked about the patrol routes he used to run with Tommy before winter made everything unpredictable. He asked about how the pregnant mare was doing—restless, cranky, almost definitely a boy. She teased him about the crooked shelf in the hallway, and he told her how Ellie once filled it with jars of dead insects as a prank.

They drank two fingers of wine each—her idea of moderation—and halfway through her second glass, she looked at him and said,

“You built this table, right? Ellie mentioned it.”

He nodded. “Got tired of eatin’ hunched over the counter.”

Her gaze softened, “You built this for her, didn’t you?”

Joel stilled. Didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “Yeah. Thought she deserved better.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his.

“You deserve better.”

Joel looked at her hand. Then at her. And said, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re doing it.”

Joel looked down at their hands. His thumb brushed her wrist slowly.

“This ain’t how I used to be,” he said.

“I know.”

“Wasn’t soft. Wasn’t... kind.”

“I know that too.”

“But I want to be,” he said. “With you.”

Her breath hitched.

They sat like that for a while, fork abandoned in tomato-stained bowls, the fire cracking low behind them, and Johnny Cash still humming from the corner like the world was trying to lull them into believing it wasn’t broken anymore.

She stood up. Walked around the table. Joel turned in his chair, looking up at her. She sat on his lap without asking. He wrapped his arms around her waist like he’d been waiting for it all night.

She kissed him—soft, slow, with that kind of certainty that made time slow down. He kissed her back like it was the only thing that still made sense.

And as the snow fell softly outside, and the fire died low behind them, Joel Miller rested his forehead against hers and whispered,

“I don’t want this to end.”

She whispered back, “It doesn’t have to. I want this. I want you”

The second she said it, something changed behind Joel’s eyes.

Like a switch flipped. Like the dam cracked open after months of barely holding.

He kissed her again—harder this time. Like he meant it. Like he’d been starving for it. And he had.

His hands gripped her hips like he didn’t know whether to pull her closer or crush her, but god, he needed her close. He needed to feel her. The solid weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her thighs wrapped around him. The way her fingers fisted in his shirt like she didn’t ever wanna let go.

She gasped into his mouth when he rolled his hips up. He growled.

“Jesus, baby,” he breathed. “You got any idea what you do to me?”

Her only answer was a moan—soft, breathy, and so fucking desperate it made Joel’s cock twitch.

He kissed down her neck, dragging his mouth slowly along her jaw, then down to the hollow of her throat. She tilted her head for him without thinking, baring it like she wanted to be marked. Wanted to be taken.

Joel groaned low. “You’re killin’ me.”

He stood—lifted her clean off his lap like she weighed nothing, one arm braced under her thighs. She gasped again, arms flying around his neck, legs instinctively locking at his waist.

“I got you,” he rasped. “Always got you, baby.”

He carried her up the stairs, boots thudding heavy against the wood. She could feel the tension in him—his hands trembling slightly where they held her, his breathing shallow like he was trying not to lose it too fast.

She’d never seen him like this. So unguarded. So hungry.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, stepped inside, and set her down on the bed like she was breakable.

Then just looked at her. Long and quiet. Like he needed a second to believe she was really there.

That she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Joel,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

“You say the word,” he said roughly. “And I’ll stop.”

She shook her head. “I don’t wanna stop.”

His jaw clenched. Hard. Like he was holding back years of need.

“You sure, baby? You know I’m older. You know I’m not—fuck—I’m not gentle. Not all the time. Not when I want it this bad.”

She leaned into his palm. And kissed his hand.

“I don’t want gentle,” she said. “I want you.”

And that? That broke him.

Joel kissed her like a starving man. Like he was trying to memorize her. His hands pushed up under her sweater, palms rough as they traced over her waist, her ribs, up to her bra. He groaned when he felt her breasts beneath the fabric, full and warm under his hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you. Goddamn. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

She whined softly when his thumbs brushed her nipples, already hard beneath the lace.

He looked up at her, “Off,” he said.

She raised her arms, and he pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it somewhere behind him. Then the bra. Then nothing.

Just her. Laid out on his bed like a fucking prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

She went to cover herself, but he caught her wrists.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t hide from me. Don’t you ever hide from me.”

He kissed her chest, her ribs, the curve of her stomach. Worshipped her with his mouth like he had all night.

She arched up when he took a nipple in his mouth, tongue circling it slow, then sucking just hard enough to make her gasp. One of his hands slid down between her thighs, still covered by denim, and he groaned when he felt how warm she was.

“Fuck. You’re burning up.”

She squirmed, and he growled.

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You,” she whispered. “Need you to touch me.”

He sat back on his heels and dragged her jeans down her legs, slow, savoring it. The way her thighs shook.

The way her breath hitched when he reached the edge of her panties. Lace. Black. His fucking weakness.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

He pulled them down, slow and reverent. And when she was bare for him, all flushed and wet and ready—

He just stared. Then let out a broken groan.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice gravel and heat, “you’re soaked.”

She blushed, but he was already leaning in.

“Been thinkin’ about this since I laid eyes on you,” he said, kissing her inner thigh. “Wonderin’ what you sound like when I put my mouth on this pretty pussy.”

She gasped.

“Guess I’m about to find out.”

He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow at first. Just a taste. Then another.

Then his mouth was on her—firm, hungry, good. His tongue lapped at her clit, slow and steady, until her back arched and her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

“Fuck, Joel—”

He groaned against her. “That’s it. Let me hear you, baby. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

She was already shaking, thighs trembling, voice breaking apart with every swipe of his tongue. He sucked gently, then harder, then eased a finger inside her—slow, careful, thick and perfect.

“Shit,” she cried. “Oh my god—”

Joel smiled against her.

“Thought about this every night since that night in the barn, you up against me—holding that knife against my throat,” he said, voice thick. “Thought about you spread out for me. Drippin’. Beggin’. Let me hear it, baby. Don’t hold back.”

She came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, hands gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles ached.

Joel didn’t stop until she was gasping. Didn’t stop until she was trembling. Didn’t stop until she was his.

He kissed her thigh one last time. Then crawled up over her, kissing her again—this time deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You still sure?” he whispered. “’Cause if I take you now, baby, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

She pulled him in.

“Take me,” she said. “I’m already yours.”

Joel growled.

Ripped his shirt off in one motion. She gasped—Jesus, he had scars and solid heat and muscle, and somehow still soft in the places that mattered. The kind of body built for surviving. The kind of body she wanted over her.

He undid his jeans, cock thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking. He lined up with her, but didn’t push in yet—just rubbed the tip through her slick folds, watching her face.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. And he pushed in. Slow. Thick. Stretching.

“Fuck, baby— so tight,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so good. Shit. That feel good?”

She nodded, eyes wide, mouth parted. “S-so good, Joel—feels so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, hips grinding in deeper. “You want it slow, baby? Or you want me to fuck you like I’ve been dyin’ to?”

“Fuck me,” she said.

And that was it. Joel snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

She cried out, and he moaned like she’d just saved him.

His thrusts were hard, deep, controlled—like he was holding back a tidal wave, but barely.

“You feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? No one’s ever touched you like this. No one.”

She could barely breathe, let alone respond.

He pinned her wrists above her head, held them there with one hand, and fucked her deeper.

“I’ve been starvin’ for this,” he said against her throat. “You. This pussy. The way you fuckin’ whimper when I—fuck—yeah, just like that.”

She came again, harder this time.

Came around him, clenching so tight he had to bite his own lip to keep from losing it.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Goddamn. So good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

She was shaking, body limp, but still whispering his name like a prayer.

Joel slowed down. Softened. Kissed her face. Her jaw. Her neck.

“Baby,” he said, voice breaking, “I can’t—I’m not gonna last. Not with you squeezin’ me like this—”

“Inside,” she whispered. “Please, Joel. Come inside me.”

And that? That ended him.

He buried his face in her neck and came hard, hips stuttering, voice a low, broken growl against her skin.

They laid like that for a long time. Panting. Sweating. Holding.

Joel stayed inside her until he softened, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder.

Then pulled out carefully. She winced.

He kissed her again. “I got you. I’ll clean you up, baby. Just lay there.”

She did. And when he came back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, she looked at him like she was already half in love. Maybe more than half.

Joel tucked her into his side and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

And she believed him. Because for once, Joel Miller wasn’t running.

He was home.

[loggiepj]

illicit affairs

part 2 | part 3

YOU'D be a fool trying to convince yourself that Wanda was just some old hag sleeping on your bed that night. But god, she had never looked so peaceful and gorgeous than that very moment, as she was ten years ago. You didn't even know it was possible for someone to look so beautiful, it looked like a crime. As if the gods above blessed only those who were cruel. And cursed those who worshipped them.

Her creamy white legs were exposed from the blanket wrapped around her body. Her tiny soft snores filled the room as she buried herself deep into the pillows. It would take days before her scent would be gone from your sanctuary.

It tore you apart to look at her and feel these forbidden emotions, mad at yourself for feeling this way towards the old woman. You should hate her. You should have kicked her out for what she did.

You decided to go to the kitchen and make something for breakfast instead, preoccupying yourself from worrying too much, that the one nightmare you had always have had come true.

Even your hands were shaking as you beat down the eggs into a bowl, it was a miracle you had managed to cook food. The bacon almost ended up burnt when you jumped from her sudden presence in the kitchen.

"You're awake," you said, ignoring Wanda's gaze on you, her eyes glistening with a recognizable look. You knew that look. She used to look at you that way when you were wearing nothing but her white button down shirt as you made her a quick midnight snack whenever the twins weren't around. But that was ten years ago.

You don't feel anything for the woman anymore, right?

"I made us breakfast," you said before she opened her mouth to speak, stopping her. "You should eat first before you leave."

Wanda took small steps towards the dining table, looking at the food you made her. You wondered if she was touched, remembering how Wanda preferred scrambled eggs more than sunny side ups. But you convinced yourself you didn't do it for her. Because that would make you a martyr.

"This is good," Wanda softly said as you two began to eat in silence. You forced a small smile her way and went back eating.

"I haven't had breakfast like this for ages," she admitted, chuckling. "The boys mostly want cereals for breakfast, I ended up liking them, especially those colorful sweet ones, the . . . I forgot what they were called."

"Froot Loops?"

The skin around her eyes crinkled when she smiled. "Yes, Froot Loops. I swear I'd end up having diabetes one day."

You nodded, chugging down what remained of your coffee as you avoided the woman's gaze.

"What are your plans today? It's a Saturday," the brunette added. "The twins are planning to shop around Chinatown before the classes start. You might even have ideas where to-"

"I can't," you answered, "sorry, I am meeting someone today."

"Oh," she went on, a teasing smirk on her face, "a girlfriend?"

Your fork made a noise as you let it fall down your plate. "What do you want, Miss Maximoff?"

Wanda's smile immediately vanished as she stopped eating. "I . . . I'm sorry if I said something wrong. I didn't mean to pry if you have someone special-"

"No, I mean, what do you want? Why are you here? What were you thinking looking for me, for you to end up inside a sketchy bar?"

Wanda bit back a sob as she looked at you, her hand slipping to hold yours across the table. You tensed and abruptly took it away, ended up with her curling hers into a fist.

"I am so sorry, Y/n," she began, "I'm so sorry for what I did all those years ago, for what I said to you, for being so cruel. I . . . I have to live everyday regretting everything I have said to you. You didn't deserve those things. You were nothing but good to me, and I took you for granted. I . . . I just . . . miss you. I miss you, Y/n. There isn't a day in my life since you left that I haven't thought of you."

You scoffed, standing up as you began cleaning the dishes.

You heard the scraping of her chair against the floor as she stood. "I looked for you. After your graduation, I looked for you. I wanted to take back everything I said. I didn't mean those things. If I could only turn back time, I'd go back to that very day and I should've kissed you and chose you-"

"But you can't," you butted in as you turned to glance at the hysteric woman before you, "turn back the time, I mean."

Wanda was panting softly as her teary eyes stared right at you. She shook her head as she said, "No, I can't."

"That's unfortunate, then," you said back coldly.

Wanda swallowed, still frozen on her spot, and before she'd burst into more tears in your apartment, you went towards the doorway, grabbed your coat and keys. "I'm just gonna grab some coffee. Your clothes are freshly laundered in the bathroom if you want to freshen up before leaving. Please don't forget to lock the door when you leave."

"Y/n—" But you haven't heard the end of it as you closed the door.

Luckily, Wanda wasn't there when you went back home two hours after. But once you had ensured the whole apartment was empty, you broke down and cried.

TIME and absence would surely heal a wound. A couple of months had passed since that dreary encounter and you swore there were a few days when you had completely forgotten about Wanda. That was until you received a call late Friday night when you had only just arrived in your apartment.

It was a nurse from a nearby private hospital, saying that Tommy got into an accident. Before you argued why you were in his contacts in the first place, you drove to the hospital to visit.

Apparently, Tommy got into a fight in one of the fraternity parties he and his friends attended. With broken nose, cut lip and fractured arm, Tommy almost looked unrecognizable.

"Sorry, Y/n," Tommy said when he saw you enter the emergency room, "I didn't know who else to call. And I don't want to worry Mom-"

"It's okay, Tommy. Are you okay? What happened?"

And as you listened to Tommy and the nurse who attended to him, your breathing quickened, your hand hovering over the phone in your jean's pocket. Hesitant to call his mother, even if you knew you had to. Seeing the brunette was the last thing you wanted to do. But this was her son. Your feelings should come last.

Instead of calling the woman, you ended up sending her a short text message, to which she replied instantly, saying that she was already on her way.

You were getting a cup of coffee from a vending machine outside the hospital when Wanda arrived, hearing her voice inside the emergency room.

You decided to sit on the bench by the waiting area, thinking whether you should leave them or stay. You must have fallen asleep on your seat for a few minutes when you felt someone sit beside you.

"Thank you for being there for him," Wanda said.

"How's Tommy?"

"He's under some meds right now for the pain, but the doctor says he's going to be fine."

"That's good," you said.

"There's no available private room at the moment, so he has no choice but to stay in a ward with other patients," she went on, massaging her head. "Doctor said he'll likely be discharged tomorrow or the day after that."

"If you want, you can sleep in my apartment, take a bath or such, while waiting for him to get discharged," you offered. And you had no idea where such sympathy came from.

There was even a short moment where her eyes were at your mouth before she looked back at you.

"I don't want to impose—"

"Wanda, it's fine," you insisted. "For Tommy."

She nodded. "Thank you."

YOU VISITED Tommy in the ward first before leaving, while waiting for Wanda to finish filling up the papers in the hospital's admission room.

"You going to be fine alone?"

"I can manage," he replied, chuckling, showing off his cast.

"Will your father visit?"

The smile on his face disappeared, his fingers playing on the tape around his wrist. "Dad does not visit us often anymore. And I hardly believe he cared for us anyway, now that he has another family of his own."

That was news to you.

"I always tell Mom to find someone so she wouldn't end up alone," he went on, his eyes at the window where you two could see Wanda busy writing. "But she never remarried after Dad, maybe it was because she never trusts men like Dad anymore. But it's been years, you know. I know she's too scared to admit it, but I know she's lonely at home now that me and Billy are in college."

Your eyes were on Wanda as she talked to the Doctor. "I'm sure she'll find someone in the right time."

He laughed softly, making you look at him. "Come to think of it, they got divorced years ago, months after we didn't see you at the house anymore. There was one time Billy thought you were the other woman Dad has been cheating with. But I know you're not that bad of a person."

You stiffened. "You mean, they'd been divorced that long?"

Tommy hummed. "Yes, ten years ago, I guess. We eventually found out who the other woman was. Good thing we didn't curse you by mistake."

You forced to laugh at his joke, but your mind was running in deep circles wondering if the divorce really had something to do with you.

"COME on, don't be shy," your friend Steve invited Wanda, who looked as shocked as you were. "Any friend of Y/n is a friend of ours."

Somehow, when Wanda was returning the clothes you lent to her that time Tommy was hospitalized, there you were in your apartment with your friends, who held a surprised farewell party for Bucky, who was leaving for London the next day. As if Wanda knew perfect timing.

Kate hadn't left your side, even sitting between you just to eradicate any weirdness. The group's conversation went from talking about everyone's jobs, making Wanda let out her plans she was starting a flower shop business in New York and that she had just bought a spot particularly two blocks from the university. You tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, and convinced yourself she was only doing that to be closer to her boys. But you knew better.

Even Kate faked a laugh as she held another toast for the woman. "What about a special someone, Miss Maximoff? I heard you were divorced. Anyone you're meeting at the moment?"

Wanda's eyes met yours for a second before you looked away and drank whatever was left from your bottle of beer.

"No," she answered, chuckling. "I think I'm too old for that stuff anyway."

Bucky chortled. "No way you're old, Miss. If you want, I can set you up with people I know from work. I might even be successful on setting you up than Y/n here, whom I've failed a number of times."

"Why?" Wanda asked curiously.

Kate tried to stop Bucky. "Bucky, just give it a rest—"

"Oh, Y/n here has unknown high standards," Bucky enthusiastically added. "Believe me when dozens had gone down on their knees and Y/n has respectfully refused any advances."

"Shut up," you said, laughing, although you could tell Wanda's eyes never left yours all night long.

WHEN the party ended, all of the attendees slowly started to leave the apartment until there was only you and Wanda. Wanda helped you clean up the place, starting with throwing the empty boxes of pizza and bottles of beers into the trash bag.

"Y/n." Wanda broke the silence. Chappell Roan's casual was playing through the speakers.

"Mm?"

"Is it true?"

You stopped putting the dishes into the dishwasher to look at her. "Is what true?"

There was a small pause before she went on. "Have I ruined you for anyone else?"

You straighten your posture, frustrated as you glared back at her. "How dare you?"

"Then tell me," she challenged, approaching you with a sly smile on her face. "It's an easy question answerable by yes or no. Tell me."

"You infuriate me!"

"That's not a no—"

"You're nothing but a pathetic old slut who craves attention from someone who doesn't want her anymore!"

"Admit it then!" She leaned forward, closer to your face, her nostrils flaring. "Say it to my face that you don't feel anything for me anymore and I'll leave you alone for good! Tell me—"

You pushed your mouth against hers, effectively stopping Wanda from talking. She gasped upon the impact, with her back hitting the wall behind her from the force. And she welcomed you with as much aggression, her hands cupping your face to hold you.

With your arms on each side of her head, you pressed your bodies together, molding against each other. Her tongue played with yours, tasting what had been missed, wondering if each one of you were still as desperate as you were ten years ago.

"Y/N!" she moaned loudly a couple of minutes later as you pulled her hair, while roughly pistoning your strap into her from behind.

You had never thought you'd be able to do it. But there you were in your own bedroom with the woman you both loathed and loved so much on all fours before you. And it was driving you insane.

Mind filled with rage and lust, you tried to forget that this woman before you was the cause of your downfall. You tried to forget she hurt you, broke your heart to pieces as if you were nothing. Basking in the moment, you harshly grabbed the skin of her hips, nails digging, as you repeatedly and relentlessly pushed into her warm dripping entrance.

The tip of your strap hit your clit at the right angle, making you roll your eyes to the back of your head. And when you heard Wanda's whimpers before you, your hand slipped through her back then held her shoulder as you fastened the pace.

The brunette screamed as her body convulsed in waves, shuddering as she came. If it weren't for you holding her upright, she would've fallen straight face down on the sheets.

But her cumming didn't stop you from chasing your relief. The sweet nectar from her release dripping down both your thighs only made the action slippery and noisy.

"Y/n. . . ," Wanda moaned, her hand attempting to hold you back but you slapped her hand away before leaning forward as you held both of her hands behind her back. This rendered Wanda's face flat against the pillow before her, muffling her moans.

"Is this what you want, huh?" you demanded, eyes almost in tears seeing Wanda and pretending you weren't just loving every moment that was happening right now. "Is this what you want from me?"

"Yes!" she screamed, gasping when you spanked one of her butt cheeks. "Yes! Y/n! You're all I want! You're all I've ever wanted!"

And that snapped something inside you. The coil in your stomach exploded, making you press your front into her back as you lay on top of her.

"Wanda," you moaned into her neck, your hips stuttering as you came. She held your face behind her as your body shook.

"I got you, Y/n," she cooed softly as you panted, still trembling above her. "I got you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link. Thank you so much ❤🥰

[sunflowerwinds]

make you mine | 4 | e.w

summary: when you and ellie are home alone, you tend to ellie’s wounds (again) and things get a lot more heated than you expected. hailee comes home in a rage when she finds out the truth about you and her bestfriend.

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

contains: sister’s best-friend!ellie, fluff, established relationship, mature content — smut including fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), sibling angst (that is resolved quickly)

word count: 4.8K

a/n: long ass last part for you guys. you deserve it, my loves. <3

FREE PALESTINE | DAILY CLICK | DO NOT BUY TLOU2 REMASTERED

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

The next two weeks were a blur of smitten kisses, secret touches, and sneaking around. You had to make up lies about hanging out and sleeping over at Dina’s when in reality, you were either in Ellie’s bed as she explained how she needed to nail these new kickflips and going on little dates around the town.

Vincent asked Hailee just yesterday if he could be her boyfriend. She had ecstatically said ‘yes’ and she’s been attached to the hip with him since.

You’ve never seen her take to someone so quickly other than… Well, Ellie. You had been making yourself some chicken salad for lunch when you heard a knock at the door. You set the fork down on a napkin right next to the bowl of your lunch and march to the front door.

As soon as you open the door, you smile at the expected guest.

“Hi, baby,” Ellie steps into the house, shutting the door behind her.

“Hi,” you breathe out with a giddy grin. “What have you been up to?”

She shrugged her shoulders before snapping her fingers and pointing at you. Her eyes were shamelessly trailing up and down your frame.

“I fell this morning and scrapped the fuck out of my side,” Ellie explained as she easily rests her palms on your hips.

You were wearing a sundress, surprisingly enough to yourself. Skirts and dresses were something that were a hit or miss for you but due to the heat today, you felt this particular sundress was the best option. It was a bohemian red and white floral mini-dress. Plus, Ellie couldn't keep her hands off of you.

Like she could pounce on you at any moment.

“Els, why didn’t you tell me anything earlier?” You frown as you look at her face.

You also notice a slight scrape under her chin. You shake your head and cup both sides of her soft and warm face, tilting it back ever so slightly.

“And your jaw? Fuck, Ellie,” you continue to shake your head as you run your thumb over the slight bruising.

“I’m okay. I just need my favorite nurse to help me out,” Ellie’s grin was wide and giddy as she squeezed your sides.

You playfully roll your eyes as you motion for her to follow you to the bathroom. Ellie reluctantly released her grasp on you to trail behind you like a love-sick puppy, her hands just ghosting yours that were clasped behind your back. Once the two of you entered the bathroom, you got all the supplies you needed for Ellie’s injuries.

“Alright, take off your shirt,” you motioned to the few layers she had on.

Ellie removed her brown flannel that had the sleeves ripped off, setting it down on the sink’s marble counter. You stop your movements as Ellie tugs off her black wife-pleaser to reveal her sports bra and the scraped skin on her toned hips, now only left in her baggy gray jeans. The sight of her toned body always throws you off guard. She always helped Joel with the little farm that they have in the backyard of his house; carrying around hay barrels for the few horses and pales of eggs from the chickens.

They were not as light as they looked.

She winces slightly as she adjusts her hips to face you, a bit of blood still seeping from the injuries. You kneeled in front of her to get a closer look at how deep and severe the cuts were. Ellie raised her brows but kept her comments to herself.

“Els, baby, that’s— fuck, I mean did someone push you?” You can’t help but wince as you dab the injuries with a cotton pad doused in hydrogen peroxide.

Ellie’s hips jerked as she glanced down at you.

“No, I tried landing a fucking double heel flip but got stuck on a piece of shit bar. I hit my jaw and slid on the concrete.” Ellie explained, sucking in a deep breath as she couldn't handle seeing you down on your knees anymore.

You heard the sharp suck-in from above you and you apologized softly, thinking it was because Ellie was in pain. You leaned forward to place a feather-soft kiss on her upper abdomen, standing up on your feet. The feeling of your lips grazing her skin nearly made Ellie’s knees give out.

“Do you want anything to eat? Are you hungry?” You hum as you cup the sides of her face, your thumbs tracing her jaw. “I was just making some chicken salad so if you want some of that, let me know.”

Ellie blinked at you before breathing out: “What are you doing?”

Your brows furrow, tilting your head.

“What do you mean?”

You knew exactly what Ellie was referring to. You’ve realized more than anything that Ellie is very easy to tease. Not to be a cocky bitch but she was obsessed with you. Ellie licked her lips, letting out a soft chuckle.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?” Ellie shook her head as her hands gripped your hips tightly.

“Are you gonna do something about it?” You hum, leaning in carefully testing the waters.

Ellie moved one of her hands up your side to then trace your bottom lip with the pad of her rough thumb. You instinctively took her thumb into your mouth, biting at the joint. You swore you could see something shift in Ellie’s eyes when your tongue swiped over the skin and sucked it gently. Ellie whispered a curse before removing her finger to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into a hungry kiss.

You gasp at the feeling, your panties dampen at her strong grip on your body. Your hands trail down from her shoulder to the waistband of her boxers-briefs that were peeking out from her jeans, being mindful of her small injuries.

Ellie moaned softly against your lips, pulling away for a moment so that she could get a good look at you.

You were panting softly, pupils blown and one of the straps to your dress falling off your shoulder.

Fuck, she could take a photo of you right now; Keep it in her wallet to show off how perfect her girl is.

“Before I let you do what you want, let me patch you up and put the chicken salad away,” you breathe out, rushing to take a huge band-aid that you had gotten after Ellie’s first incident.

“This feels familiar,” Ellie cheekily remarked as if she was reading your mind.

You let out a smitten chuckle as you leaned in to peck her lips three times exactly before spreading an ointment over her marks. Ellie’s toned stomach rose and fell rapidly, her eyes hungrily and impatiently trailing all over your body. Her hands were flexed at her hands, forcing her urges back to grab you and fuck you from behind, letting the sound of your soft and desperate moans send shivers down her spine.

“Do what you need to do, babe. Meet me back here in three minutes, yeah?” Ellie raised her brows as she cupped your jaw, tilting your chin up a little.

You nod at her words as that should give you plenty of time to get the chicken salad in the fridge and to take off your panties to make things easier. Ellie smiled at you with nothing but admiration and want, placing a sensual kiss on your lips as she jerked her head toward the bathroom door.

Oh, right. The chicken salad.

“Three minutes?” You question one last time, brushing back your flyaway hairs.

“Three minutes, gorgeous,” Ellie smirked.

You mutter it to yourself as you make your way out of the bathroom. Ellie was hot on your tail to give your ass a nice smack through the skirt portion of the dress, biting her lip when you simply turned your head to blush adorably at her. She made her way to the living room, rummaging through her plain black Converse backpack she had set down next to the couch.

The small time frame was a lot harder than you were expecting. Mostly because you’ve never realized how you can’t tell how long a minute is if you’re not counting down every second. You couldn't count down because your mind was clouded with Ellie.

Her shameless desire to have her hands on you, the sweet pet names she’d give you, and the way you thrived off of her compliments.

You shook your head as once you'd neatly packed away the delicacy in the fridge, you sprinted to your room to shimmy the borderline granny panties off of your lower half. You toss them in your laundry hamper and scurry back to the bathroom.

Ellie was leaning against the sink, arms crossed in front of her chest. The position made her biceps pop deliciously.

“Come here,” Ellie tilts her to you as you lean against the door, locking it smoothly.

You inch over to her with a shy smile, eyes glazed over with desire. Ellie reached forward to tug your hips forward towards her.

“Do you trust me?” Ellie questioned as her thumbs caressed your hips.

“Yeah, of course, Els,” you nod, your fingers twitching with anticipation.

Ellie tilted her head towards the sink’s countertop, a mischievous smirk on her pale pink lips.

“Hop up on there, baby,” Ellie placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, patting your ass over the dress.

You chuckled and did as she instructed, scooting back to get more comfortable. Ellie’s hands immediately found your plush hips and thighs, squeezing and loving the feeling of your skin in her palms.

“I know this isn’t, like, insanely romantic but can I… fuck you? I bought a strap, too, if you want to do that.” Ellie hesitantly asked, eyes patient for whatever you were going to respond with.

“Ellie,” you deadpanned, eyebrows raising in disbelief. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted you to fuck me? I just want you. You can fuck me another time in bed with roses and shit.”

Ellie snorted at your words but felt more at ease like she wasn’t taking advantage or pushing you to do something you didn't want to do yet.

“I didn’t want to rush things with you but… god, if you could feel how wet I am right now.” You were visibly flushed and bothered by your infuriating arousal.

Ellie’s eyes widened for a moment, her own freckled cheeks igniting a flame. She needed to feel you. To make sure you were telling the truth, of course.

“Can I?” Ellie pants, rolling the ends of the skirt of your dress between her middle finger and thumb.

You whisper a confirmation, watching her intently as she begins to push the skirt up your legs. Your skin grew hot as Ellie’s blunt fingernails grazed the skin of your thighs. Ellie, to her surprise, didn’t feel any sort of restricting cloth once she got to your hips under the dress.

“You really are a minx, Jesus,” Ellie breathed out a smitten laugh, gripping at the skin once more.

“Baby, please. Touch me.” You grab at her tattooed wrist, inching it just above your pubic bone.

Ellie let out a curse under her breath at your begging. It was an even sweeter sound than she could ever imagine. She takes her free hand to grip your hips and tug you just an inch closer to the edge of the counter. You let out a soft sigh at the feeling of being manhandled by your girlfriend.

Without wasting any more time, Ellie drags her middle finger through your drenched folds. You lean your back against the cool mirror, a shiver running down your spine as she teases at your clit.

“Fuck, you weren't kidding. Are you always this wet when I tease you, hmm?” Ellie leaned forward to nose at your jaw, placing a wet kiss on the skin.

You nod, eyes shut as she slowly inserts her middle finger into you. The sound was obscene but neither you nor Ellie could get enough.

“You’re so pretty, Els. I can’t help it,” you sit up and off the mirror to change the angle a bit.

Ellie released a faint moan at your confession, silently scolding herself for keeping you from feeling good. Pretty, she thought. She gets wet from just seeing me.

“I’m gonna go slow right now, okay? Tell me if you want it faster,” Ellie placed a kiss on your cheek. “Harder,” another to your clavicle. “More fingers,” one more to just over the top of your left boob. “You tell me, okay?”

Have you said anything yet? You think so but you force yourself to whimper a soft ‘okay’. You already felt yourself drifting off into a state of bliss.

Ellie nods, feeling satisfied enough with your verbal answer. She slips her ring finger next to the middle, eyes watching you for any reaction. Your face was scrunched up in pleasure as Ellie’s forearm began to pump in and out of you. You gasp at the feeling, reaching forward to hold yourself steady on her flushed shoulders. Your hips grinned down on her fingers, heavy pants leaving your mouth.

Ellie used her free hand to tug down the front of your dress, your tits spilling out. She couldn't believe how fucking perfect you were in every way. She leaned down ever so slightly to kiss around your nipple as she continued to pump her fingers in and out, matching her pace to your whines and moans.

You caress the back of Ellie’s half-up half-down hairstyle as you watch her take your right nipple into her mouth. Your hips jerk as Ellie’s tongue swirls the bud in her mouth and her hand that wasn’t fingering you swiped over the left.

“Just like that, baby,” Ellie muttered against your tit, sucking on it and kissing over the full skin. “Keep moving those pretty hips.

You clench down on her at the praise as Ellie knowingly smiles against your chest. Cocky tease, you think to yourself. You grab her neck with both hands to pull her back up to your lips, hungrily kissing her like you couldn't bear without it.

Ellie pants into your mouth, teeth hitting yours for a moment as she is just as eager for you. Feeling overwhelmed by the sensation of Ellie’s fingers in you and her deep and sensual kisses, a tightening feeling settled in your lower abdomen.

“Els, faster. Please faster,” you whine against her swollen lips, a soft moan following.

Ellie didn’t have to be told twice, speeding up her arm. Her eyes hungrily watched as your mouth dropped in pleasure, the sound of your moans growing louder as she repeatedly hit your g-spot. Her arm was on fire but seeing you so pretty like this was the only thing keeping her going.

“That’s it, baby. Doin’ so perfect. My pretty girl,” Ellie praised you, kissing down your neck and nibbling on the skin.

You grab at her back as she does so, back arching to feel the pleasure all up your spine. Ellie started rubbing at your clit to get you to cum even faster. Your moans were becoming borderline pornographic as you came all over her two fingers.

“Oh my god, fuck. Shit! Ellie,” you whine as Ellie’s fingers are still moving, letting you ride out your orgasm. Your hand flung to her wrist as she smiled right in your face at your stuttering hips.

“There you go, pretty girl,” she placed soft kisses on your sweaty hairline through her sweet words.

A shiver runs down your body, goosebumps rising to your skin as Ellie carefully takes her fingers out of you. She sucks in a deep breath at the sight of her fingers dripping with your cum.

“Are you, uh, feeling okay? Do you need anything?” Ellie stared at your flushed face and chest, admiring how beautiful you looked coming down from your orgasm.

“I’m good, Els,” you reply softly, panting softly with a cocky smirk. You lean close to brush your lips over hers. “I just need you to fuck me, baby.”

Ellie’s eyes glance down at her baggy jeans then up at you again. Her eyebrows raise at your swollen lips.

“With the—“

“Mhmm. Can you please?” You chuckle at how flustered Ellie is getting now.

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that, baby.”

Ellie is about to reach for the button to her pants but you beat her to it, eyes never leaving hers. Ellie used this opportunity to kiss you with passion, tongue swiping over your bottom lip.

Your eyebrows shot up at the feeling of the silicone dildo and at the size of it.

“Jesus, Ellie, are you trying to reach my lungs with this?” You dramatize with a soft chuckle, just grazing your lips over hers.

“It’s only six inches!” Ellie teases before cocking her head to the side, “Or is that too big for you?”

You roll your eyes at her words before taking the stiff dildo out of the zipper. Ellie glanced down before gripping your plush thighs to tug you closer to the edge of the sink. You couldn’t get enough of Ellie’s strong and rough grip on you.

“Okay, pretty girl, you let me know if it hurts. Just want to make sure you feel good,” Ellie wrapped her lengthy fingers around the base of it.

The freckled girl lined the tip of her makeshift dick. She made sure to leave a loving kiss and a gentle whisper to let you know that she was going to be pushing in now. You inhale as you feel your walls slowly stretch from Ellie’s dick.

You whimper unknowingly to yourself, trying to relax so that Ellie could push herself all the way in. Ellie whispers sweet praises in your ear, her thumbs massaging your hips to ease the stretch.

“How’s that feel, baby?” Ellie asked gently.

“Full but good. So fucking good,” you chuckle through a moan, your hands cupping Ellie’s face.

Your middle finger traces over the scar in her eyebrow and the beautiful constellation of freckles all over her face. Her cheeks were hot to the touch, pupils blown from arousal. Her eyes soften at your gentle touch.

She looked almost angelic. Scratch almost. She did look angelic.

Ellie nodded at your confirmation, her hips slowly dragging in and out. You lift your right leg up and rest your calf on her hip to switch up the angle. Ellie placed her hand on the muscle of your calf, encouraging the new angle.

“Fuck, Ellie,” you whisper as Ellie picks up her pace.

Ellie’s own moans and whines were faint but you took them in like you needed them. The sound of them was driving you insane, the obscene sound of her hips slapping against yours. Your hands were clawing at her back as you were grinding your hips as much as you could.

Sweat was forming at the base of your neck and spine. Your lower abdomen was on fire and you were sure Ellie’s was even worse. You could see her abs tightening more and more with every deep thrust. You ran your fingers over her bandage and the ridges of her ribs, wishing she could be deeper and deeper in you.

Ellie sucked in a deep breath at the feeling of your fingers on her skin.

“Look at me, angel,” Ellie whispers. Angel. That’s a new one.

Your hooded eyes drifted from her body to her face. Her smile beamed at your fucked out face. Her hand rested just under your jaw to pull you into a messy kiss.

“You look so pretty like this,” she groans against your lips.

You preen at the praise and let out a whine that you knew sounded so pathetic. You couldn't care less as your girlfriend was fucking you so hard that you swore you were going to squirt.

Your hands were slipping into the back of her head and tangling up into her short auburn hair. Ellie shivered at the slight tug as she dove in to shamelessly suck a hickey onto your neck. You panted as the air in the enclosed bathroom space was getting hotter and hotter as the seconds passed by.

The feeling of the thick dildo hitting at your g-spot causes pornographic moans to leave your mouth. A familiar tightening feeling settled into your abdomen.

“Ellie, I’m gonna cum, please” you whisper, trying not to be as loud as your moans.

“Cum for me, baby. Doing so good for me,” Ellie pecked your hot and sweat-dried cheek.

As you were about to cum, you heard the front door slam shut. Both of your movements froze at the sound of your sister's angry voice echoing through the house.

“What the actual fuck?” Hailee shouted that you swore had rattled the framed photos in the restroom.

You muttered curses as you ushered Ellie to pull out of you, trying to make minimal noise as well. It hurt like a bitch but you had to make yourself look somewhat decent. Ellie shuffled to release you from her grasp. You tug the skirt of your dress back down your thighs and hurry to wipe the smudged mascara from underneath your eyes.

Hailee calls for you again to which you look at Ellie with a panicked expression.

“Stay in here. Don’t say a thing and keep quiet.” You beg her, making sure to peck her lips once to show her you didn’t mean to be bossy or mean.

Ellie nods and gives you a tight-lipped smile. You tug the bathroom door open, wiping over your mouth once as you whip your head around to find your sister.

“Hails?” You call out.

Seconds later, you hear footsteps come from the area of your bedroom. Hailee stands in front of you and damn it, she looks more pissed than the time she failed her driver’s test.

The first time.

Her hands were on her hips and her chest was heaving up and down in anger.

“I’m gonna ask you something and if you lie to me, I will punch you straight in your fucking teeth,” Hailee spoke at an eerily calm volume.

“Okay…?” You reply, entirely confused by her angered state.

“Are you and Ellie together?” She blurts out, eyes wide in anticipation. “Fuck buddies, dating, whatever you two are just… can you tell me yes or no?”

What.

How did she find out? Who told her? Not Jesse, no. Dina? No, no, no definitely not.

Who fucking told her?

“Hails,” you start, shutting your eyes as you step closer to her.

“Oh my fucking god. It’s true. Are you fucking kidding me?” Hailee grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and hit you upside the with it.

You let out a gasp and looked at her in disbelief. Is she 12?

“Can you not hit me so we can just talk about it? Please, Hails.”

She hit you again upside the other side of your head. You huff out an annoyed sigh, rubbing at your temple. You open your mouth to say something snarky when you hear a muffled clatter from the bathroom.

Hailee’s eyes dart in the direction of the bathroom when she hears a soft mutter. Her eyes widen as she lets out a scoff and marches over to the door. You try to call after her but she jerks open the door to reveal a hunch over Ellie picking up the supplies you had forgotten to put away.

Her body tenses as she slowly stands upright, making eye contact with your sister.

“Hailee,” Ellie begins but your sister is quick to throw the pillow at Ellie's head.

Ellie merely scrunched up her face in embarrassment, clearing her throat and scratching behind her ear. You notice her nose scrunch up before she groans out, shaking her head.

“Were you two getting it on when I came home?” Hailee’s voice was laced with disgust.

The silence from you and Ellie told her everything she needed to know. You picked at your nails nervously, making eye contact with Ellie from behind your sister's figure.

“You,” she pointed at Ellie and turned to you with a scowl on her face, “and you are sick. The both of you. How long have you two been lying to me about this… thing you have going on?”

“A month.” Ellie carefully sighs out.

You suck in a deep breath as the two of you wait patiently for Hailee’s reaction. She was frighteningly still as she stared at Ellie who was anxiously fiddling with the bracelet you had gifted her a while back.

“How long were you going to keep this from me? Hmm?” Hailee whipped her head to stare at you now.

You froze at her angry glare but somehow managed to answer.

“Hails, I don’t know exactly when but we knew you would… Well, do this.”

“What? Freak out? Be dramatic?” Hailee lists off as she folded her arms in front of her ribbed tank top. “I’m sorry that I’m ‘being dramatic’ that my best friend since 6th grade and my sister have been lying to me about their secret relationship. I had to find out when Bella told me today that she was happy for you and Ellie.”

You shut your eyes and rub at your temple at Hailee’s tempered words.

“She saw you guys out on a date and kissing and holding hands and shit.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the three of you. No one knew what to say next. You felt guilt settle in your chest.

“Hailee,” Ellie began, which caused your sister to flinch and take a step back from her. “Hails, we never wanted to hurt you, okay? I… really like her. I’ve liked her since we were in junior high but always pushed those feelings away because of you. You’re my best friend and I didn’t want to risk my friendship with you. Look, I’m sorry that we lied to you and kept it a secret. We wanted to make sure that this would work.”

“Does it?” You speak up softly, looking at Ellie with nothing but admiration in your eyes.

Ellie’s eyes softened in your direction, a shy smile on her lips now. “Yeah, it does.”

Hailee kept looking between you two like she was contemplating on what to say. Whether she should blow up or come to an understanding.

“God, this is gonna be every day now, isn’t it?” Hailee groaned and covered her face with her hand.

“You’re not—“ You began with furrowed brows.

“— Mad? Yeah, I definitely am but,” Hailee sucked in a deep breath. “You two mean a lot to me and you make each other happy. I will not pick between you two if you break up though.”

Ellie smiled at Hailee then flickered her eyes over to you.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” you nod as you blush under Ellie’s gaze.

“Alright, I’m gonna go to my room because you two are blatantly eye-fucking each other,” Hailee grimaced and leaned over to Ellie to hug her. She whispers in Ellie’s ear laced with a sickenly sweet tone. “You hurt her and I will break every single skateboard in your room, Williams.”

Ellie’s eyes widen before she pats Hailee’s back with a tinge of fear.

“Yeah, love you, Hails.”

“Love you, Els.” Hailee grinned as she turned to you and threw a punch to your shoulder once.

You gasp at the sudden force and just nod.

“Okay, yeah. Are you done?” You rub over the skin and glare at her.

Hailee hummed in thought before shrugging her shoulders.

“For now. I’ll leave you guys alone to… talk. Just talk, okay? I’m home now.” Hailee warned you and Ellie before scurrying off to the bedroom upstairs.

You and Ellie wait until you hear the bedroom door click closed before you burst into soft giggles. Ellie walked over to you to capture your lips into a gentle kiss.

“Fuck, that was single-handedly one of the most embarrassing conversations I’ve ever had.” You murmur onto her lips, cupping her face.

“Yeah, but,” Ellie pulled away to wrap her fingers around your wrists. “I’m kind of glad. It was sort of killing me not being able to tell people.”

Your eyes soften at her confession, rubbing your thumb over her warm cheeks.

“Me too, honestly. I would’ve preferred for us to just tell her but it's out now. We’re…?”

As you trailed off, you realized you and Ellie never had that conversation. The rhythm and pace of your relationship was so perfect you didn’t even think about the ‘label’ talk.

“Girlfriends?” Ellie questioned, tilting her head to the side.

You beam and nod to confirm: “Girlfriends sounds more than good.”

Ellie began to cover your face in gentle kisses, feeling like she was on a permanent high. Giddy laughter left your lips and Ellie decided she right there and then that she wanted to make you laugh like that forever. To make you hers.

She’d do whatever it takes to keep you this happy.

tag-list: @elliezlils11utt @seraphicsentences @alesbianperson @21slurp-blog @vqxen @mikellie @boobdrug @macaroni676 @elliesprettygirl @plutolovesyouu @cinnamonmilf @sc0ttstre3ted

[bowieandqueen11]

We Need A New Lock / Sanji Imagine

Request: could you write a sanji x reader fic of them alone in reader's room? they always end up getting interrupted by someone just as they get close to kissing, and its torture for sanji because they just cant find a moment alone with each other, so he finally finds a way to be with her late one night where he can kiss her senseless uninterrupted. thank you!

First I just wanted to say, thank you so much everyone for your support as I recovered from my operation! I'm so happy to be here and writing again!

Okay but this is both super sweet and hilarious, I hope you don't mind I spread this out over the deck a bit, and changed it around a little bit for more fun ;)

Warning: slightly spicy, so 18+ please!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @islandofohara.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Try One: Nami

At try one, Sanji was four seconds away from ripping his hair out.

Poor, Sanji: the sweet cook had spent all of dinner service with his hands clenched tightly in his fringe, fistfuls of hair nearly tugged out and scattered among the Matcha Tiramisu he had spent a lonely, and tired morning dragging himself away from your warm embrace to make specially for you. Toiling, rolling, dusting cream and cocoa that he had spent the last handful of his berries trading for from the speciality trader in the markets of the Canopi Islands; he had squinted underneath the honey melt of the sun as it fell from its crest over the horizon as he whisked and whizzed and splattered dessert up to his elbows in his desperation to make sure the sweet treat would be ready before Luffy caught the scent of it.

Finding it too tempting not to toy with the cook, you tried to stifle your smirk as you nonchalantly placed a fist under your chin and feigned interest in whatever Nami was animatedly trying to chew over with you. Flitting your irises over until you made direct eye contact, you dragged the flat edge of your tongue up the back of the spoon, making sure to wet the edge of your thumb along the way.

At any other time, Sanji may have been beside himself with embarrassment. It wasn't the first time a member of the crew had teased him... or snarled at him... or chided him for his obvious endearment, but the sound of Nami's voice was drowned out by the pulsing rush of blood that flooded through your boyfriend's ears. His full concentration was centred solely on the way your teeth scraped over your fork: the content hum as you licked over your fingers like a serpent and nearly sent Sanji clambering onto the floor to beg for the ecstasy of your sin.

You had tried not to chortle, you really had: hiding your face behind the ledger Nami was leaning over the table to shove into your face, her accusing pointer finger jabbing at a new entry she had triple underlined in her familiarly baleful black strokes. She hadn't even noticed that Sanji was nearly crumpled on the floor, bowl lying abandoned by the sink as his love-struck eyes struggled to stay within his skull.

'3000 berries?! Seriously?', she shot a growingly outraged frown in your direction, clattering her fork onto the table so she could use her free hand to point accusingly towards a recovering Sanji, whose fingernails were almost shedding wood shards off the cabinet drawer as he tried to pull himself back up to a presentable looking stand. 'You let curly brows over there spend three thousand of our berries on a pair of new pyjamas for you?'

You shrugged hesitantly, crossing your legs under the table. Your skirt began to rise up, bunching towards your hip as you crossed your ankles. You shot a lingering glance out of the corner of your eye towards Sanji, hoping with all your might that he'd be too bashful to meet your eye. Instead, as Nami cried out in outrage, Sanji's gleeful eyes locked onto yours, and the poor man was forced to grab the wooden edge of his spoon out of the sink and bite into it with his teeth to stop himself from squealing right there and then in the kitchen.

Nami incredulously trailed her eyes between the two of you, a long-simmering jaded scowl tempering over her face. Finally noticing how Sanji was loosening his shirt collar and using a freshly washed baking tray to fan the heat rolling in volcanic waves off his body.

The cat burglar pushed her tongue against her cheek and inhaled sharply as she turned her attention back to you. 'How is that even possible?! Luffy's meat budget for the month costs less than that!'

'They're special, my dear Nami!', Sanji finally managed to pipe in, his voice sounding strangled as he plopped the tray back down next to his damp tea towel. He turned towards the two of you with a pained smile plastered on his sickly looking face.

'They're made of Agar-Agar flakes, and of course, only the finest dehydrated avocados in all of the East Blue for the finest gem in all of the seas.' Sanji cocked his head and winked at you mischievously. 'It was worth every berry for my delectable little sweet pea.'

Nami made a gagging noise into her orange juice, but Sanji just bit his bottom lip and came sauntering over to stand by your side.

Sanji's breath drew in sharply as you absentmindedly began to brush your pointer finger up and up: first tickling over the arm that came winding around your shoulder, before leaning back to trace the edge of his jaw line, your eyes drawn away from Nami's waving hands to gawk up at the unbuttoned gap between his shirt where his Adam's apple lay tautly.

Nami was about to throw her muffin at your head when she suddenly started, bolting straight upright. Leaning forward on her elbows, she squinted her eyes suspiciously at the way you were nearly falling off the dining table's bench to lean back and caress your boyfriend's face.

'Hold on... what do you mean Agar Agar? How can they be made of food...'

'Well', you snorted, trying to hide your face by pulling one of Sanji's heavy arms up and draping his heavy bicep in front of your crinkling eyes. 'They are edible-'.

'Melt in the mouth, in fact', Sanji chimed in audaciously, bending his spine over so he could press a few butterfly kisses over the top of your scalp.

Nami nearly shoved the table straight into your stomach in her desperation to clamber up and escape the two of you. 'Nope. Nope! Absolutely not. The two of you get out of here now, before I start pitching water over your heads.'

Try Two: Usopp

At try two, Sanji was three seconds away from kicking the door of its hinges in annoyance.

It had taken nearly all night for the two of you to get even these few seconds of isolation together, and yet Sanji still felt so woefully unprepared. His fingers stumbled as he clumsily tried his best to ignore how his pounding heart was almost playing leap-frog with his ribs; the tautening of his abdomen as he tried to pull his under-shirt over his head left exultant lacerations against his muscles. He had to work up the courage to turn and kiss you now, or he was going to keel over and pass out on the floor from his heart's anguish: brought to his knees by the one thing he could never escape: his soul’s serendipity. 

Thankfully, you did the hard part for him.

He flushed at the sound of your feet pattering off your bed to echo through the shimmering walls towards him; he throat bobbed at the feel of your hand delicately winding round to finger at the Windsor knot choking his neck. He nearly cried out when you pressed your body flush against his back.

'My buttercup, if you keep pulling at that tie like that you'll have conked out before I've even got you to the bed.'

You could feel the desperation radiate off Sanji as he tilted his head back to try and watch you. Despite how tired he seemed, his dipping eyelashes roved almost hungrily over every aspect of you he could see, his hand coming up to slide over yours until you were bowered and anchored together in the storm.

'Well my honeyed heart', he almost made your breath hitch as he walked the two of you backwards, stopping only once the heavy weight of your bed swung against your knee pit. 'I suppose I'll just have to bring the bed to us.'

With a grunt that sounded suspiciously close to a puppy's whine, Sanji snapped you up within his arms and lifts you up to sit on the chained platform. Once you had regained your balance, you beckoned your pointer finger towards Sanji, and he nearly tripped over his own feet as he came stumbling towards you, dragged forwards as if yanked by an invisible leash tied around his ankles.

'God, I missed you today', your boyfriend muttered, grabbing onto your shirt and nearly crawling into your skin like a man possessed. As your head hit the linen lining of the swing, the man did his best not to collapse his full weight onto you when he came crushing down on top of your abdomen: the only thing holding him up being the point of his elbows that pin your arms in place, and the jut of his knees as they 'accidentally' fall between yours and slide them further... and further open. 'If Luffy has me make cook up one more medium-rare steak for him I'm going to throw myself headfirst into the ocean.'

You snorted, burrowing your nose into the soft mound of flesh underneath his earlobe. He shivered when you teasingly pursed your lips and blew against the shell, before latching on with your teeth and nipping at the squishy skin. 'If you do, don't worry. I'll make sure to fish you out with a frog net.'

'Frog net? Frog net!' Sanji slowly lowered his body to rest his forehead against the curve of skin just above your breasts, trying to stifle his smile. 'Oh, my wounded heart! I hope you're only saying that because you're going to give me a kiss.'

'Actually, it's because you're so slimy', you teased, poking your finger into his hip. His groan echoed into your bone as he pulled your waist tighter against him.

The starved man exhaled, his arms tightening around your waist; he was hiding himself away in your safety, trying to burrow himself underneath your skin like an ensnared goldcrest flying fruitlessly, dangerously, with harrowing hope for the propitious freedom wrought only by the sun.

Sanji made an incomprehensible gargle that sounded something vaguely along the lines of: 'Eye wansh kisch ewe so mphly.'

'What was that, buttercup?'

'I want to kiss you so badly', Sanji whimpered, his warm tears soaking through to your shoulders.

He was so soft. God always so soft, and as he lay before you now, you could almost imagine how sweet he must have been before his father cruelly tried to stifle it with cruel mockery and torturous punishments. So soft, so calm, so comforting, as he peered up at you with those wonderous eyes; his attention was always drawn back to you: so trusting, no matter what you said or did. Always. Just looking at you with this almost timeless intensity. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, to want to spend his whole life caught in the light of the most translunary being he’s ever met.

You stroked your palm through the tangling strands of hair by the nape of his neck, letting your voice fall to a whisper in order not to startle Sanji any further. 'Well, you are my sweet prince after all. You can kiss me whenever you want.'

The cook's reply was muffled by a swift knock against the doorframe.

'Hey, is everything okay? I'm hearing some weird noises coming from in here... are you guys in trouble? I know those Marines on Karushi Island were pretty annoyed when Y/n tossed them backwards over their butts-'

His perturbed question was met only by a deafening groan, followed by the pillow Sanji picked up and flung hitting the porthole window with a crashing PLASH.

Usopp flinched back, instinctively reaching towards his belt to run his fingers over the solid oak of his slingshot. 'Okay, be brave. Be brave, Captain Usopp. Your friends may be in danger! They may-'. Usopp's words quickly died on his tongue when he cautiously tip-toed open the door to the boy's quarters. In fact, his tongue nearly rolled out of his jaw as his lips slackened, blubbering like a pufferfish at the sight of Sanji almost draped across you. A half-naked Sanji.

He clapped his hands over his eyes, and nearly tossed himself over the edge of the ship with how rapidly his legs were wheeling themselves backwards. 'I'm so sorry you guys! I didn't know you were- well you were, you know- boinking in ther-.'

SLAM.

The swift silence that settled over the room should have been reassuring. Should have been. If only it hadn't been followed by the confused wails from the sharpshooter as he lolled out flat against the floor: the tip of his bandana scraping underneath the toe of Sanji's shoe where it was splayed out over the edge of the bed.

Sanji just sighed like a weary father, taking one hand off your cheek to slap it over his eyes with a curt shake.

'You snuggle up here and stay warm, sweetheart. I'll go get Chopper.'

Try Three: Luffy

At try three, Sanji was busy spending his spare two seconds trying to work up the nerve to just... leap across the room to where you were standing and kiss you silly.

'Okay', Sanji folded himself against the door and started counting distractedly on his fingers. 'I've given the Captain three plates of meat, so that should distract him for a little while: I've also hidden cookies along the deck, and stuffed a few mint infused lamb shanks in the Crow's Nest. Hopefully he'll go and bother moss head for a bit instead of annoying-'

A ringing crash made the two of you wince as your poor bedroom door got another battering; this time, the handle nearly cleft a hole clean in the wall as Luffy's leg came barging sandal first into the room.

He couldn't sleep... so your Captain had the fortuitous idea of seeking out the next best thing: hugs from you.

'Y/n, there you are! I ran out of meat, I need you to rub my tummy so I can nap! I tried asking Zoro, but he kicked me off the Crow's Nest!'

Before you could even open your mouth to protest, Luffy's stretchy arms have latched onto the edges of the door and he's flung himself into the room like a Hawaiian clad cannonball. Sadly, one that had been directly configured to launch into you: headfirst, nonetheless.

'Damn it Luffy - nO!'

A look of pure terror widened your eyes as you were skidded butt-first across the floor by a mop of curly black hair and a Cheshire grinning face. A crushing weight piled onto the side of your face, and despite how much Sanji curses and tries to detach Luffy's arm from your waist, your Captain's smushed face doesn't even lift an inch off your cheek.

'Oh, Sanji! You're here too! Even better!'

Then koala mode is activated, and Luffy's legs and arms come wrapping around you... and poor Sanji's like a cocoon. The helpless cook goes flying through the air like a contorted puppet blasted out of a wonky cannon.

Oblivious as always, your Captain settled down between the two of you for his pre-sleep nap, effectively trapping pining you and a love-struck Sanji a foot away from each other. Within a blink of an eye Luffy's head lolled onto your shoulder, and you frowned as you tried to shuffle away from the thin lines of drool that dripped out of his snoring mouth. As if he could sense you moving, Luffy's arms tightened like a vice around your waist, winding another few extra times around for good measure.

After a few minutes of wriggling, some muted swearing, and a lot of shoving the toe of his boot into the side of an unaware Luffy's shin, Sanji finally managed to wrangle his hand to snake around the rubber man's bellybutton so he could link his pinkie finger with yours.

Trying your best not to to block your nostril, you shuffled your cheek to the side until you could meet your boyfriend's sorrowful eye.

Despite your circumstance, all you did was smile.

God- that smile: bright enough to alight the dusk. As piercing and ruinous as pure golden sunlight. As devastating as the fresh warmth of a salt wind borne onto the stifling heat of a forgotten crag. And it makes everything in his life up to this moment worth something. Worth it all.

All the tortures in the world would be worth it to just link pinkies with you.

Try Four: Zoro

At try four, Sanji was one second away from hoisting his crewmates over his shoulder and flinging them overboard one by one.

There was something incredibly unsexy about banging your head against a pair of Zoro's sweaty hand weights, but as Sanji pounded you to the ground, neither of you seemed to be able to muster the nerve to care.

'Sanji', you moaned almost lewdly, tugging his back and silently willing him down to cage your body against the coarse, sweaty mat. 'More. Please. More.'

His cheeks burned an almost violent carmine, but he refused to break contact; only for one sole second did his skin leave yours, when he couldn't contain the gut-wrenching want within himself anymore and dared to brush the plush top of his lip against the side of your nose.

'I- I want-'

You pressed your cheeks firmly against his, willing Sanji to believe every sweet word that you couldn't stop from gushing out of your mouth.

You stopped, panting for breath. 'Tell me sweetie - tell me what you want. Let me hear you say it.'

His body squeezed around yours, the so usually syrupy sweet cook clenching his fingers into the meat of your spine like a savage animal shaken loose from its wrought iron chains: like an unbottled tempest with nowhere left to rage except over the bearing flames.

'Please! Please - hngg, I can't, I can't. I need you. I can't hold myself back any longer.' His words sounded so painful it sent a jolt of worry through your heart.

And yet when he pressed his nose flatly against your own, so forcefully crushing his own skin against your own it nearly left you gasping for breath, there was still such a sweetness in it. Despite it all, despite how strenuously Sanji was trying to hold back that final band of constraint from snapping, his first and foremost priority would always be your wellbeing.

'I'm sorry- I'm sorry my chérie, but I need to feel you more than I need air.'

The gasping, open mouth kiss he gave you was only repeated: crashing down again and again against your own, tongue slashing with ravenous hunger over your bottom lip and clumsily leaving wet stripes of warm saliva against your cheek as Sanji devoured you. The meek, almost pitiful whimpers as he ducked his head into the curve of your shoulder blade as he grinded himself against you, effectively trapping you between the ground and the clench of his quivering thighs marked the interludes of his feast. His lips trembled as he sighed blissfully, holding the tide back as his free hand sweetly ran its knuckles up the side of your leg, stopping only when his thumb was pressed closely enough to your inseam that he could run miniature circles underneath the growing wetness of your pants.

At the sound of your shaking moan, his front teeth dug in so tightly to his bottom lip that he drew blood.

It scared you. You wanted him to do it again.

'Sanji, I said more.'

The claw of his hand as he swiped at your shirt, not caring that he almost sent a tower of Zoro's sweaty old shirts flying in his own desperation to tug yours off was his only reply. The almost achingly gentle restrain as he placed his right hand against your hip and tried to hold you in place: tried to warn you that if he started, he wasn't sure if all his pent-up yearning would allow him to stop. The sweat nearly dripped across his furrowed eyes, caking the wispy strands of his fringe against his bucking forehead as he willed himself to calm down. His eyes stung, but despite your desperate clawing up towards his shoulders, he forced his breathing to settle.

But by all the seas... as he peeked one eyelid open and saw the line of tantalising skin grow wider down your rising breast, all semblance of self-restraint fled from the near drooling cook's brain.

The feel of Sanji's lips dragging down your neck to nip at your pulse point was interrupted by the sound of a quiet c-r-a-c-k.

You peeked your head, too far gone to swim fully out of your daze. With your arms still wrapped firmly around the wide expanse of Sanji's contracting back, you jutted your chin into the constellation line of freckles by his left shoulder blade. 'Did you hear something?'

'Just the sound of this', he smiled, smoothing his hand off your hip and sliding it underneath your buttocks. He gave you a firm squeeze that left your mouth dropping open in a shocked pant as he lifted you further up against his abdomen and pressed your breasts firmly against his pecs: he was effectively cupping you up against him like a clingy, very drenched, koala bear.

This time though, the sound of something splintering was far too egregious to ignore.

The force of the door handle slamming into the wall of the Crow's Nest nearly made the whole ship shake in revulsion; the cool air against your skin was nearly too much to bear, but the raging heat that sparked out from the looming shadow enveloping the door was enough to make your whole body break out in goose bumps.

'Can you two stop making out around the ship for two seconds.'

Sanji growled, whipping his head round to sulk at the ship's swordsman.

'Can you mind your own business for even one, Marimo?'

The former bounty hunter ostentatiously held a finger up by slowly raising it into air, and it took you a second to realise he’s pointedly showing Sanji his middle finger.

'Zoro, did you- did you just break the lock?'

'What's your problem? I left my gym towel in here.'

[aangelinakii]

ALWAYS GONE IN A FLASH.

— no more lies.

summary : you start dating this amazing guy, but soon enough you notice he just doesn't have the time anymore. now you're going to demand answers.

note : this literally took ten thousand billion years to write

after a long week, dinner with your new boyfriend was the first thing you needed.

home-cooked food — round yours, of course, because last month you ate at his. both of you put in a little bit of effort to cook an orzo dish you'd stumbled across in a magazine at the doctor's office the other day.

barry was setting out the table, spoons and forks and folded kitchen napkins printed with cats, whilst you dished out into navy bowls.

"one dish for the mister," you hummed as you came around the table to where barry had sat down, setting his bowl in front of him and your own in front of your chair.

barry let out a content sigh, eyes drifting up to look at you in the dim lamplight from his dish. "i can already tell this is going to be amazing. you never fail to impress me." he hovered himself out of his chair slightly and leaned across the table to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

a bashful laugh followed your smile as he pulled away, sitting back in his seat. "hey, i can't take all the credit — you filled the pan with water."

"that i did," barry grinned, picking up his fork and shovelling up some orzo and sliced peppers. "that i did."

the past six months with barry allen had been nothing but fun. that day you'd met in the vegetable aisle of the supermarket, you'd never expected this — a companion, a best friend, as well as a kind boyfriend to spoil you with compliments and his time and energy.

however, something you'd certainly caught onto was the fact he'd always be needing to go somewhere.

movie night? just as you're sitting down with the popcorn, fresh and warm, film ready to start, he looks at his watch and grimaces. he's got to go.

gym date? he's spotting your exercise when suddenly his hands move from view, and you want to look back at him to see what he's doing, but you don't want to break something — but you know he's looking at his watch, and your date will be cut immensely short.

restaurant? you've just ordered and your drinks have only just come, yet his watch pings and he needs to leave.

even a fool could notice something dodgy with him, not that you'd want to admit barry could be anything but a green flag.

as you dug into your food, the warmth and softness of it all easing the tension you'd accumulated in your muscles over the long week, you noted barry had gone quiet. with a glance up you found his stare upon his wrist, face illuminated by a digital glow. his fork fell with a clatter into his bowl.

he was about to leave.

"hey—" before he could do anything, your insecurities leapt forward, though you wouldn't call them insecurities as such. you were worried; perhaps slightly insecure about what he was doing, where he was always going. but this time you couldn't keep it in. "oh, no you don't."

barry's eyebrows furrowed. you'd never had a fight yet, and you could tell he was taken aback by the sternness of your tone. "i need—"

"no," you shot back before he could finish anything he'd been planning to say. "no, i haven't seen you all week, and it's been a fucking bad week. you can't just leave."

"you don't understand—"

"exactly, barry, i don't understand." the fork in your grip trembled, knuckles morphing white. "you've been doing this for the past six months. i really don't understand."

despite your quivering brow and clenched fist on the table, barry seemed to turn a blind eye, chair scraping against the floor as he got to his feet.

perhaps dismissing it was better than actually facing the situation.

"i don't have time to explain right now," he was saying, turning away from you, tapping away at his digital watch. "i need to leave."

if he left now you'd be worrying all night — or until the next time you two spoke — that he was okay, that your relationship was okay. if you let him leave.

maybe it worked better in the movies, in the heart-throbbing novels, but now was your chance; to make things right, to learn the truth.

just as he was about to leave the room, leave his bowl of orzo, leave you (again), you jumped from your chair and chased him down — though it didn't seem he was trying too hard to run away. maybe he wanted this, maybe he knew it was right.

fingers grazed wrist, barry stopped walking. in fact, he even turned to face you, though his eyes stayed from your face. they even looked sad. guilty, maybe.

there you stood, staring up at his face while he desperately tried to not look at yours, fingers clamped around his wrist, with everything to say but no known way to say it.

jaw hung, tongue tied, your eyes lingered on the dismissive expression on barry's face; his furrowed eyebrows, something curling at his lip.

"you've stopped now," you managed to push out after moments of pushing. "you've stopped."

but, instead of responding, barry's eyelids fell over the beautiful blue you often found yourself getting lost in.

"can you just — i don't know — be honest?" you suggested, fingers squeezing lightly on his wrist again. beneath the pads of your fingertips, his veins pulsed quickly, a throb beneath your skin. "you're usually so good, but when it comes to this... thing — i don't even know what happens."

then he did the last thing you expected.

a dry laugh huffed past those lips of his. when you first kissed them your heart had been thumping against the cage of your ribs, the cage of all the emotions you'd been attempting and failing to suppress.

how could he be laughing in a moment like this?

"you'd think i'm stupid," barry finally spoke after many more beats, each hammer of your heart against your chest growing frantic — why is he laughing? what does he mean?

finally you pulled your hand away, certain he would stay in his place now. "i think you're more stupid not telling me."

barry brought a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, eyes still positioned anywhere but your face. "no, seriously, you'll think i'm making shit up as an excuse or something."

stubborn as ever, you crossed your arms over your chest and took a step forward, until barry had no choice but to meet your eyes. "try me."

his stare bore deeply into yours, and you could almost feel yourself break, the want to shrink back into yourself and take everything back — and let him leave — beginning to overwhelm.

then the corner of his mouth began to curl, and he broke away. his hand went into his pocket; when it came out his fingers were curled around something. "you don't have to believe me, but just know i'm telling the truth."

when his palm opened up, you had to lean down to get a closer look at what was sitting in the centre. a small ring, although big enough to fit on his middle finger; gold band that shone in the overhead apartment light; right where the karat-diamond might be on an engagement ring sat a red emblem, the home of a shiny gold lightning bolt. it seemed familiar, but you couldn't place it right now.

with a shrug, you looked back up at barry, jutting out your bottom lip.

"what does this look like to you?"

stupid question.

"a ring," you snickered.

barry's thumb moved towards where the ring sat on his hand, and, in an instant, your boyfriend was gone. instead — you recognised his eyes — he was donned in a red suit, electricity crackling along his muscles and an air of urgency brushing through your hair.

a stumble, your jaw dropped low, mouth hung wide.

the same symbol from the ring sat atop his chest.

the flash.

your hands shot up to your mouth. every profanity you could think of wanted to spill through, but nothing seemed to pass your teeth.

barry — the flash — gave a soft, downturned smile, his periwinkle blue eyes glinting. he held out a red-covered hand to you, though he could tell you were reluctant to take it. "i'm really sorry i haven't told you, that i've been keeping secrets, telling lies... everything. it's a big deal. i mean, you knowing who i am now. i need to know i can trust you."

trust? what did he know about trust? six months and he hadn't told you this? you're dating the flash, and you're only just finding out?

"it's a big ask, i know," he continued, hand remaining outstretched. "and i'll be more honest, but..." he took a look at his wrist, at the digital band watch. "i actually do have to get going. something's happening up in metropolis."

"metropolis?" was the first thing you thought to say. "how will you get there?"

the smile upon barry's lips brightened a tad, and he brought his hand up to point at the lightning bolt on his chest.

"right," you chuckled. the words trailed off, but your eyes continued to examine this new version of your boyfriend. "i... suppose i understand. just— be safe, okay?"

one step, two step.

"i really value our relationship, barry."

barry's smile widened again, his eyes bright from behind the mask. "i value you, too. and, hey, i've stayed safe so far, haven't i?"

with one final step, you closed the gap between the two of you, engulfing your arms around his muscular, lean frame, the material of his suit seeming to fizz beneath you.

"yeah, well..." with a sigh, you pulled away, remaining a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze. "good luck."

then he was gone, leaving you with a rush in your chest, the front door open, and still-warm food on the dining table.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Beating Heart

Pairing: Fierce Deity x Reader

Warning(s): None!

Notes: I was listening to "Beating Heart" by Ellie Goulding and "Breathe" by Michelle Branch on repeat while writing this. Feel free to consider this in the same universe as 'Knightmare In Toronto'.

Masterlist

The Fierce Deity's hair was long–almost too long than what you'd originally expected–and not nearly the unkept mess you thought it would be. The night was still young when he removed his long grey cap, stark strands flowing down his shoulders like a cooly-molten waterfall. The whole situation felt strangely intimate as you ran a hand through your own hair.

It is said hair holds memories, so what truths did his hold? Were they of battle? Of pain? Of love?

"You look surprised," the deity rumbled. His pupil less gaze offered a sort of gentle curiosity that you had become startlingly familiar with after the deer fiasco. "Why?"

"I thought your hair would be shorter," you answered honestly. "Not that there's anything bad about longer hair--"

"It is atypical," Fierce finished, eyeing you steadily from across the island, laden with ingredients. Baking had always been a comfort when sleep would not take you, though this was the first time you weren't alone with your thoughts in the silent kitchen, save for the grating scrapes as you mixed the dough with a fork. "I am in no need of coddling."

"I wasn't trying to," you dumped the chocolate chips in with more force than necessary. "Is long hair common where you come from?"

"It is neither common nor uncommon," the Fierce Deity's expression grew contemplative. "What of your world?"

"It's..." you hesitated before remember that he likely couldn't care less. "more common for men to have longer hair than it used to be, but most cut it."

"I see," your arm ached from all the mixing, but it was welcome. "Does it bother you?"

Your brow's furrowed. "That men cut their hair?" he nodded and you felt distinctly disappointed that he believed you cared of something so trivial. "Why would it? If I'm allowed to have my hair long, why shouldn't everyone else?"

The Fierce Deity inclined his head, gaze dropping to the bowl on the counter. You opened your mouth to ask if he liked chocolate, but the oven beeped shrilly and you rushed to scoop the cookies into the pan. As soon as the first batch was in, you yawned and slumped against the refrigerator. "I never did ask why you decided to come down, if you're in a sharing mood."

It was an honest question. He "slept" with the other boys in the guest room, yet somehow always knew when you scurried down to the kitchen to cook away the dark. You had nearly screamed the first time he walked in to inquire on whether the woods outside were your property (then disappeared for a worrying amount of time when you informed that yes, you owned more than fifty feet of fenced yard) but with habit brought comfort, and now it was hardly an inconvenience when he appeared behind you to... watch the cooking process? Daydream of war? You doubted you would ever figure out what was going on in that head of his, which was only mildly infuriating when he seemed to anticipate your every reaction.

"I do not know," was his honest answer to your honest question. "I am merely curious."

"...Of?"

Silence fell as the deity's eyes burned gentle, curious holes in you. You pushed yourself up and loaded the next tray with dough; it wouldn't do you any good to push this budding... whatever it was. Seconds later, the oven dinged in completion, and you laid the piping hot tray on the stove to cool. A delicious scent drifted forth from your creations, and it was surprising that nine more men weren't banging down the hallway for some. Though the cookies were still hot, you scooped up one with a spatula and offered it to him with a grin. "Want one?"

The Fierce Deity, forsaker of worlds and morals alike, took the offering with more delicacy than you thought him capable of, as if he was cradling a precious being rather than a misshapen blob of dough and chocolate. You took a cookie for yourself and began tucking in. Fierce, however, was motionless, staring intently at his hands.

"I do not understand you," he said, and you were inclined to say the same.

"You don't have to," you said through a mouthful of cookie. "You know what I don't understand? Why everything has to be understood."

"Knowledge is life," intoned the deity, though his tone held an air of hesitation. The cookie must have weighed a thousand pounds from how his hands seemed to tremble. "Without understanding, how are we to live?"

"You can live without understanding," you shot back. "I'm sure I'll never understand how you all ended up here, and don't you dare tell me this–" you gestured around you, expression firm and tone biting. "–isn't living."

The deity was silent, and your relief was more palpable than the chocolate on your tongue. You had no idea how or why you kept having these world-shattering conversations with Fierce, but it was a welcome break from the monotony of your life. Which is why you sighed, pinched your temples, and allowed your eyes to meet. "Listen, you don't have to have everything figured out, yanno? That's what Google is for."

It was a testament to the Fierce Deity's patience that you had made it this far with him, but maybe he didn't mind as much as your brain screamed he did. With bated breath, you watched him draw himself to full height, expression neutral. "Why do you defend ignorance?"

You snorted and helped yourself to another cookie. The others could kiss your ass. "I'm not defending it, I'm just saying that some knowledge is just as good as all knowledge. Aren't there things you wish you didn't know?"

"Every day," admitted the Fierce Deity, softening some. "I am a deity, I am born to discover."

"Then go discover," you shot him a small smile through a bite of cookie. "What are you waiting for?"

"I..." it was as if a switch had been flipped, and his expression grew despondent. For someone with no pupils, his eyes sure were expressive. "I do not know."

"Do you want to?"

"Excuse me?" He asked, unfounded and unbelieving.

"Do you want to discover?"

A beat passed.

"Yes."

Maybe it was the fact that it was two in the morning, or perhaps you were simply sick of surprises in life, but you grinned and gestured to the uneaten cookie in his large, battle-scarred hands. "Then I'd hope you find my baking worth discovering."

And the Fierce Deity did just that. You would forever remember the way his expression froze with the first bite he took; the cookie was gone before you managed to squeeze out another word, and it was just fine with you.

Wordlessly, you scraped another morsel from the pan and offered it forth. There was no hesitation from Fierce the second time around, and your hard work disappeared in two large bites.

It felt good to be right, you realized, but it felt even better to help.

"Better than deer, right?" You joked, already knowing the answer.

The deity nodded, looking just short of licking his fingers. You wouldn't have judged him either way. "You have skill," he said, and you almost fell over at the fact that an actual god had given you a direct compliment. "I have use for this skill."

You... had an idea of where this was going, so you shrugged and grabbed your cookbook, the pages stained from years of use and even more of love. "I was thinking... brownies next," you mused slowly, flipping to the correct page, the corners dotted with old batter, then turned your gaze to Fierce. "How about it?"

Though his face was no less stiff–an old habit, you presumed–you were quick to catch the upwards quirk of his pursed lips. With steps that seemed to shake the floor, he drew closer, practically caging you against the counter, expression going contemplative before shifting into something you could only describe as calculated mirth.

"I would like nothing more," the deity intoned softly, gaze fixed to yours. Though the air was thick with tension, you had never felt safer. It was strange, and it was expected; you had always known he wasn't the monster his looks portrayed him to be.

So, with a racing heart and flushed cheeks, you reached up to boop the tip of his nose. The deity blinked, and you could have laughed how quickly his face changed to one of surprise, never mind the fact that you were probably playing with fire at this point. "I'll teach you, but you're on high shelf duty!"

It was perfectly fair, he was over six and a half feet. With a chuckle, you ducked away to get more flour, throwing a cheeky grin over your shoulder at the starstruck deity. "Would you be a dear and grab some cacao powder?" He had seen you get it before, so you didn't bother telling him where it was.

It was almost funny how he seemed to scramble to get when you requested, but you held yourself back for fear of bruising his ego.

Sure, your kitchen looked like a terrible replica of the show Nailed It by the time dawn rolled around, and you discovered exactly why Fierce was a god of war, not gentle grip on bags of flour, but you had a feeling the journey would, and had already been, worth it.

I consumed an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies and wrote this, so please be gentle!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Pleeeeeease write a childhood friends to lovers for Soap and a civvy!reader??? Maybe add a dash of domestic fluff? 💕 I love your writing more than anything 😫

—From Ten To Twenty & Beyond

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You've known him ever since the incident on the playground, and now you can't help but imagine that same boy as you watch him make supper with flour in his hair.] ❞

You stifle your laugh on your hand, leaning back into the dining room chair as the Scot ahead of you swears up a storm. 

“Hell’s fuckin’ bells!” He snaps, waving a hand over his mohawk as the spray of flour wafts on the airways. Your body makes a play to move forward to help—to salvage a new recipe that Johnny was trying to make for you. You could leave the cooking to him…but baking? No, no you think not. 

Before you can stand fully, a wagging finger is leveled in front of your face, and a clicking tongue as a kiss is pressed into your forehead. 

“Not a chance, Dearie. You get that perfect arse back into the chair.” 

You laugh brightly at the hands on the side of your arms that place you back down like a doll. “Johnny, come on, let me help.” 

Blue eyes narrow in hidden stubbornness. 

“No way—I said I’d make you something, so that’s what I’m doin'. You sit there and watch,” he smirks. “I know how hard it is to not jump my bones, Little Lady, but I swear tonight I’m all yours—”

You smack the back of your hand into his pec, just above the slack form of the white apron you’d gotten him as a joke. 

“Alright, you can leave now,” your voice meets his ears as he smirks, leaning down to press his lips on top of yours as you grumble. It wasn’t hard to return the kiss, an easy peck before he left back to the counter with flour still stuck into his dark strands. 

You watch after as you hear his deep chuckles, rubbing at his scalp before sighing as he looks at the dough in one of his mother’s bowls. It had been more than a decade since you’d met him—that fateful day on the playground where he had run headlong into you by the swing set. A crash of skulls and a babbling of childish cries. 

His hand had shown up right in front of yours moments later, pulling you up and wiping off your scraped palms even when he was still swaying on his feet. Those blue eyes. 

Now, years later—a little cottage house in the middle of nowhere. A bright living room and a crackling fireplace. A kitchen filled with laughter and flour pooling to the floor. 

It was the memories that lived in the wood and the stone; in the skin you two wore. And tonight, this was a celebration of more than ten years—a hope to more than twenty, thirty; as many as this world would give you. To beyond life and death, and everything in between. 

You smile brightly, eyes a bit glassy as you see Johnny turn around with a fork in his hands. 

“Now, if I were to ask how to properly—” he halts at the look in your eyes, concern snapping over his once smirking face. “...Dearie?”

You shake your head, grinning before you wave a hand. “I’m alright.” 

Johnny puts down all of his things and begins walking over, but you beat him to it. You meet him halfway there and dig your arms around his waist, head pushing itself into his neck. Beneath his skin, he grunts and does the same—large hands hesitantly slipping around your shoulders as his biceps keep you anchored. 

“What’s this about, then,” he asks, eyes looking down at you as your form squeezes him tightly. “Not that I’m complaining, see.” 

You kiss his pulse, feeling his skin go a bit heated as he chuckles; eyes soft. 

“Just let me hold you,” you peek, only to find him already watching you. Those same eyes close to yours. Foreheads connect and you giggle. “Flour and all.” 

“Hm,” Johnny hums, breathing you down. “...Don’t need much convincing.”

[locsandletters]

ᯓ first of many; j.musiala

──one shot

pairing ➜ jamal x fem!reader

word count ➜ 1.7k

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ after years of just being friends, you and jamal are finally spending your first valentine’s day as a couple. naturally, nothing goes as planned. dating your best friend 101.

it starts the night before.

like, technically, it’s not valentine’s day yet, but jamal’s been on one all day, walking around like a little kid with a secret, smirking to himself, pursing his lips together like he’s dying to spill but won’t. he’s been weird about his phone, too. tilting it away from you. ignoring messages. biting back a grin every time it lights up.

“who you texting?” you ask, sprawled across his bed, watching him from the pillow.

“don’t worry about it,” he says, tucking his phone under his arm and flopping down beside you. he kisses your cheek—one of those lazy, half-missed kisses that lands more on your jaw than anything—but you’re still side-eyeing him, suspicious.

“you’re acting real sneaky, jamal.”

“am i?” he asks, grinning into your skin.

yes. he is. but whatever. you let it go. you don’t even think about it again until the next morning, when you wake up to the sound of something loud and chaotic crashing in his kitchen. it’s early. too early. the kind of early that makes your brain slow, like it’s loading in real-time, like you need at least 15 minutes to process.

there’s another crash. a curse. a chair scraping.

then, suspiciously: silence.

“… jamal?” your voice is all groggy and muffled, and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to pry your eyes open. you reach across the bed, patting the empty space where he should be. it’s cold.

more silence. then, like a jump scare, his voice: “don’t come out here!”

what.

you blink at the ceiling, confused as hell, still groggy, trying to decide if you just hallucinated that. but no, the sound of drawers opening—slamming shut—confirms it.

“why?” you call, throat scratchy.

pause. like he wasn’t expecting a follow-up question. then, weakly: “just don’t.”

now, see. if he had just acted normal, maybe you would’ve left it alone. but he’s being weird. so you drag yourself up, rub your eyes, stumble toward the door.

“babe,” he calls, panicked. “i mean it.”

but it’s too late. you’re already there, stepping into the kitchen, and—

oh.

oh, it’s bad.

it looks like a crime scene. a breakfast massacre. there’s flour everywhere, like he was just throwing handfuls of it for fun. a whisk on the floor. a bowl of what looks like pancake batter, except it’s an objectively illegal colour. burnt toast. eggs that never made it to the pan.

jamal is standing in the middle of it all, barefoot, covered in flour, holding a plate with what can only be described as the saddest excuse for a pancake you’ve ever seen. and he looks… guilty. like a dog who just got caught eating the couch cushions.

“what the hell,” you say, staring.

“breakfast in bed,” he mutters, looking down at the plate in his hands, like he’s just now realising how bad it looks.

a pause.

“babe,” you say, trying so hard not to laugh.

“yeah,” he sighs, nodding. “i know.”

he sounds so resigned. so disappointed in himself. it’s actually kind of cute.

“what was the plan here?” you ask, stepping over a suspiciously large flour pile to get closer.

he groans, shoving the plate toward you. “pancakes.”

you take it. and it’s so heavy. like, heavier than a pancake should be. you poke it with your fork, and it barely moves.

“is it… supposed to feel like this?” you ask, laughing.

“don’t make me talk about it.”

he’s surprisingly genuinely embarrassed. ducking his head, rubbing at his jaw. and when you take a bite—because obviously, you have to—he’s watching you so closely. so serious.

and it’s awful. so, so awful.

but when you look up, his face is hopeful, expectant, and—ugh. you can’t ruin this for him.

so you chew, swallow, try your best not to gag. “it’s… wow. so unique.”

his whole face brightens. “yeah?”

“so creative.”

“i knew you’d like it,” he says, smug, taking the plate back. he grabs his own fork, ready to dig in.

“wait—”

too late. he takes a bite. and immediately spits it out.

“… oh, that’s fucking disgusting.”

you can’t even help it. you laugh at him. hunched over, wheezing, tears in your eyes. and he’s looking at the pancake like it personally wronged him.

“i don’t get it,” he says, looking genuinely betrayed. “i followed the recipe and everything.”

“be honest,” you say, wiping at your eyes, still laughing. “did you really?”

he hesitates. then, sheepishly: “no.”

and that sends you right back into a fit of giggles.

—

the rest of the day is just as chaotic.

there are roses. but too many. like, you turn around for one second, and suddenly, the entire apartment looks like a flower shop. then, out of nowhere, he pulls out matching t-shirts that say i love my girlfriend and i love my boyfriend in obnoxious, bold letters. insists you take pictures in them, which he very proudly posts on his close friends—alphonso is not shy to let you both know that he thinks that shit is cringe.

you later end up at some overpriced, aggressively romantic restaurant in the city, where everything is quite literally heart-shaped. you hate that you love it. jamal even gets you one of those giant stuffed bears that takes up half the car, just to be extra.

“where the hell am i gonna put this?” you ask, squished into the passenger seat, trying to push the bear off of you.

“our bed,” he says, like it’s obvious.

he’s joking. he has to be.

except, when you get back to his place, he throws it straight onto the bed and pats its head like a pet.

“what’s his name?” he asks.

you blink. “why does he need a name?”

jamal gives you a look. “he’s part of the family now, babe.”

you stare at him. he stares back. dead serious.

“… barry.”

“barry?” he repeats, making a face. “nah. try again.”

you roll your eyes, climbing onto the bed, throwing yourself against the pillows. “okay, fine. what about… reginald?”

jamal hums, considering. “reginald. reggie.” he nods, satisfied. “yeah. that’s hard.”

it’s not. but that’s how the bear becomes reggie.

it’s been a dumb, ridiculous, unserious day. and that dumb, ridiculous, unserious day stretches into an equally unserious night, because jamal isn’t done yet. of course he isn’t.

there’s dinner next. not an actual dinner, because you’re both still full from the aggressively heart-shaped meal earlier, but a ‘snack dinner,’ as he calls it. which just means eating a bunch of random shit in bed like kids at a sleepover.

“okay,” he says, serious as hell, setting the bag between you. “don’t look. just pick.”

you squint. “… pick what?”

he just raises a brow. motions to the bag.

you sigh, reaching in, grabbing the first thing your fingers touch. when you pull it out, it’s—oh. it’s one of those valentine’s candy hearts, the kind that taste like chalk.

you make a face. “oh, hell no.”

“no take-back,” he says, snatching the bag away before you can try again.

you sigh dramatically, flipping the little heart over in your hand. it says kiss me in faded pink letters. you show him.

jamal grins. “well,” he says, leaning in, all smug, all close, all warm. “you heard the candy.”

he’s such a loser. but, ugh. he’s cute, too. so you let him kiss you. and then another. and then one more, because why not.

after that, it’s movie time. jamal insists on watching something “romantic for the holiday.”

which, for some reason, means shrek 2.

“this is not a romance movie,” you say, staring at the tv.

“are you kidding?” he says, looking at you like you just disrespected his whole family. “it’s literally a love story.”

“… how?”

“shrek and fiona,” he says, like it’s obvious. “real love. no conditions. no standards. no judgment.” he gestures to the screen, suddenly so deeply invested in this conversation. “you don’t get it. she could’ve stayed a human. she could’ve left him, married some pretty boy, had a normal life. but she didn’t. she wanted her man. ogre and all.”

he leans back, shaking his head. “real love.”

you snort. “are you about to cry?”

“fuck off,” he mutters, shoving popcorn into his mouth.

—

the movie finishes. you think maybe, finally, he’s done being ridiculous for the night. maybe now, you can just curl up, relax, do regular couple things.

but then, he rolls over. stretches. looks at you. “we should make a fort.”

you blink. “what?”

“a fort,” he repeats. “like we used to do as kids. with pillows and blankets and shit.”

“jamal.”

“c’mon,” he says, sitting up. “you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound fun.”

it does. it really does. but you have to act unbothered for the sake of your pride.

“hmm,” you say, pretending to think. “i dunno.”

he narrows his eyes. “you’re lying.”

you are.

so, yeah. now you’re building a fort. or, more accurately, jamal is building a fort while you watch, offering absolutely zero help.

“you’re actually useless,” he says, balancing two pillows against a chair.

you shrug, popping another chocolate in your mouth. he mutters something under his breath.

you raise a brow. “what was that?”

“nothing,” he says, then turns to the fort, hands on his hips, nodding, pleased with himself. “done.”

and honestly? it’s actually good. like, he really put his whole heart into it. it’s got layers. multiple blankets. strategically placed pillows. fairy lights draped across the top.

he crawls in first, patting the space beside him. “c’mon.”

you sigh, all dramatic, but crawl in anyway. and, ugh. okay. it’s actually kind of perfect. warm. cozy. kind of romantic, in a way that doesn’t try too hard.

“happy?” you ask.

he hums, tilting his head against the pillow, looking at you. “yeah.”

and then, finally, you’re just there. under the blankets, wrapped up in each other, warm and full and tired in the best way. jamal’s fingers trace lazy circles into your skin, and you just breathe.

you sigh, content. “this was nice.”

“yeah?” he asks, voice soft.

“yeah,” you admit.

he’s quiet for a second. then: “you’re stuck with me now, you know.”

you smile, half-asleep, pressing your face into his chest. “i know.”

and that’s your first valentine’s day together. stupid. unserious. but somehow, perfect. just right.

[ivysangel]

Honey clings to your fingers, viscous and sticky, stringing every time it touches itself. Lines of liquid gold run down the curves of your hand, streams of goopy liquid pooling in your palm and flowing down your wrist in a few collective lines. You plunge your thumb back into the honey pot, the thick substance clinging to your skin instantly, and you bring your hand back up again, the honey only stagnant for a second before it starts its descent down your arm.

A large hand, strong and veiny, grabs your wrist. An unrelenting grip bringing your hand forth to him. He presses your thumb to his lips, smearing the sweet substance to and fro, to the corners of his mouth and back, leaving translucent liquid behind when he catches your thumb between his teeth, grazing the appendage and scraping it clean. A guttural groan sounds in the back of his throat, and you know that means he likes it.

"'s good, huh?" you watch the way his eyes flutter as he lets the rest dissolve in his mouth, ecstasy written all over his features. An emotion he only exhibits when he's eating good food or fucking you. "Yeah, really good." His voice is hoarse as if the honey absorbed all moisture from his larynx and left him in need of a glass of water, ironic given its effectiveness in soothing sore throats. "Thirsty?" you hand him a cup filled with cucumber water, a palate cleanser. "Real sweet," he says before tipping his head back and downing the drink. "But I liked it. What's next?"

Your eyes peruse the board of half-eaten sweets and treats in front of you, searching for one that was untouched. The beech wood board, previously a nice light beige, is stained a multitude of colors. Splotches of deep reds and purple form puddles where you had put the berries, frosting is streaked across the entirety of the board from the multiple unfinished slices of cake, chocolate chips and sprinkles from cookies lay scattered on both the countertop and floor, spoons and forks that were only partially licked clean can still be found near their designated desserts. Cubes of angel food cake half-dipped in chocolate and tooth-rottingly sweet marshmallow squares sit on napkins, drying out more and more by the second while long-forgotten brownies soak up various fruity jellies and jams, having been discarded with no regard for keeping flavor profiles separate.

It was a nightmare to look at, an even bigger one to clean up, and if anyone else had been the cause of this mess, you wouldn't have even begun to entertain the idea of letting it get this bad, let alone cleaning it up. But it wasn't anyone else, wasn't just some random stranger; it was Jason, and to you, spending weeks curating the perfect Valentine's gift to satiate his sweet tooth was a testament to your love for him. Who cares if you have to break out the good cleaning supplies.

"Hmm," you do one last once over, nothing catching your eye that hadn't already been touched, "I don't think so." unintentionally, you start to clean up, collecting dirty forks and spoons for the dishwasher, stacking empty bowls on top of each other to toss in the sink. "What a shame," he mumbles, appearing beside you seemingly out of thin air and taking the utensils from your hands before setting them down haphazardly right where they started. You look at him with confusion, silently inquiring about his undoing of your work, and you open your mouth to verbally ask but are stopped by the wolfish grin adorning his face and the way he begins to lift the hem of your shirt up. "d'ya think we got anythin' else," he asks, moving in closer, eyes locked on you like a predator with prey. "I'm still hungry."

[manias-wordcount]

that jinx x reader was soooo cute!! u write her so well i’d love to see one where Jinx tries surprising reader with like breakfast in bed or something idk for a birthday or anniversary or whatever but she like accidentally burns it or drops it cue her feeling super sad but then u just get a sweet moment where reader is like “it’s ok it’s not ur fault ur not a jinx” and yall cook something together to make up for it

A Little Morning Mishap (Jinx x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗲𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗼!!!

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

Part of you knew this was coming. Right from the very beginning. 

  The day started too peacefully. The day was calm, and the mood was good. That’s a rarity for the two of you. That’s a rarity for her. Not that you mind the good days. You cherish them even. But you know with her past and her life now, good days are few and far between. So you were wary of a good start. You were wary of just how happy she seemed doing something she doesn’t ever try to do. 

  Cook. 

  Not because you’re worried about her. Not because you’re worried about what she could do to you. Not because you’re worried about what she’s capable of. But because you worry for her. She’s yours as much as you are hers after all. 

  So call it your intuition. Your special little quirk when it came to her. You just knew. You just knew it was coming. But you still flinched when you heard the crashing of plates and silverware coming from down the hall. And by the time you heard your partner suck in a stuttered breath and sink to her knees in defeat, you had already pulled on your slippers and grabbed the closest thing to a thick pair of gloves, and shoved them in your robe pocket.

  Pushing open the door to your shared bedroom, you make a beeline to her. The sight before you is exactly what you expected it to be- no surprises often are a good thing. It doesn’t make your heart ache any less than it does now. Not one bit. 

  A tray turned upside down.  A shattered glass- maybe two- that was at one point filled with juice. Broken pieces of ceramic plates and bowls and a mash of colors that was at one point breakfast for two. Dark brown pieces of toast by her knees. Scrambled eggs lumped together in disheveled piles. Small pieces of fruit dotted here and there. Some next to a fork. Some next to a knife. Some rolling, rolling, rolling along the ground. Staining the floor. Sitting in the dirt. To be thrown out. Uneatened. Cried over. Maybe even screamed over if you don’t play these next couple of moments very, very carefully. Nonetheless, it’s fate. A fate you predicted.

  But a fate you wished you were wrong about. A fate you wished you knew nothing about. 

  “These were the ones that didn’t burn,”

  That’s all she utters as you slowly approach her and crouch down in front of her. Her voice is barely above a whisper and just about as strong as a string. Her head hangs low, her shoulders sag, and her body looks seconds from going limp. She looks so small like this. So defeated. So sad. The big t-shirt she wears drowns out her frame. There’s a corner of it getting wet from the juice. A couple of strands of her blue hair, all wavy and pretty from being recently freed from its typical braid receive the same treatment. But she doesn’t make a move to get it out of the way. And you don’t either.

  Instead, you get down on your knees in front of her. In the clearest spot you can find. You put the thick pair of winter socks that you grabbed earlier instead of gloves on your hands. And you start to push away broken pieces of glass and ceramic and food from immediately in front of her. Creating a path between the two of you do.

  She doesn’t say anything while this happens. She never even looks up or tries to meet your eyes. And neither do you. Your apartment is silent except for the scrape of materials and food being pushed across the floor. And the occasional sniffle from your girlfriend, of course. But you don’t stop until it’s all out of the way. You don’t stop until you can finally and safely reach her.

  And the second you do, you’re reaching for her. Just like she’s reaching for you. 

  In an instant, the two of you surge forward. And Jinx is just barely able to outweigh you in terms of strength as she manages to get to you first and throw her arms around you tightly. But you’re right there- right behind her as your arms cut across her torso and pull her impossibly closer to your body. She responds by burying her face into the crook of your neck, wetting it with tears as her nails dig into your pajamas. She shakes as she struggles to get words out. Intense feelings are bubbling inside of her. 

  You spend the next couple of minutes supplying her with soft encouraging words and forehead kisses. You tell her how much you adore her efforts. You tell her how you’re so thankful that you have her. That you have friends whose significant others wouldn’t even peel an orange for them. You tell her who cares if the food was burnt or on the floor. That you’re just thankful she isn’t hurt. That she has always and will always matter more to you than some sliced apple or cheesy eggs any chef in the world could make you.

  And when all is said and done, the sniffles start to die down. Her grip starts to relax- at least a little. You know her well enough to know that she’s still not completely okay. There are still emotions stirring inside of her- making her sick with sadness and anger and tons of things you’ve never been able to explain despite all the days and nights you’ve spent by her side. But a few more forehead kisses are enough to coax her into standing up beside you. And a hand in hand is enough to lead her back into the kitchen with a promise that you’ll both deal with the mess on the floor later. 

  Because for now, you know the day can be salvaged. You think that as you both enter the kitchen- compete with the smoky smell of burnt food and unclean dishes out here and there. But you know that when she gives a timid, but determined nod in response to you asking if she would do the honor and be your assistant as you prepare one of her favorite dishes of yours for lunch.

  The day can be salvaged. The world can be saved. Tears can be dried. Messes can be cleaned. 

  If you’re careful enough. If you’re caring enough. But it's her. It’s your Jinx. The girl you fell in love with. The woman you fall asleep with every night and wake up to every day. The person you want to be with for the rest of you. Of course, you’re going to be careful in this moment. Of course, you’re going to be caring in this moment. When have you not been? Because she’s yours as much as you are hers. And sure, that requires a little more than patience sometimes. But so does cooking. 

  And so does everything else in life.

[wzrd-wheezes]

Coffee, Cake and a Gossip - James Potter x Reader

AN - this is entirely based off of a scenario where my boyfriend took me for coffee and cake so we could gossip.

warnings: mentions of alcohol briefly but that’s about it. james potter loving a gossip

Y/N pushed the scrambled eggs around with her fork as she spoke, her eyes trained on the fading pattern of the plate as the words tumbled out of her mouth.

“-And it’s just like, I don’t know, I don’t know how many more times I have to tell her before it gets through.” she huffed, setting her fork down with a clatter, “I’m sorry. I know you probably don’t want to hear me moaning about my friend drama again.”

James laughed, taking a slurp of coffee from his mug, “You’re not moaning, my love.” he smiled, “You’re just venting and, in the nicest way possible, I am loving the drama.”

Y/N chuckled, looking up for the first time in a good few minutes. James was sat, patient as ever, staring lovingly at her as she recounted the events from the previous night.

“Yeah, I know but it must be getting old now,” she smiled weakly, standing up. She crossed the kitchen to scrape her plate clean before setting it in the sink.

Light on his feet, James appeared behind her, his big arms wrapping around her shoulders, his chin resting on the top of her head. He pressed a kiss to her temple, one hand sliding down to rest on her waist. He pushed the fabric of her pyjama top upwards, forever a fiend for skin on skin contact.

“I have an idea.” he mumbled into her hair.

“Yeah?” Y/N hummed in response, sudsing up the sponge and beginning to wash the pots from that morning’s breakfast.

“How about we go and get ready, then we can drive to a cute little cafe somewhere and we can go for coffee, cake and a gossip.” he spun her around so that she was facing him, taking her soapy hands in his, “Then, you can tell me all about your friend drama because, to be honest, ever since you went out with them last night I’ve been dying to hear about what happened.”

“Really?” Y/N slipped her hands from his and wiped them dry on a tea towel that was tucked into a drawer, “You’re sure that you actually-”

“Baby. I cannot explain to you how much I would love to hear it. Besides, I’m a sucker for a little sweet treat.” He grinned, “Why don’t you go and get ready and I’ll finish cleaning up down here, yeah?”

James drove them to a café on the outskirts of their town. It was a quiet little place where sunlight streamed in through the windows and the walls were adorned with quirky paintings. Y/N went to find a table while James ordered. She found them a spot tucked away in the corner, two overstuffed armchairs and a small table between them.

Their coffee was served in mismatched mugs, steam rising from the surface as James set them down on the scrubbed wooden table. He disappeared for a moment and returned with two large slices of cake.

“I didn’t know which to get so I just got a slice of each and thought we could share.” he explained, hacking into a slice with his fork.

“Good thinking.” Y/N smiled, picking up the hot mug and clasping it in her hands.

“Okay. Coffee and sweet treats acquired… time to gossip.” he wiped the crumbs from his lips and turned to face her properly, giving her his full attention.

“So, obviously I haven’t seen the girls for a while, y’know, with us all working and whatnot,” Y/N began. She picked up a sugar cube from the bowl and dropped into into her coffee with a plop, “And I thought it would be nice for us all to go for a drink somewhere so I booked us in at this cute little wine bar in town.”

“Ooh, was it good? We should go there next date night.”

“It was so good! We get there and we all get our drinks and one of the girls says that Alice is running late and I’m like, ‘okay no worries’,” she stopped for a moment to take a bite of cake before continuing, “And you’ll never guess what…!”

“What?” James leaned forward in anticipation, his elbows resting on his knees.

“She turns up an hour late with Jackson.”

“She never!” James gasped, “But it was girls night!?”

“I know!” Y/N huffed. She swilled the coffee around in her mug before taking a swig.

“Wait.” James held a finger up, “Wasn’t Jackson the one that cheated on her?”

“Yes!”

“Wow.” James let out a bemused laugh, “No wonder you’re annoyed.”

“It’s just so frustrating.” Y/N sighed through a mouthful of spongecake, “No matter how many times we tell her he’s a piece of shit she won’t listen.”

“Well, not everyone can have boyfriends as lovely as yours.” James teased, slipping the last bite of cake onto her plate.

“Very true.”

“So, what did you say to her when Jackson turned up?”. he pressed, his eyes twinkling.