#I can picture them running around but there’s just empty space there

[sootsz]

bagi, completely alone on an unfamiliar island, exploring the land, and yet the connecting thread of every new place that she finds arent from any other players. it’s in the signs still left over from the eggs, their words scattered across every part of the server, and she isnt alone because they are everywhere that she looks. by docks and by zoos and by favorite spots and places they only went once. little snippets of conversations with parents, lingering laughs. things they said to a sibling or a friend. the cemetery is still scribbled over with their thoughts. though they are gone they are haunting the narrative in every feasible way that they can

[biteyoubiteme]

sour apple flavored

taehyun x fem!reader

synopsis: someone or something is always waiting by your window at night, why not leave it unlocked and see what happens?

warnings: 🔞!!! incubus!taehyun, somno/dudcon , spit kink, spit as an aphrodisiac, oral (f!rec), overstim (f!rec), slight nipple play, marking, lots of kissing, mentions of masturbation, no protection, creampie, cum eating prob forgot some

wc: 2.7k

an: I don't know how well I did with the dream v reality mix but I tried sorry if it gets kinda confusing ;-; this is 100% inspired by devil by the window it was on repeat as I wrote it no explanation needed. ive never written something like this and I don't know if youll like it but I definitely had fun <3 not proofread sorry! feedback is appreciated :)) [m.list]

this is apart of my mini kinktober event check out the other fics here! [dumdum m.list]

The dreams always started the same way; like waking up with the sense of being watched. The moonlight coming in through the open window that you never remembered opening in the first place. Gauzy curtains rippling in the soft breeze cooling down your flushed cheeks. You never saw him standing there right at the edge of the windowsill until after you've sat up, bed sheets pooling around your waist as you rub at your eyes trying to get them adjusted to the darkness. 

It was always so eerily silent, the only sound coming from your gentle breathing. It's the slight tilt of his head at the sound of your sigh that makes you realize you're not alone. The shine on the little black horns on his head caught the silver moonlight, night air catching the strands of his hair on his brow. It's the curiosity in his eyes that keeps you from being scared, every slow blink taking you in like a wanting cat deciding if you're worth the time. 

You're sure it's a dream because no one has ever looked so beautiful, especially not any of the boys who find themselves lucky enough to make it into your bed. No, the only way you can describe him is otherworldly, born from your dreamscapes amalgamation of every desire you've craved in a partner. 

The tempo of your heart starts to pick up, flush deepening just eyeing him. It's what makes him smirk so subtly that if you hadn't been watching his mouth you wouldn't have realized his expression had changed at all. 

It was impossible to think about anything else but what it would feel like to run your fingers over his tanned skin. All his defined muscles on display for you. Images of you and him flickered through your head like you've already been here before, like he's been pressed against you in this very bed while you kiss along his chest and to his jaw. Your thighs clench swearing you can feel his hands on you even if he's only across the room, the ghost of his fingers trailing between your legs just barely brushing over the soaked fabric of your panties. 

That alone has you falling back to your pillow, hips jerking trying to meet the image halfway as if it's not in your imagination but a tangible thing you can reach if you roll your hips just close enough. You don't even have to reach down to touch yourself, your hands curling in your sheets as you watch him through hooded eyes. 

“Please,” it's a desperate plea so quiet you don't think he's heard you. But although he does not move from his spot by the window you can picture what it would look like if he did. Your legs spread like he was right there between them with his nose brushing up your sensitive skin closest to where you need him the most. And yet all he does is watch; the ghost of his imaginary touch so close before you're barreling into reality. 

The feeling of waking is similar to being feverish. Clammy skin and aching joints like you've been brought back to life instead of reminded that he's not real. But the feeling only lasts a few seconds before the lust washes over you again, eyes finding the empty space he should be and isn't. It's hard to fall back asleep, tossing and turning, craving a man who doesn't exist. The only thing that can satiate you is getting off to the thought of him, your climax better alone thinking of him than when you've ever been with someone else. 

This is one of taehyuns favorite ways to feed. the desperation is palpable as you work yourself up, your climax coming off you in waves when it finally crashes. you'll look over to where he should be blinking like it will make him appear and he's always so tempted to let you see him, knowing one kiss and you would be so willing. 

But he wanted you to feel tortured over not having him, so much so that the second he made himself known outside of a dream you wouldn't think twice before letting him take you for all you were. The chase was his favorite part; playing with his food like a cat with his little mouse, so unsuspecting. Of course he was not fully satisfied only watching but he knew the second he went in it would only be better because of the wait. 

Every night he was waiting by your window, watching the way you arched your back, hips sinking into the mattress, every sweet moan beckoning him. He watched the way his dreams affected you, that sweet serenity on your features when you saw him standing there begging him; beckoning him. 

He watches even when you're awake, the moon hanging in the inky sky as you work at your desk. You never open the window, at least not since he's started to come around. He remembers that first night he heard you, alone in bed trying and failing to get off, just his presence so close helped finally push you over the edge. Your eyes screwing shut, every sound leaving you intoxicating enough to bring him back. 

Tonight it's as if you can see him waiting, your eyes finding his spot over and over so much so  you get little work done at all. And then you open the window. 

It's not like he can't get in if you don't let him, it's just a rule he's set up for himself when around you. Waiting for something to break in the cycle before taking the next step and now your curtains are catching the wind; a white flag waving to call a truce to a game you didn't even notice you were playing with him. 

He swears he is only going to step inside and watch, let his dream work on you like it always did but as soon as he stepped to the edge of your bed he couldn't think of anything else besides putting his hands on you. 

Even in your dream he was so close to you, finally there at the foot of your bed instead of the window. Now out of the shadows you can make out more of his features, catching sight of the wings on his back, the inky black feathers always blending into the darkness. 

“Please, please,” each word a rock thrown at the broken window masquerading as his resolve. 

“You always look so pretty begging for me,” his knuckles running over your cheekbone, your head turning to try and chase the feeling. 

In reality he watched the way you mimicked the movement, the sheets of your bed tangled between your legs, rustling with each turn of your thigh. Soft hums breaking into sleepy words, “i-i want…” 

“Hum?” in the quiet of the room the hum echoed between you two. But even in your dream you could hear him. 

“I want you, i-,” he arched his brow as you cut yourself off but you were distracted by the pad of his thumb brushing under your eye, lashes fluttering as you lost your thoughts, “i need you,” 

“Do you?” his thumb followed the line of your nose dipping down to your waiting lips, tracing them like a memory. 

“Yes,” your head dipping just enough to be seen in reality. 

He leaned down over your sleeping form, his lips just ghosting over yours, your body mimicking the way it was in your dream trying to catch the kiss before he thought better of it. But being this close wouldn't stop him now, he had never wanted someone as bad as he wanted to have you. 

The second his lips pressed to yours it was like a blanket of calmness, knowing he would take care of you without any need for worry. But as much as you wanted more than a simple kiss he pulled away tracing his nose along your jaw and down your neck. Lips pressed to your hammering pulse, hand sneaking down to press against the fabric of your panties. You can feel his grin against your skin, fingers feeling along the wet outline of you, circling your clit. 

It's then that you wake up, for a split second your body tenses softening when he speaks. 

“Its okay,” he whispered, nose pressed to your ear, “there's no need to be scared i know exactly how to take care of you,” 

You reach out for him, tentatively running your fingers against his smooth warm skin, following the lines of his muscles. “Are you real?” 

He gives a soft chuckle nose dipping to brush yours, “more than real,” and this time he completely devours you in a kiss. 

Its an all consuming kind of kiss, your hands coming up to twist in his hair needing him closer, your legs spreading as he adds more pressure to your clit. When you open your mouth and his tongue touches yours you feel warmth spread from the contact. The taste of him makes you crave more, feeling feverish to keep as close as you can get to him. Even in the time that you dreamt of him you never felt a craving like this. This temptation has haunted you, reaching out for the apple night after night. 

Taehyun pushes your panties aside feeling along your slick folds; so much wetter after having tasted him, his saliva already working to make you needier. He kisses down your chest pushing down your tank top to swirl his tongue around your nipple, your back arching to push into him. He can feel your arousal coursing through your body, the hum of it right there under his hands, fueling him to keep going. 

He pulls away dipping his head down between your legs like you've wanted him to do after every dream you've had. His wet lips leave trails of kisses up your inner thighs before pulling your panties down all together.

The moan that leaves you the moment his mouth is on your clit is shocking. He licks up your wetness devouring you as you pull on his hair, hips jerking as you ride his face. And he lets you, moans sending vibrations through your core, one hand reaching up to tug on your nipple and the other wraps around your thigh to hold you open. He sucks deeply on your clit, your head rolling back, a silent moan leaving you before you're falling into your first orgasm. 

He knows exactly how much he needs to to lick to get you there, can feel and anticipate everything it would take. The feeling is a tidal wave over him, the rush of feeling fed for the first time in a long time. Not the little bits he's gotten from watching from afar, no, something that makes him even hungrier than he initially was before. 

He hums in the back of his throat, he pushes two fingers into you collecting your wetness watching the way when he pulls them out the strings of your arousal clings to them. “I love the way your body reacts to me, look at it,” he shoves his fingers into his mouth groaning, “you taste like you were made for me,” 

Your whine in response, knees falling open wider as you watch him push down his trousers. Just seeing the mere sight of his size has you clenching around nothing. “I don't know if-” 

“It will fit and if it doesn't i'll make it fit,” he leaves no room for questions, hand wrapping around his veiny shaft, beads of precum already on his tip. He's a sight to behold in front of you. The way the moonlight hits his tanned skin, makes the feathers on his wings shine, muscles flexing as he pumps his cock, kneeling over you like a fallen angel. 

He leans over you letting a droplet of his spit drop down onto your waiting cunt, the natural effect of the aphrodisiac already having worked on you but the more he added would make the experience more pleasurable. 

Hooking his hand into the pit behind your knee he pushes your leg up the head of his cock bumping your entrance before pushing through. Even just the tip feels like a stretch you won't ever be able to replicate. The soft whine leaving you turns into an open mouthed moan as he inches in. not even halfway in and you're feeling the pressure pressed against your gummy walls, your hands reaching out to grab at his arm, nails digging into his skin. “You're already doing so good,” he praises, pulling out just a bit before pushing in all the way. 

“Oh god-” you moan as he grabs your other leg and when you think you can’t feel him any deeper he's letting your legs catch in the crook of his elbows, pushing you legs wider, pushing in until you can feel him in your throat. 

“Look at that, you did so good taking all of me,” he leans down until his nose is brushing yours catching your mouth with his, “tell me does it feel as good for you as it does for me? So warm and inviting,” 

“yes,” you nod, feeling the weight of him as he starts to pump in and out of you. So far in you can feel him in your stomach taking control over your body. Your arms wrap around his neck, nails scratching down his back as he pounds into your wanting pussy. Hips knocking yours as he keeps up his pace. 

Taehyun didn't want to lose control but he's never felt this good while feeding. Every sound, every touch, the way you felt wrapped around him was sending him spiraling, a deep rumble rippled in his chest as he took over. Your orgasm builds in the pit of your stomach, white hot and uncontrollable. 

You can't even think straight anymore except that you don't want any of this to stop, not now, not ever. The echo of your skin slapping together a soundtrack to your pleasure, his lips sucking marks onto your extended neck as he muttered sweetly, “so patient waiting for my cock, touching yourself while you thought about me hum? Imagining what it would be like if I got my hands on your pretty pussy, what it would feel like if I circled your clit until you came,” and its like hestalking the dreams back into reality, the feeling of his fingers on you just like before without him ever touching you, tracing the lines of your body, rubbing your clit until you're seeing spots. You cannot tell what is real or not anymore before you feel yourself break. You're trembling as you cum trying to find anything to hold onto, scratching up his back as your pussy pulses, sucking him in, thighs trembling. 

It's the pure unadulterated lust pouring out of you and into him that makes his moan come from deep inside of him. His body stilling as his cock twitches, hips as close as he can get them to yours before he spills his hot cum deep inside you. He's never felt so much cum leave his body before, never knew what it felt like to be fully satiated when it came to a feeding. 

You're a whimpering mess as he pulls out, hips still jerking, pulse found right against your clit. You can feel your combined release sliding down your legs, puddling on the mattress as he gently kisses down your chest and stomach coming back down between your legs to look at how he ruined you. 

“You did so well for me,” he smiles, lips brushing your clit with each word as you try to scurry away from the overstimulation. But he's not so kind as to notice instead licking up your folds, sucking on your puffy clit watching the way you thrashed, tears right on the edge of your lashes until he pulls away. “I don't think I could have anyone better to feed from,” he grins, lifting himself up, wings spreading open behind him before he leans down to kiss you again, the taste of the two of you mixing on your tongue. “Would you like it if I came back again and again?” 

“Please,” 

🏷 taglist: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @stwq2349 @isa942572 
@tomorrowxforever @beestvng @soobingf-blog @lovinjjong @lola-horore-553 
@cypher-03 @midnight-mochii @hueningwhy @choibeomning @soobinbunnie5 
@yunjinswifee @cupidtaehyun @bamgeutsz @prince-jjae @nessaassen02 @iluvhyukaa @mrsjohnnysuh

[dwaekkicidal]

Kiss it Better

˚ʚLee Know x Gn!readerɞ˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: Minho has a rough day at the company and comes home exhausted, craving your loving.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: <1k (~650)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: nothing its just tooth rotting fluff

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: double post because ty for 100 followers :3 also max this is ur fault (AGAIN LMAO) im so weak at the idea of this help

edit: MAX POSTED HER OWN VERSION OF THIS PLEASE GO READ IT

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

Not long after his messages, Minho waddles into your shared apartment. Kicking his shoes off and throwing his keys on the kitchen table without any care. You peak your head out of the bedroom at the sound of the front door closing. When his eyes meet yours, you see the deep scowl on his face, but his eyes soften immediately at the sight of you. You smile softly and make grabby hands at him before ducking back into the room to start the shower for him. In seconds he’s following you and undressing through the doorway, desperate to get his sweaty clothes off.

You wait patiently on the bed and scroll through your phone. It doesn’t take long for him to return in his boxers, towel drying his hair on his way to the bed. Your phone is quickly tossed to the side and you pull him into the bed with you, watching as he throws himself on his stomach and groans into the sheets. You hold back a giggle at the sight and opt to run your hands down his bare back. He shudders but you can see him physically relax when your hands lightly massage his upper arms. He turns his head to the side, looking back at you as much as he could without straining himself.

“You wanna talk about it? Let me take care of you tonight baby..” You whisper out, the softness in your voice making his eyes shutter close as he nods lightly. You swiftly move to straddle his thighs, placing a kiss on the back of his shoulder and trailing down very slowly as he speaks up. He goes on for a while, explaining how the new choreography they were learning was extremely draining, telling you about the argument he got into with one of the members, and whining about the quality of the dinner he had at the cafeteria. He goes into light details about every other little thing that chipped at his happiness for the day while you trail kisses down his bare back. Your soft hands massaging up from his arms to his shoulder blades and you hum in response to every experience he lists, placing extra kisses for each as a reward.

By the time he’s done telling you about his day, he’s all but a puddle underneath you. Eyes shut and muscles completely relaxed. You back away to sit up, softly dragging your nails up and down his back to keep the attention on him. A wide smile spreads on your face as your eyes catch one of the cutest sights you think you’ve ever seen. Soonie lays next to Minho’s face, licking his hand as he softly caresses his baby. Not far away, Doongie and Dori are laying near each other and sleeping against your pillows. You carefully reach for your phone and take a picture, before laying beside your boyfriend and Soonie.

“Feel better?” Your voice startles him, his eyes closed and breathes lighter than normal. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes to respond with a quiet “Mmmg..”

You get up and walk over to your closet to grab a blanket, not wanting to disturb any of them by going under the sheets. You pick the softest one you own before returning. Soonie is gone when you kneel on the bed and you could almost thank him for the chance to be close to Minho.

You lay your head on the empty space left on the pillow and watch as Minho drags himself up to you, shoving his face into your neck and wrapping his arms around you. Your hands trail through his hair, massaging his scalp softly as he drifts off.

The two of you fall asleep like this, tangled in each other. There’s a quiet “Thank you" and "I love you so much.” from Minho as he finally falls asleep. You respond with a soft kiss to his forehead, drifting off shortly after.

[adviceformefromme]

YOUR RE-SET

So your life isn’t looking and feeling how you envisioned. You see the TikTok and IG girlies living that life. You dream about luxury travel, pilates on a Saturday morning, drinking overpriced green smoothies, driving a sexy car, and living your fullest most authentic life…But in comparison, you’ve grown to mostly hate spending time with your friends, you’ve out grown them and notice how much they complain about life and generally are low vibes, you’ve spent all of this months wages already, and still have 2 weeks left until payday so your bank balance is no way supporting the life you dream of, to add, your dating life is a mess not consisting of your dream guy that provides for you. No, instead it seems too much effort for him to message back, let alone take you to that sexy spa you’re dying to visit. So in short your life is a far cry from what you want. The life you’ve created right now is absolutely not what you would want for yourself for the next year, or even five years. So in order to completely shift from where you are to where you want to be. You need a fucking RE-SET. 

The re-set is basically your metamorphosis. Think of being the caterpillar, heavy, slow sluggish (currently you right now). In order to become a beautiful butterfly you need to completely transform, undo, take time to reorganise so you can re-emerge as nature intended. 

The Re-set might look slightly different for everyone so take what you need from this: 

2-3 months stepping back from the people around you. 

THE CORE ESSENTIALS FOR YOUR RESET - A DAILY PRACTISE  

Meditating daily to clear you mind so you can hear yourself, your own voice and drown out any external noise. (I recommend insight timer app, or mind app both for meditations)

A journal, to document your feelings and emotions, empty your thoughts, and a space where you can become your own best friend and create a connection with yourself. 

Movement. - you need to move your body this is KEY, you might pick up running, stretching at home, pilates, yoga, HIT, whatever it is just fucking do it. Your body needs the movement to replenish its energy and move you out of stagnation. 

Healthy diet. Less alcohol more greens. If it’s processed, if its fizzy, if its sugar, if its cake, if its chocolate, if its ice cream (you get the picture), cut that shit OUT. You need food that supports you, cleanses you, energises you in order to thrive and clear your energy. 

FAITH in something bigger than yourself. If you’re religious, great lean into your faith with prayer, scripture, faith music. If you’re not religious maybe you believe in the universe, the love all around you, faith in something unknown, something guiding you, protecting you, even if you believe this is part of your own psyche - lean into this. Your faith is your support system. Your faith is the unseen that will guide and protect you on this journey. 

The above might seem overwhelming, and it will be if you don’t already incorporate those things into your day already. The worst thing you want to do is try and do everything at once and feel disappointed when you don’t succeed. So start with one thing if that’s all you can manage and focus on doing that one thing consistently and then add from that. 

The purpose of the first 2-3 months is the cleansing. You want to start slowly removing what doesn’t serve you, and start creating space for yourself, your thoughts and visions so you have space to start planting new seeds of the life you want to live. 

What your first steps in your journey might look like: 

Saying no to going out for drinks with friends, instead you go for a long walks in nature listening to an empowering podcast, go home journal and meditate. 

Weekends might look like not seeing friends, maybe even family. Doing exercise, making healthy food, researching recipes, creating a vision board on Pinterest and doing a guiding meditation, affirmations and mirror work. 

Having a prayer practise, reading books/ passages that support you in your journey 

Deleting your social medias or even doing a detox day / weekend so you have a break 

PART 2 - COMING NEXT….(Here)

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (26/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Burning things is a good way to get rid of stuff. But perhaps you and Charles have more in common than you like.

Warnings: this is quite angsty (mentions of cheating, Annika and Raphael), fire (of course), some fluff

Word Count: 4.2k

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A/N: this is a long one. but well, I felt like it. there are some Easter eggs in this chapter, tell me which one you found! feedback is appreciated (as always, please and thank you!)

Since your newly purchased items have not made it any further into the apartment than the hallway, Charles' bedroom looks pretty empty. There are three large boxes next to the door, which gradually fill up the longer you stay in the room. 

"What about this?" you ask Charles and show him a pink candlestick that was recently on the windowsill. 

Your roommate pulls his head out of the closet. "Throw it away."

"Okay." You try not to trip over anything as you walk over to the door and place the item in the left box, which already contains a vase and empty picture frames. As you straighten up again, a shirt flies past your face before landing in the right box.

"Sorry," Charles mumbles, without taking his eyes off the clothes in front of him. 

"It's all right." You glance at the chest of drawers against the wall. "What about this?" you ask, pointing to the few books arranged by size on the dark wood. 

Charles sighs. "Just assume you can throw away everything in this room." Another item lands in the box on the right. 

Unsure, you bite the inside of your cheek.

The idea was to get all the stuff Annika left in the bedroom out of the apartment and - if possible - burn it in Jori's fire bowl, in the hope that Charles can have closure. The box on the left is for things that can't easily be turned into ashes, such as picture frames, candlesticks or small, empty flower pots. The middle one is for things Annika couldn't pack in her haste, like jewelry, clothes, electronics. She would come to collect them at some point. 

The box on the right is for flammable things. The pictures from photo frames, books, tickets from events the couple attended together - and the clothes Charles throws in. And it looks like they're his. 

"Can I ask why you're throwing away your clothes?" you ask timidly as you sit down on the bed. You run your fingers over the soft fabric, which will also end up in the right-hand box later. 

Charles pushes some empty hangers aside before taking a jacket off the hanger. "Everything in this room is from when Annika and I were a couple." He shows you the jacket. "I was wearing this the first time we went to the racetrack together. Our first public appearance as a couple." He throws the jacket towards the door before grabbing the next item - a sweater. "I wore this one on the first Valentine's Day. We went out for dinner and then to the movies."

You purse your lips. "And you want to get rid of all these memories? Even if they are nice ones?"

The sweater lands on the jacket before Charles turns to you and looks at you for the first time since you walked into this room. "That woman cheated on me. Took advantage of my trust and broke it." His gaze is rock hard. "Whoever she was to me, she doesn't deserve to have her memories here. I want to put it all behind me. I want to be free."

You see a sad glint in his eyes, which you don't address. Instead, you get up from the bed and begin to sort out everything that's still lying around into the boxes, while Charles pulls one item of clothing after another out of the closet. 

Apart from a little rustling and your footsteps, the room is silent. You want to give Charles his space, give him the peace and quiet he needs to sort out his thoughts and really come to terms with the relationship. The fact that he has asked you to help him with this warms your heart. Because even though you've only known each other for a short time, he's the person you care most about. The person you would run to immediately if your life went down the drain. The person you can tell everything to without being judged. 

You seem to be that person for Charles too - the person he can trust without having to worry, the person who would help him bury a body - this feeling warms you from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. 

"I think that's it," Charles finally interrupts the silence and closes the now empty closet behind him while you remove the cover from one of the two pillows. His gaze wanders from your face to your hands. "You don't need to do that. We'll put the bedding in a big bag and then it can all go."

"Are you sure?" you ask uncertainly, but put the pillow back on the bed. 

"Very sure. I don't want to sleep in a bed she slept in or cover myself with a blanket she slept under. I just want to put it behind me."

"Okay." You walk around the bed and put in the clothes that missed the box. "Which car do we take? My Renault is still at the old place and your Ferrari won't fit the stuff." Besides, it would be too conspicuous and you don't want us to be seen in it together.

"There's an old car of my brother's downstairs in the garage. It's bigger than the Ferrari," he calls out from the hallway, where he's rummaging around in one of the cupboards before entering the bedroom again. In his hand he holds a huge blue plastic bag from a Swedish furniture store. "If that's not enough, I've got another one."

It's not enough. The bedding actually has to be divided into three different bags until the bed is empty except for the mattress. As Charles stands at the front door, one bag on each shoulder and a box - containing the last bag - in his hands, he peeks past it. "Can you open the door for me, please? I'd like to take the things downstairs."

As packed as he is, you have to stifle a grin. The Monegasque looks like a pack mule. "You can walk several times, you know that? Then you won't be straining your shoulders."

Your flatmate blows a strand of hair out of his forehead. "No way. I'd rather fall down the stairs before I have to walk twice."

As you open the door and press the elevator button for him, you just shake your head. "Then it's a good thing there's an elevator here. You'll still have to go a second time."

While Charles takes the things to the underground garage, you put the other two boxes by the front door before you go in search of another large bag. As Charles has already used all the available bags from the hall cupboard, you have no choice but to take a bin liner from the kitchen. As you hear him grab the second box, you poke your head out of the kitchen. 

"I'll bring the other box in a minute. You can wait downstairs by the car, okay?"

"All right," he replies and puts the box on his hip. "It shouldn't be that heavy. It's just the picture frames and stuff in there." He smiles at you. "See you in a bit then. But hurry up."

You roll your eyes, which makes him laugh before he disappears with the box in his hands. When you're alone, you walk from the kitchen into the living room, where the red roses that Charles must have forgotten are still on the white piano. You carefully put them in the bag, taking care not to tear the thin plastic, and then tie it up before dragging the bin bag into the hallway and putting it in the box.

The roses make the box much heavier than expected and when you arrive a few minutes later, panting, in the underground parking garage where Charles is already waiting to meet you, you are glad when he takes it off your hands. 

"What's in there?" he asks, pointing to the bag after placing the box in the trunk of the silver car.

You shrug your shoulders. "I found this. We can burn it if you like," you simply reply and drop into the passenger seat while Charles closes the trunk. 

The drive to Joris is shorter than expected and although it's not too late, the sky is already turning red, as if the sun is about to set. There's some song on the radio that you don't know and Charles isn't humming along to. As he finally steers the car through the familiar narrow alley and then pulls on the handbrake in a parking lot, the front door opens and Joris enters the courtyard. 

"Hello, you two," he greets you as you get out of the car. While he shakes Charles' hand, he presses a kiss to your cheek, first on the left and then on the right. "You said on the phone that you wanted to burn something?" He rubs his hands together excitedly. 

Your roommate nods and opens the trunk. "Not only that." He takes one of the boxes - the one with Annika's belongings - and hands it to his buddy. "I'd like to leave them here, if that's possible. I don't want to see Annika again and I'd be incredibly grateful if you could give her her things back."

"Of course," he replies and takes a look in the trunk. "What about this?" With a nod, he points to the box with the picture frames. 

"This," Charles begins the sentence before grabbing the box and walking over to one of the garbage containers that must belong to Jori's house. Without giving it much thought, he dumps the contents into the garbage can before rejoining you to take the three bags of bedding and throwing them into the container as well. "'Is garbage. We'd like to burn the rest that's left there."

"The firewood and fuel are already ready."

The boys carry the things upstairs and you follow them. When you arrive at Jori's apartment, you close the door behind you while Joris puts the box with Annika's things in a room and Charles walks towards the rooftop terrace. You open the door for him and he smiles gently at you as he walks past you towards the fire bowl, which already has some wood in it. 

A little later, Joris joins you, a small canister of gasoline in his hand. "You'll need this. Please don't burn yourselves. I've got a quick online meeting coming up and no time to drive you to the hospital." 

"Thanks, man. I appreciate that," says Charles as he takes the burning liquid from his buddy's hand. As Joris disappears, Charles pulls an outdoor couch sitting in a corner near the fire bowl. "In case it takes longer. Then we don't have to stand the whole time."

While Charles lights the wood, you take the garbage bag with the roses out of the box and put it next to the couch. "Would you like something to drink?"

Charles looks up from the small flame snaking around one of the logs. "There should be cans of Coke in the fridge. And there should be some sweets in the cupboard in the living room." When you look at him in astonishment, he grins. "Go ahead and help yourself. Joris has already eaten my entire fridge once when he was drunk."

"Okay." You leave him alone on the roof terrace and go searching. You actually find the cans in the fridge, two of which you take and put on the living room table so you can rummage through the cupboard for something sweet. You find fruit gums, some chocolate - which you probably shouldn't bring anywhere near a fire - and a bucket of popcorn, which you tuck under your arm. 

When you return to Charles with your hands full, he laughs. 

"What?" you ask, confused, as he takes the bucket from you. "You told me to help myself. And that's what I did."

"That's right." He motions for you to sit down on the sofa. As he sits down next to you, he nudges his knee against yours. He opens his can of Coke and you do the same. "Here's to the future." He holds his can out to you.

You clink glasses with him. "To the future."

After a few minutes, the fire burns brightly and warms you on this beautiful winter evening and Charles pokes around in the wood with a poker, which apparently belongs to the fire bowl, before grabbing the box and placing it between you on the couch. The fact that there's this physical distance between you both bothers you more than it should. 

"Two years for nothing," Charles says as he pulls out the first picture. It shows him and Annika lying on the beach and smiling at the camera. He throws it into the fire. "For nothing, for absolutely nothing."

"Don't say that." You watch as the flames engulf the photo. "You learn from relationships. No matter how long they last."

He throws a piece of paper into the bowl. It looks like a concert ticket. "And what have I learned? How to be cheated on without realizing it? I definitely didn't need to learn that." His tone is cold.

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. When you take your eyes off the fire and look at him, his features are soft. He looks hurt. You purse your lips. "How did you find out?"

"I caught them." As you stare at him open-mouthed, he shrugs. " I was actually planning on flying from race to race, but my gut told me to fly back home." He has to swallow. "When I walked through the front door, there were already shoes there that weren't mine. And when I walked towards the bedroom, I heard them."

You raise an eyebrow. "They were doing it in your bed?" No wonder he doesn't want to keep the bedding or the bed. 

He nods weakly and throws one of his shirts into the fire. "I knew exactly what was behind the door and yet it broke my heart when I actually saw it. It wasn't much, but enough to know that it could never have been that 'it's not what it looks like' thing."

You hand him two plane tickets, which he throws away without looking at them. "And then?"

"She wanted to talk to me, begged me to stay with her and said how sorry she was. But I didn't want to hear any of it. I just turned around and left. I couldn't look her in the eye."

"I can understand that," you answer him quietly. 

"I think if I had really loved her the way you do in relationships, I would have thrown her out of the apartment straight away. But when I left and created distance between us, I racked my brains as to why she did that. And it was all over the internet that a lot of people do it because they feel neglected by their partner and are looking for closeness with someone else."

"And that's why you felt so bad that you allowed her to continue living there?" He nods. Another couple of photos land in the flames and catch fire. "Did you know the man?"

He shakes his head in response. He fixates on a burning log as if he doesn't want to look at you. When he does, his gaze is full of the kind of pain and hatred you've only ever seen on his face once before. As you remember the situation, your heart breaks. For both of you. 

When you answer him, your voice is no louder than your breath. "It was Raphael."

Your stomach clenches so tightly that you feel like throwing up. That's how Charles knew where Raphael worked. Something you've forgotten until now. Something is pounding behind your eyes and it's only when a tear runs down your cheek that you realize you're crying. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner." Charles' voice is soft and through the veil of tears you see his hand twitch, as if he's struggling to take you in his arms and comfort you. But there's this stupid box between you. And you've never felt so lonely. 

"Y/N..."

"Don't," you say quietly and without thinking about it, you reach into the box between you, grab everything you can with one hand and throw it into the fire in front of you. You watch as Annika's face burns. You throw a second handful into the fire bowl. This time it's his jacket. "That bastard."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'd rather kill them both."

A faint smile spreads across Charles' face. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Although I've thought about it before. But I'm afraid that I won't be able to drive my super-fast car if I'm behind bars."

"What if I take over for both of us?" 

"I think the prison clothes would look good on you, but the visiting hours are definitely a pain in the ass and I couldn't stand not seeing you every day," he says gently and reaches for the now empty box, which he now places on the floor next to the couch. Then he pulls you into his arms. And from now on, it's not the fire in front of you that warms you. 

You stare into the fire for a while, feeling Charles' arm around your waist and his cheek on the top of your head. "Are you going to tell me what's in that garbage bag?" 

"Oh." You straighten up, dumbfounded, and lean over the backrest to pick up the bin bag. As you turn back to Charles, his gaze quickly flickers back to your face. "This morning - after your mother visited - we were sitting together in the living room and you couldn't stop staring at the piano. But it wasn't the piano, was it?"

He shakes his head and as you untie the knot of the bag, he takes a peek inside. "I'd totally forgotten about that just now." 

"That's what I thought. That's why I brought them." You pull out the letters of roses and place them next to you on the couch before handing him the first one. While he throws the first rose into the fire, you open the bucket of popcorn and snuggle up to his side again. 

"Annika gave it to me for our second anniversary," he explains, before opening his mouth and looking at you expectantly. As you pop a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth, he grins at you. You ignore the fact that your fingers are tingling where they touched his lips: "I don't even like roses. I think they're too hackneyed and the most unimaginative thing you can give someone to show that you love them."

"So a gift without really making an effort," you continue his thought. "And what are your favorite flowers?"

When he looks at you, his gaze is warm and there's a sparkle in his eyes that you can't quite put your finger on. "Peonies."

You feel the warmth shoot into your cheeks and turn your gaze away from him. He throws more roses into the fire and you continue to pop popcorn into both of your mouths as the flowers burst into flames in front of you. You hope that this action is as cleansing for him as it is being said all over the internet. You hand him the second letter, which he can burn in peace, before standing up and taking his empty Coke can. "I guess you need a new one?" 

His grin is wide. "Yes, please."

You disappear into the kitchen, where you leave the can on the counter and take a new one from the fridge. As you go back to Charles, you bump into Joris, who is just coming out of one of the rooms. "How did your online meeting go?"

"Pretty good," he replies and walks past you into the kitchen to take another can from the fridge. You stop in the doorway. "It was just about familiarizing myself with my new job, which I start in the New Year."

"That's right," you reply and raise your eyebrows. "You said you'd been offered a job. Are you already looking forward to it?"

"Very much. I can hardly wait," he replies as you walk towards the living room. You can watch Charles through the window as he continues to set the roses on fire. "Was that your idea? With the whole burning thing?"

You nod. "Yes. I burned my ex-boyfriend's things too when I found out he'd cheated on me. Only I didn't have a big fire bowl."

"Then where did you do it?"

You shrug your shoulders. "In the kitchen sink."

Joris has to laugh before he nudges yours with his shoulder. "Your friendship is good for him. He's never opened up to anyone as quickly as he did with you. I'm starting to think I need to worry that you're taking my place as his best friend."

"Haha. You two have known each other for ages. I don't think I could ever get in the way, even if I wanted to." You have to smile. "But Charles is definitely my best friend. There's nothing I wouldn't want to share with him."

"It's nice to hear that you're good for each other." He smiles at you. 

"Do you want to come outside?" you ask him as you walk to the patio door. 

Joris waves you off. "You go and do your cleansing thing. But please don't burn down the sofa. That's sacred to me."

You stick your tongue out at him and grab the blanket hanging over the back of a chair before returning to Charles, who has now reached the last letter. You hand him the Coke and spread the blanket over your knees. The sun has set, but the fire in front of you is so bright that you have no problem seeing his beautiful face. 

"Do you think she would have cheated on me too if I had been a better boyfriend?" Charles asks quietly at one point, without looking at you. 

"I don't know."

He thinks for a moment. "She said that everything in my life revolves around Formula One. That I don't notice what's going on around me. And that I was never there for her like a boyfriend should be. And that she had to share me with the whole world." As he turns to you, you see tears glistening in his eyes. "You said you were sure there was someone out there for me who wouldn't find my job too hectic. Who will support me no matter how hard it gets."

You turn to him and put your hand to his cheek to make him look at you. A tear rolls down his cheek and you wipe it away with your thumb. "I have. And I mean it."

He licks his tongue over his lips. "You also said that there's a person out there for everyone. A soulmate with whom you can share everything. With whom you don't have to pretend and can be who you really are." You feel his arms wrap around your middle and before you know it, you're sitting in his lap. 

You wrap your arms around his neck so you can hold him tight. 

"So you think there's someone else out there for me? That I haven't missed my chance at love?" You feel his warm breath on your face and how much you want to kiss away the tears that escape his eyes. Take away all his pain. Show him how much he means to you. 

But now is not the right time. Someday. Maybe.

"I promise you that." 

You watch him throw the last rose into the fire. In an instant, the red blossoms catch fire, the stem begins to glow and before you know it, this last piece from a time Charles wants to forget at all costs disappears and turns to ash. 

His grip on you tightens. A sign for you to turn towards him. When you look at him, his cheeks are wet, but he doesn't look sad. The smile on his face is honest and genuine and so loving that you can't help but return it. 

He would love to put his hands on your face and kiss you until you can't breathe. To feel your lips on his, your skin on his and tell you how important you are to him. How much he craves you and that everything he feels for you goes beyond the limits of friendship. But the only thing he does is grab your hand with his and squeeze it twice. Maybe you'll understand. Understand why he always squeezes twice. 

The right time will come. Someday. Maybe. 

When you look at him, with tears in your eyes and a warmth that makes his heart stumble, he has to swallow. He's never been as grateful to anyone as he is to you. 

"I'm free."

[gummilutt]

Autonomous crafting for all teen+ Sims

I've never before been so happy to share a creation! Get ready to get crafting, because it's about to get autonomous! Released today in collaboration with the wonderful @joplayingthesims who has built a community lot for the mod, seen in the pictures below. Exciting!

In my game, I have a community lot with crafting stations for Sims who can't afford one, or don't have space for one. But as I visited it recently with one of my college students wanting to learn flower arrangement, I got a bit depressed by all the empty stations and the other visitors just standing around chatting. I wondered if anyone had added autonomy, and I came upon iCad's autonomy enabler. While neat, it only adds autonomy for the active household which is the opposite of what I wanted. So I made my own that enables it for visiting Sims as well, only to quickly realize how annoying that got. All these Sims asking me to pick a recolor for them, blergh! So I went on tweaking, fixing the annoyances as they came up, and here we are! Finally it is possible to have a lively crafting studio where all Sims participate, without being annoying for you the player! Are you excited? Because I am excited!

What does the mod do? - Enables autonomy on "make many" and "continue" (see readme for more info on why not make one) for all five original crafting types - Robots, toy making, flower arrangement, pottery and sewing - Does NOT charge your Sims money for background Sim crafting. Money sounds and visuals show for all Sims, but only your current households crafting charges household funds. - By default only autonomous on community lots. Has optional autonomy on residential/apartment lots, you can enable autonomy on those lot types by placing the Autonomy Toggler object somewhere on the lot (custom object made using parts of the FT crafting clutter, found in hobbies/misc for 1 simoleon). I set it up this way as residential autonomy sounds irritating to me, but I'm all about flexibility for the user. Perhaps you want to run arts classes at your residential playable school, or you simply like autonomy more than I do :) Please note that autonomy advertisement is tuned with community lot use in mind, so it might be higher than you'd want for residential. If there's interest I am happy to make a second version with lower advertising for those who primarily want residential use. If you are somewhat familiar with TTAB edits yourself, you can try changing attenuation code to low or medium to limit advertisement distance which will reduce appeal to Sims. VER 2: Toggler object now also works on community lots, turning off autonomy if present on community lot. Residential/apartment behavior remains the same as before. - Fixes annoyances with background crafting, such as selecting recolors and pop ups about progress - Changes inventory mechanics to allow for owned studio-type use, in case you'd like a friendly owner Sim present to provide instruction. Crafting now only goes to business lot owner if done by an employee, otherwise crafting Sim gets the object. Includes home business, so if it bothered you that family members don't get to keep their work, this also fixes that. If that part annoys you, see readme for how to remove this feature.

Download mod on simfileshare | Download ver 2 on simfileshare (New version out, fixing a bug reported by Nemertes. More info here)

You might say "Okay well fun for you Gummi, but I don't have a community lot with crafting stations, so why would I need this?". Well fortunately Joandsarah has the solution for that problem! Check out the cute crafting studio she built to give all of you a place to start community crafting! Available on MTS

Conflicts: Only known conflict is iCad's original autonomy enabler, you have to pick if you want hers version of autonomy, or mine :) Readme contains breakdown of the functionality of all parts, to help you decide a load order should you encounter conflicts. It should be possible to resolve conflicts though if there are any others, so please report them to me :)

Credits: @joplayingthesims for collaborating with me and providing a lot that you can get started with if you don't have one, iCad at @dramallamadingdang for the original autonomy enabling mod, @cityof2morrow who helped playtest the mod

If anyone else builds a community lot intended for autonomous use, I hope you let me know somehow so I can add links to it in my post :) If any other modders see ways to improve on what I did, please feel free to do so :) I am hoping to eventually post an update that sends all crafting to inventory to fix the make one issue, and the station clogging that happens over time.

[citrustan]

hello , can i request a drabble wherein oc finds out that their husband politician Namjoon is having an affair with his secretary? like, oc found Namjoon was cheating when oc was watching the news and there are photos of the affair and a recorder phone call of the affair wherein the secretary was talking bad about the oc and Namjoon was just chuckling. thank u in advance ❣️

aaaa i'm excited to write this one, thank you for sending it in!

all eyes on you (knj)

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: angst!! husband!namjoon x wife!reader, mayoral candidate!namjoon x housewife!reader. i imagine namjoon to be older than oc.

warnings: infidelity! oc will be trashed a little ok. you have been warned. the contents of this story quite literally replicate the anon's request. please don't read it if you find the topics offensive and/or unappealing. oh u guys r gonna hate me,,

The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the television in the background. You weren't really watching anything in particular--- just letting the flicker of images fill the empty silence around you.

You were perpetually tired.

Your mind wandered, lost in the routine of another evening spent waiting for your husband to return home from wherever he was.

It's not just this though. Namjoon had been distant lately, buried in meetings and late-night phone calls, but you had brushed it off as just part of his life as a politician.

This was the price of being married to a man like him, or so you'd tell yourself.

It was peak campaigning period. Namjoon was running for mayor. So it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to pull all-nighters.

Yet, you couldn't help but stay up for him anyway.

Unintentionally, you switch to a news channel.

Normally, you'd prefer to stay far away from anything to do with politics, as ironic as it sounds with you being married to such an ambitious politician. But, you yearned to feel closer to him, and the news channel his (and sometimes your) name(s) frequented on was the only way for you to satisfy this urge.

You sat on your luxurious yet cold, leather sofa and zoned out, staring into space.

And, oh, what a choice that was.

“Now in. Breaking news on mayoral candidate Mr. Kim Namjoon...”

Just like that, your attention snapped back to the screen when the news anchor mentioned your husband's name. Your heart skipped a beat or two.

In only a second, a thousand thoughts crossed your mind, hundreds of scenarios where he'd hurt himself, or been hurt, maybe his opponent backed out and he was pronounced mayor right this instant, maybe his opponent was hurt, or maybe he was advocating for yet another controversial decision.

Not even close.

What followed wasn’t about a new policy or a political scandal--- it was something way worse.

Photos. Of him. Your husband. Kim Namjoon. With her. His secretary. Bae Joohyun.

They weren’t just working. The pictures showed them at some dinner, leaning in close, laughing in a way that made your stomach churn.

They looked too comfortable, too familiar, as if this was second nature to them.

How cliché.

It felt like the ground beneath you had cracked wide open, eager to swallow you up and wipe every trace of your existence.

It felt like time had stopped. The air around you was stagnant. You couldn't hear anything but a high-pitched ringing in your ear; until what the channel displayed next.

The screen transitioned to a recorded phone call.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you heard Joohyun's voice, dripping with smugness.

“I don’t know how she doesn’t see it. Honestly, it’s almost pathetic,” you hear the woman sneer. “She’s too busy playing the good housewife while you’re here with me. I mean, what does she even bring to the table? It's not like you don't have staff handling your home.”

You don't even have time to digest the attack on you because what came next completely shattered you.

Namjoon's laugh.

It wasn’t just a polite chuckle, not something he gave when uncomfortable. It was genuine, full of warmth--- the laugh you used to think was reserved just for you, not against you.

“She’s a bit clueless, isn’t she?” Your husband murmured, amusement clear in his voice.

The remote slipped from your hand and hit the ten thousand dollar carpet with a dull thud.

Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of it, but nothing could explain what you had just seen and heard. All you could think was a mix of 'Namjoon' 'he hates me' 'what went wrong?' 'how could he dare to do this?' 'Joohyun was so nice to me' and 'I want to lie down.'

The man you loved, and cherished, the man you trusted, had betrayed you. And worse, he had laughed at your expense, as if you were nothing more than a convenient joke?

You can't even begin to feel the humiliation of the news being broken to you by TV emission, because your husband's betrayal had struck you so hard, all your thoughts surrounded only him.

Yet another irony; the news of his betrayal was broken to you so publicly, yet you were so, so lonely.

You can feel your cheeks and ears heating. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you don't cry.

Not yet. You don't know why.

Instead, you continue to sit there, numb, as the rest of the world kept spinning around you.

The hours (two hours) blurred together as you sat in silence, staring at the news segment on repeat.

There was no new information. Just the commentators discussing your life. They had managed to dig into your and Namjoon's past. Then his secretary/mistress' as well.

Yeah, she had been promoted to 'Mr. Kim's mistress.'

They discussed, and agreed with Joohyun's take on you being a lousy wife to Namjoon. How Bae Joohyun is a better fit for him. Then another counter argument stating you were 'the perfect, submissive, wife material' for Namjoon.

They went into detail about Namjoon's past relationships, then moved on to scrutinizing every single interaction he had with a woman since your marriage being made public.

Then, they brought on more guest stars on the show to react to your husband's leaked voice recordings.

You felt hollow, with every heartbeat punctuated by that same mocking laugh playing in your head.

All your devices, phones, iPads, landlines, had been vibrating and ringing non-stop. You wonder if any of those are from Namjoon.

It wasn’t until the door clicked open and you heard Namjoon’s familiar, hurried footsteps that you finally snapped out of your daze. He was almost stomping the floor. Following close behind, you hear another unmistakable 'click-clack' of a pair of high heels.

Your husband stormed in, his tie slightly loosened, looking weary from another long day, along with his fucking secretary, who looks equally fatigued.

He tries to talk, “_____."

Instantly, you shoot him down, "Don't even." You stood up with false-fervour. Not wanting to hear from either of the traitors, you turn to rush to one of the guestrooms.

Before you turned, you caught Joohyun rolling her eyes, her lips pursed in annoyance.

The woman looked more irritated at being dragged into this mess than remorseful. That was the last straw.

You don't quite remember what happened next. You were suddenly so fired up. Your brows furrowed, and your tears had clouded your vision.

Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest thing--- your fluffy house slipper, and hurled it straight at the secretary’s head pulling a stupefying gasp out of your husband.

"What the fuck?!"

note: this hurt to write kinda until i made her throw a slipper at joohyuns head :( ofc this is also kinda raw and unedited bec (you know it) lazy.

do you guys want a follow-up?? perhaps a confrontation? you'll have to be vocal abt it if you do... so talk to me u clowns 😡

BTW i love bae joohyun, i just think she'd be a perfect villain for this story. smart, sexy, bitchy, and intimidating.

[writeonwhiskey]

the skz house: ch 21

a/n: brace yourselves. thank you to @bahablastplz for editing!

[ read chapter 20 here ]

Chapter 21: Of Rotations and Doors

The first thing you hear the following morning is Hyunjin’s voice mumbling next to you. At least, you assume it’s morning. Without any windows in the basement, you can’t tell if the sun has risen or not. You blindly feel around you for your phone, then remember its way out of reach where you left it, on the bar. You peek an eye open and see that Hyunjin is talking incoherently in his sleep. The past few days of getting readjusted to the time zone must be doing a number on him, because he only does this when he’s extremely tired.  

You rub your eyes and look to your right. The space Chan previously occupied is empty.

The lack of his presence makes you think last night could have been a fever dream, but the way your body aches reassures you it was not. You are terrifically sore. Considering the marathon of sex over your vacation with Chan, followed by this impromptu threesome, your body is feeling extremely used—worn out even. In the best way possible, of course. Your jaw, the muscles in your thighs, your pussy. Each throbbing ache is a pleasant reminder of your boys.

You’re hit with a string of quick flashbacks. You lift the blanket up to cover your face and hide your smile beneath it even though no one can see you. The depravity of it all is still thrilling to think about. And you want to experience it again. You liked having them both at the same time. No, you loved it. Every second of it. Both of their hands on you at once, kissing you, touching you…then both of their cocks at either end of your body. You pull yourself together before pushing the blanket down and turning your attention to the sleeping man at your side.

“Hyunjin,” you say, shaking his shoulders until he stirs. “Wake up.”

His eyes blink open and he looks at his surroundings, an expression of confusion on his sleepy-eyed face.

“We slept down here? What time is it?”

“I worry about you sometimes, and I have no idea.” you tell him. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He sits up, watching as you find your sweatshirt and shorts to put back on. He eventually starts gathering his things too, moving at sloth speed. He stands, only wearing his boxers, with his clothes hugged tight against his chest. You grab the blankets you all tainted and shove them into his chest. He stumbles a bit at the impact, then secures them in his arms with a grumble.

On your way out of the basement, you pick up both of your phones from the bar and see that it’s just about to be 8:00am. You keep the phones in your hand to hide the time from Hyunjin. He’d probably collapse on the stairs if he knew it was this early.

You drag him along for a pitstop to the laundry room and throw the blankets in for washing. Upstairs on the second floor, you send Hyunjin off to his room and continue to the girl’s bathroom alone. You head straight for the shower, but on second thought decide to run a hot bath. Your body needs a good soak.  

The next time you see Chan, you feel unreasonably shy in front of him. He winks at you, and you have to look away as you feel the blood rushing to your face. When the three of you are in the same room together again, your face flushes once more as the memories come crashing back. You can’t stop picturing their faces as they pleased you, and you them. They don’t make it awkward for you, though, which is comforting.

Chan steals a moment alone with you and asks if you enjoyed yourself while tucking a stray group of hairs behind your ear. You can only nod your head enthusiastically in response.

“Good,” he replies.

By December 31st, everyone except the “L Trio”—Felix, Lee Know and Allie—have returned. It had only been a few weeks without everyone, but you’re glad the house is filling back up. You hadn’t realized how quiet it was without Seungmin and Changbin’s constant bickering until they are both back under the same roof. To be honest, you kind of missed hearing the nonsense they would choose to argue about.  

The majority of the last day of the year that has undoubtedly altered your life, is spent lounging around and conserving energy to stay up until the New Year. You, Charlotte and Rhiannon do some light laundry and cleaning—mostly whatever you hadn’t finished the other day while you waited for Chan to come home. Around 7:00pm, the boys get the grill going and you, Charlotte and Rhiannon work on making the side dishes.

Charlotte is washing the rice, Rhiannon is on veggies, and you’re trying your hardest not to ruin the japchae and be on the receiving end of Changbin’s wrath as a result. The man does not play about his food.

“So, y/n,” Rhiannon begins, “The basement seemed off limits for quite a while the other night…”

You pretend to be super concentrated on mixing the soy sauce and sesame oil in a large bowl, thankful that your back is to them. You clear your throat before speaking, hoping to shake off the embarrassment of being called out.

“We just played pool then watched a movie,” you reply, attempting to sound casual about it.

Rhiannon appears at your side and leans against the counter with a carrot still in her hand.

“You little liar,” she says with narrowed eyes. “Changbin specifically got a text, from Chan, saying not to enter the basement.”

“So did Han,” Charlotte adds.

Of course they did. As embarrassing as it feels that they all know something was happening down there…it is quite thoughtful that Chan warned them off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m a good girl.” you tease, giving Rhiannon’s shoulder a playful nudge.

“Uh-huh. Good girl gone bad,” she says, wagging the carrot in front of your face.

She leaves your side and returns to the island to finish chopping the carrot.

“How was it?” Charlotte asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Uhmm,” you falter, searching for the right word to describe the experience. “Earthshattering?”

“And they were both into it?”

“Extremely,” you tell her.

“Have you? With Seungmin and Changbin?” She asks Rhiannon.

“Yeah,” she replies. “In, like, the first month of being here.”

Your jaw drops and you turn around at that. You try to picture Seungmin and Changbin double teaming Rhiannon the way Hyunjin and Chan had done with you but immediately shake the mental images from your head. You cannot see them in that light—as attractive as they may be.

“That soon?” you ask.

She shrugs, “I told them for me to keep my emotions with this whole situation in check, that I needed to do it.”

That’s definitely one way to get a grip on the way things are in the SKZ House. A month into your time with Hyunjin and Chan, a threesome would have absolutely been out of the question. It probably would have mentally destroyed you that early on. And maybe Chan, too.

“Did they argue the whole time?” you can’t imagine it going down any other way.

She laughs at that.

“I didn’t let them—I told them who was putting what where and they didn’t push back about anything.”

“Do you think they always do this?” you ask. “With all their assignees?”

“I dunno…maybe not. Judging from how excited they were for it. Though I think any college aged boy would be excited for a threesome no matter how many times they’ve experienced it,” she replies with a shrug. “It probably depends on the assignee and the pairings.”

“Have you had a threesome with Han and Jeongin?” you turn to Charlotte and ask.

She’s setting the rice pot into the rice cooker. She closes the lid and presses cook before turning around to face you and Rhiannon.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think I could—or that they would.”

“Why not?” Rhi asks.

“I mean…I really enjoy foreplay—making out, touching, all the things that happen before sex. Sex…I like it, but maybe not enough to take on two at the same time.”

You had been naïve enough to believe that all the other girls were having similar sexual awakenings to you. Maybe not to the extent of what Chan has done to you, but their own version of it. Rhiannon seems to call the shots with Changbin and Seungmin, while Charlotte, Jeongin and Han appear to be copacetic.

“And why don’t you think they’d like it?” Rhiannon digs further.

“You’ve seen how shy Han can be…I think I get to see a very different side to him when we’re intimate. One that the boys don’t know about, not even Jeongin. The three of us being together in that sense would cause Han to be completely vulnerable and I don’t know that he would do that in front of the other members. While having sex, at least.”

You think back to Han and how nervous he was to give his speech and how helpful the other members were when he practiced. He is already vulnerable with them. But, perhaps, being vulnerable with someone while you’re naked and fucking a girl could be something entirely out of his comfort zone. You try to push the thoughts from your head. It’s something you can’t, or maybe don’t want, to imagine either.

Once all the food is ready, everyone sits at the table. Since there are only nine of you at the house currently, no one sits at the head of the table. Instead, you all fill in the middle seats. You sit next to Hyunjin and Chan is right across from you.

“Anyone want to share a lesson they learned this year?” Seungmin asks. “Good or bad.”

“Picturing your audience naked for a speech is a terrible idea,” Han announces.

“I told you to just imagine them all with handlebar mustaches,” Changbin comments.

“That sounds even more uncomfortable. An audience of Vaudevillians?” He shivers at the thought.

“That’s why no one takes Changbin’s advice,” Seungmin quips.

“Well, I’ve learned that Seungmin’s mother loves to take my advice…among other things,” Changbin rebuffs.

Seungmin shoots him a dirty look and throws a spicy cucumber at him.

“Ya,” Chan cuts in just as Changbin catches the flying cucumber slice with his hand. “Sijak hajimara.”

Changbin tosses it in his mouth then winks at Seungmin, but they both settle down after whatever Chan said. Everyone else proceeds to share actual things they’ve learned over the past year and how they’ll proceed moving forward with it as a life lesson.

“I’ve learned a lot about patience,” you say when it’s your turn.

The patience it took to break through with Chan, the patience he forced you to have when he was edging you to the point of no return, and the patience that Hyunjin had for you to be ready for him.

“It’s best not to rush things and, as they say, good things come to those who wait,” you continue. “I was honestly tempted to leave the SKZ house after my first week of being knee deep in this chaos, but I’m glad I had the patience to see it out. I’m grateful to have met you all and have you in my life, even if it’s only for a little while.”

A silence hangs in the air after your statement. You know you’re not the only one that has to come to terms with the dissolution of these bonds after the spring semester is over.

“I’ve learned that some rules are meant to be broken,” Chan speaks up and his words take you by surprise. “You can’t push forward; you can’t figure out who you really are, if you’re playing it safe between the lines.”

You look over at him and offer a small smile.

Hyunjin is the only one that hasn’t gone yet. Everyone looks at him expectantly.

“Me?” he asks rhetorically. “Well…I did learn that turpentine or mineral spirits work best for cleaning your brush when dealing with oil paint.”

Another silence hangs in the air after his extremely lackluster statement.

“Boooo!” Han jeers, and laughter fills the dining room.

After the meal is over, everyone helps to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. It’s amazing how quickly things can get done with nine people. Over the next few hours everyone splits up and does their own thing in mixed-matched pairings. Some watch a movie, some play beer pong downstairs. You go to the backyard with Seungmin and Jeongin to get the fire started.  

It's fucking freezing. Like, see your breath when you speak, kind of freezing.

You try not to focus on the cold and busy yourself with turning on the TV. It’s mounted on the wall near the outdoor table and grill. You find a channel that’s doing a New Year countdown and leave it on that. You then grab the cushions from the seats around the table and take them to the firepit. The sitting area surrounding the firepit is made of stone and with the current temperature, it’d be a death wish to sit directly on it.

You watch as Jeongin douses the firewood in lighter fluid before setting it ablaze, grinning like a mad man as he watches the flames rise. The others eventually come out to join once the fire is going and providing warmth. Hyunjin brings out a blanket for you and you cuddle up next to him underneath it. When your body shivers, he offers you his cup and you take a small sip of the alcohol inside to warm up.  

Chan and Han disappear into the house before re-emerging with the fireworks picked up the other day. They lay the larger ones on the concrete next to the covered pool and leave them for later before handing out sparklers to everyone and lighting them. You sit up as it fizzles, not wanting any of the sparks to land on Hyunjin or your shared blanket.

Chan then comes to sit on your other side. He watches you, taking in the child-like amusement on your face as you wave the sparkler around in front of you. He lights each one you have in turn, until there are no more left.

You move to lay back against Hyunjin, but then pause. Should you lay on Chan? You don’t think they’d care either way.

Chan’s hand comes to your shoulder and lowers you back down to Hyunjin’s side. You lift the blanket, offering him to join the warmth. He takes the blanket and covers his lap with it before laying his hand on your thigh, beneath the blanket. You place your cold hand on top of his. He jumps a little at the contact and then moves his hand on top of yours to warm it up.

Everyone else gets comfortable around the firepit, cuddled up for warmth in similar fashions—assignee to members.

“How long until midnight?” Hyunjin asks.

“About twenty minutes,” Chan replies, glancing at the TV.

“Y/N might freeze to death before then,” he adds as you shiver again.

“I’m okay,” you say. “I have you both to keep me warm.”

“Is that all we are to you?” Hyunjin asks with mock hurt.

“Tonight, yes.” You tell him.

“You’re lucky we both run warm,” Chan says, before addressing Hyunjin in Korean.

Hyunjin drapes his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. Chan moves with you, staying close to your other side to keep you warm.

Changbin and Seungmin speaking in suddenly raised voices waft over the burning fire.

“I wouldn’t put my hand in for $100,” Changbin is saying,

“$500 then,” Seungmin says.

“That’s a leg…maybe.”

“Nobody’s jumping in the pool,” Chan cuts in flatly. “It’s partially frozen.”

“Oh,” Seungmin says, as if he wasn’t aware, “In that case I’ll pay you $2,000 to do it. Do it, Binnie.”

“Don’t.” Chan says in a stern tone you’re all too familiar with.

“He wouldn’t anyways, he’s bluffing,” Seungmin says.

“I would,” Changbin remains defiant.

Chan shakes his head and rolls his eyes. These are the young men he’s in charge of and those two, specifically, are probably the hardest to wrangle. Especially when they’re together. How they both got paired with one girl is beyond you. Rhiannon, you assume, must have a whole different set of problems compared to what you’ve gone through with Chan and Hyunjin.

You look over to Jeongin, Han, and Charlotte. They’re in their own little world as usual. Han is playing something on his phone while Charlotte and Jeongin watch with him. She, too, is in the middle of them. They seem like the calmest trio in the house.

You wonder what the dynamic is like between Allie, Felix and Lee Know. You wish they were here. Well, maybe not Lee Know. He can stay in Korea with his shenanigans.

“It’s almost time!” Jeongin jumps up to announce, grabbing the utility lighter.

Chan stands, too, and your left side immediately feels the lack of his warmth. He walks to Jeongin and takes the lighter from him. Seungmin grabs the other lighter before Jeongin can get to that one too.

“I can do it,” Jeongin says, sounding very much like the youngest member.

“I don’t want any repeats of last year,” Chan tells him.

“That was a fluke. The firework wasn’t placed correctly.”

“Okay, Innie,” Chan tells him with a curt nod but still proceeds towards the fireworks with the lighter in his own hand.

As the others rise, you and Hyunjin follow suit. He wraps the blanket around both of you and you walk towards the TV together. Chan sets up a perimeter of sorts around the fireworks, warning everyone not to stand too close.

The 60 second countdown on the TV begins.

Part of you can’t believe this is how you’re ending the year. The things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done…never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined. Now, here you are, with this newfound community. You’ve endured a lot of pain, confusion and heartache, but you’re ending it happier than ever. More bonded with this group than ever.

When the 10 second countdown begins, Chan returns to your other side.

“10…9…8…”

You reach out and lace your fingers through his as everyone continues counting out loud in unison.

“7…6…5…4…”

These two men on either side of you have taught you so much about yourself these past couple of months. How to get out of your comfort zone, how to hold your ground, how to rely on someone, how to submit and trust. You’ll never get to experience this again, but you’re glad you get to right now.

“3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Chan turns your face to his first and places a hard, but chaste, kiss to your lips, followed by a few short and quick pecks. He releases you and leaves your side to attend to the fireworks. You then turn to Hyunjin. He wraps his arms around your waist and yours move up to his neck; his kiss is deeper. Your eyes flutter shut as his tongue enters your mouth, seeking out your own. You kiss him back and everything around you feels oddly quiet.

Until the sound of fireworks startles you both and you break apart. You look up to the sky in awe, watching as they burst into huge, bright, colorful spectacles. You slip your arms beneath Hyunjin’s and hold his waist, face pressed against his chest. Still cold…but content.

You return to sit near the firepit as Seungmin and Chan finish setting off the fireworks. Then you all watch the others going off around the city as they light up the sky, too. It’s beautiful.

When the fire dies out, everyone goes back inside. Your limbs start to defrost the second you step into the house. Everyone hangs out for a while longer but as it approaches 3:00am, they start to disperse. Chan kisses you on the forehead before going up to his room, and not too long after you and Hyunjin head up too.

In his room, Hyunjin acknowledges how sore your body feels—but he still asks to taste you. He insists it’s good luck to enter the new year this way. And you let him. After all your interactions with Chan, it’s nice to just be worshipped by Hyunjin. You don’t have to think about anything, you can just relax and feel. And he knows exactly how to make you feel good.

The start of the new year in SKZ House is relatively calm. When Allie, Felix and Lee Know return home everything is complete. The house feels whole again. You all settle back into your routines and get adjusted to your new class schedules when the semester starts. You’re surprised when Hyunjin shows up in the biology course you’re a TA for. You’re happy to see him there, but you’re stern with him after the first class that he has to work for his grade, there won’t be any favoritism. He seems a little offended at that.

You keep up the same schedule—Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights with Chan, and Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights with Hyunjin. It doesn’t give you any cause for concern as it once had. You are now certain that there is no jealousy, and you can relax when you’re alone with either of them, and when you’re with them together.

On one of the Sunday nights when you get to choose where you sleep—you proposition them both and they agree. In Chan’s room, this time. Hyunjin buries himself between your legs while Chan teases your nipples and kisses you. You bounce on Chan’s dick as Hyunjin fucks your mouth, but this time you ask them both to cover you in their come. They grant your request with ease.

As February approaches, you can honestly say that you’ve found a happy balance between the two men. You’re very aware of how quickly the time that you have with them flies by, but you continue to push it to the back of your mind. You must live in the present.

On Friday, when you and Hyunjin return home from your shared afternoon class, you can immediately tell something in the house has changed while you were gone. With the exception of Chan and Lee Know, everyone is sitting in the living room when you both walk in. They turn to look at you, and the girls stand from the couch. Charlotte beckons you to follow them to the den.

A sense of worry starts to flurry in the pit of your stomach as you walk behind them. You close the door once you’re all inside, then the four of you sit on the plush rug in the center of the room.

“What’s going on?” you ask. “You guys are scaring me.”

“There was an announcement,” Allie says, taking a deep breath. “A two-week rotational is being enacted.”

You furrow your brow.

“A what?”

“From the rotational clause in the contract?” Charlotte, bless her heart, sounds confused by the fact that you haven’t memorized the contract from start to finish.

That damned fucking contract.

“I must have skipped over that part…what is it?”

“For the next two weeks, we are going to be with a different member pairing. Lee Know and Chan are upstairs working out who will be with who now.”

All you can do is blink. You’re hearing the words coming out of her mouth quite clearly, but they’re not making sense when strung together. You’re being assigned to new members? For two weeks? That can’t be right.

You have only recently come to a level of comfortability with Chan and Hyunjin, only to presumably have it destroyed by this. With Hyunjin, maybe not so much…but Chan, you can only wonder how he’s handling this while setting up a schedule for which of his fraternity brothers will have you next.

“They say you don’t really have to do anything sexual,” Charlotte adds. “But it’s not off the table. It’s encouraged actually—with proper protection.”

“But…why would they want this?” You ask.

“It promotes the idea of community or something, I don’t know…I think it’s really so we can’t get too attached to any one specific person or set.” she continues.

You try to see yourself being intimate with anyone else in the house besides Chan or Hyunjin. But again, it’s difficult for you to imagine. You’ve done well, so far, keeping everything platonic and respectful with the other members. Why would they want to complicate things with this?

The girls continue discussing the upcoming rotation, but you’re caught up in your thoughts. When you go back out to the living room and see Lee Know on the couch, you immediately turn for the stairs.

You knock on Chan’s door, and he calls out for you to enter. He’s lying flat on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands intertwined on his chest, eyes looking up at the ceiling.

“Is it true? This is really happening?” you ask.

“Yes,” he replies sullenly. “Starting Sunday, you’ll be with Seungmin and Changbin for two weeks.”

You stand at the side of the bed, willing him to look at you but his gaze remains on the ceiling.

“Can you look at me?”

He lets out a sigh before turning to face you. You sit down on the bed and scooch closer to him. You need a better understanding of where his mind is with this.

“Do you guys do this every year?”

“No, we don’t,” he tells you. “It’s an order coming down from higher up.”

“Higher up?” you repeat, “Your father?”

His silence confirms your assumption.

“Why?”

“You know why,” he says plainly.

And you do. His father wants to make sure Chan is not getting too attached to you and straying from the path he has been on since before he was born, probably.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

“I don’t think I’m really allowed to feel anything about it. That’s kind of the point of it all.”

“What if we just say we did this rotational bullshit, but don’t actually do it?”

“No…we should,” he tells you.

You arch an eyebrow. Not too long ago he was saying he couldn’t handle the thought of you fucking anyone else in the house besides Hyunjin…now he thinks this is a good idea?

“He’d find out if we didn’t…he always finds out everything.” He continues, sounding defeated. “It’s not required, but you can fuck them if you want to.”

It’s been a while since anything he’s said has felt like a punch to the gut. You climb on top of him and straddle his waist. He remains limp until you grab his hands and place them on your hips. You lean forward to place a quick kiss to his lips.

“I don’t want to,” you say softly, shaking your head.

“You say that now, but you can be open to it.”

“And you’re not just saying that now?” you counter.

He shakes his head.

“The other girls are great,” he says, “but they’re not you.”

“And none of the other members are you.”

How can he not see it from your point of view? He’s being adamant that he wants no one else, yet can’t seem to grasp that you don’t either.

“Maybe we should just go along with it.”

You cross your arms in front of your chest. You feel offended at the suggestion and don’t respond to it. You can’t without getting angry. And you don’t want to be angry with him…this situation, the way he’s feeling…none of it is his fault. You can see he’s struggling to cope with what he wants from you and the reality of what’s to come.

“We are forbidden to speak about what happens during rotations, anyways. You could do it and I would never know.”

“I don’t want to,” you say again.

“But you should.” he replies. “You should want to. I should want to. That’s why he’s doing this.”

“And you’re going to let him win?”

“I don’t see any other options,” he shrugs. “We are going to have to move on from each other at some point, y/n. Maybe this will help.”

It’s not often Chan seems powerless. Right now is one of those rare times. You slide off his waist and onto the bed. He doesn’t even try to stop you from moving away. You can see the conflict within him. Wanting to be with you, but also wanting to finish the school year as his parents intended.

“I should go,” you say, sliding off the bed and standing up.

This is a losing battle for you.

He gets up from the bed, too, and walks behind you towards the door without saying anything. You reach for the handle to turn it, then pull the door open. His left hand immediately shoots out and palms the door, shutting it. He leaves his hand on the door, and you can feel his warmth, hear his breathing directly behind you.

You close your eyes and sigh.

“Chan. If this is what you want, you have to let me go.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says darkly.

But it does. It really does. And you wish he could see that. Does he think he’s doing you a favor by suggesting you get over him now, before the semester ends? That somehow fucking the other members in this house will rid your feelings of him.

“I’m gonna go.”

You pull the door open again. He slams it shut.

“No.” The word comes out like a plea from his lips.

He grabs ahold of your waist and spins you around so you’re facing him. His grip on you tightens as he pushes you back against the door. In the next instant his mouth is on yours while his right hand yanks down your leggings and underwear. His hand cups your pussy, rubbing against it as his tongue claims your mouth.

You can’t stop the moan that escapes your lips at his touch. He rubs your pussy until your hips are bucking against his hand and you’re dripping wet. Your body always betrays you, with him. You shouldn’t want him as much as you do, after all he just said.

He pulls down his own pants then grabs you by the hips and lifts you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He positions himself at your entrance before pulling you down onto him so hard that you scream out.

“I’ve never wanted or needed anything, or anyone so fucking bad.” he says, lifting you up and slamming you back down onto his cock.

“You think I want to share you? You know I don’t.”

He lifts you up slowly, once more, before forcefully pulling you back down again.

“You could fuck every single guy in this house, y/n, and the thought of it fucking kills me.”

His hands move down to your ass, gripping it for better leverage as he fucks you.

“Rub your clit for me.”

You reach a hand down between you and start rubbing your clit. He keeps fucking you, his breath coming out in anxious spurts as he slams your pussy down on his cock. His eyes are watching his cock enter you, your fingers on your clit.

“My girl. My fucking girl. My pussy.”

“Chan,” you moan his name.

“Wait for me,” he demands, recognizing the look on your face.

You bite your bottom lip between your teeth as he keeps thrusting into you. You lean your head back against the door and fuck him back with your hips. The sounds of your body hitting the door is anything but quiet. Neither of you care.

“Come on my cock, baby,” he says. “Tell me you’re mine.”

He brings a hand to your neck, squeezing it and pressing you back against the door frame as he fucks you. You press your lips firmly together and shake your head—you don’t want to give him the satisfaction right now, after all he’s suggested. He growls and holds you still while his hips drive into you.

As his thrusting and breathing become erratic, you let yourself go, too. The walls of your pussy clench around his cock as you come. His thrusts slow down, but they’re still just as forceful, knocking you back against the door as he comes too.

He rests his forehead against yours as he withdraws from you. You set your legs back on the floor and drop your arms from his neck.  

“Mine,” he whispers.

You pull your leggings and underwear back up, eyes hardened as you stare at him.

“Everybody’s apparently,” you say coldly.

His jaw tightens. You place your hands on his chest and push him backwards before turning around and opening the door. He slams it shut after you exit and you grit your teeth as you walk down the hall, fighting against every atom in your body telling you to turn around and go back to him.

You don’t want anyone else besides Chan and Hyunjin. But ultimately, you can’t have either of them. Will it be easier to break the physical ties you have with them now? Rather than waiting a few more months and suffering then? You haven’t decided what you’ll do in the coming weeks. Whether you sleep with anyone else or you don’t, it has to be your decision.

[ read chapter 22 here ]

a/n: i am asking you guys to trust the process of my story telling haha. we have a chan POV coming up in ch 23 to look forward to!

since the tag list has not been working, i created a mailing list so i can email those of you who want to know when the chapter is being posted. if you'd like to sign up, click the link below. the email may initially go to your spam folder, it will be coming from writeonwhiskey@214560374.mailchimpapp.com. not spam, just me :)

[ mailing list sign up ]

[writeaboutit]

Silly Abby Candy’s for Kids

Abby tries sneaking candy before Halloween and reader is not having it

Hellooo I’m in the mood to write some halloween themed stuff the rest of this month so stay tuned for a couple more stories!! Anyway just quickly wrote this which means there are deff mistakes on there. I’ll do my best to edit as I catch them but sorry in advance. Hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: Mainly fluff, tini tiny bit suggestive

Part 1: Donation Boot

Part 2: Damn the Chief

You grabbed yours and Abby’s dinner plates off of the dining room table and headed into the kitchen to deposit them in the sink.

Abby followed suit rolling up the place mats and grabbing both wine glasses, now empty.

There was a warm ember in your stomach from the alcohol just waiting to strike into a roaring fire.

At the sink you quickly rinsed the lingering bits of food off of the plates and slotted them into the dishwasher.

Before you could walk away from the sink however you hips were pined to the counter as Abby moved into the space behind you.

You giggled at her closeness, constantly feeling like a bumbling teenage version of yourself around her.

Your wife however acted if nothing was out of the ordinary. She went about her business swirling a bit of water in the bottom of the glass to rid them of the dried red line and placing them ever so gently onto the top was rack of the appliance.

Chills broke out across your neck as you felt her warm breath fan across your shoulder with each movement. This was seriously not helping the alcohol buzz.

You needed to clear your head before you both got distracted and wasted the rest of the night away. The idea of it was too enticing. Dangerous.

You bumped your bum back towards her hips, “Give me some space Anderson,”

She chuckled and placed a quick peck to your cheek, “Never Anderson,” though she complied and backed up and leaned against the opposite counter.

Next to her sat a big black bowl, or not really a bowl you guess, more of a cauldron. In it was mini individually wrapped candy bars.

Halloween was only a few days away and you had to get some treats before the grocery store shelves were bare. You’d hate to disappoint the neighborhood kids the night of.

Abby however thought it was dumb to buy all that candy. For some reason she was convinced you guys would only get two trick of treaters this year and then be stuck with three months worth of candy.

It wasn’t true of course, you were usually out of candy by 10 pm on Halloween night but Abby was more or less… a halloween Scrooge; at least when it came to kids taking the candy she was hoping to eat.

She complained about the candy but secretly she hoped no one would knock on that door come the 31st so she could hoard it all to herself like a dragon with gold.

She was already reaching into the cauldron as you dried your hands, trying to sneak a piece.

Not on your watch. You whipped the towel in her direction hitting the side of her thigh.

The movement made her jump in surprise. She looked over at you, the picture of innocence.

“What the hell was that for?”

You raised your eyebrows at her, “That candy is for the kids this weekend.”

“Oh come on one piece won’t hurt.” She tried to use her best begging eyes.

It was not going to work, at least not when it came to the candy but the wine was getting to your head now and other ideas came to mind.

You walked past her only slowing to grab her belt loop and drag her behind you.

“Where are we going?” She asked as the pair of you trailed over to the staircase.

You stopped at the base and turned to look up at her, “You can’t have the candy as dessert,” you paused for dramatic effect and whipped your baggy t shirt over your head. What can you say you have a flare for the dramatics, “but I have a better one for you, if you want it of course?”

Abby’s mouth hung open in surprise before she finally gathered herself, “Hell yes.”

You spun around to run up the stairs, giggling as Abby chased behind you.

[archangeldyke-all]

MORE RANDOM SEVIKA HEADCANONS PLS!! i love how you think

more?!!?? okay!!!! :D

men and minors dni

she'd only get on social media to follow you. she'd have to have you help her set up her profiles and stuff, never posts anything (unless she's reposting your pictures with a bunch of heart and flame emojis) and never logs on (unless she gets a notification that you've posted, because of course she has notifs on for you.)

old people LOVE her. she's like catnip to them. some of it is because she's an old grump already, but most of it's just 'cause she's quiet enough to listen to them yammer on about 'the good old days.'

she acts like she hates it-- but you always catch her shoveling your elderly neighbor's driveways during the winter and helping little old ladies cross the road. (she's part of the neighborhood book club too-- just a bunch of elderly ladies and sevika reading trashy smutty novels and laughing over spiked tea once a week. when it's your turn to host, sevika blushes bright red every time you bring her and her friends cookies and snacks: they're all cooing about how sweet of a couple you are, asking sevika when they can expect to have little feet running around the neighborhood)

she quits smoking when you get pregnant with little fucker.

one of her favorite ways to dodge a craving for a cig is to use her mouth for something much more satisfying-- like kissing you, or eating you out, or sucking hickeys into your skin...

every once in a while she'll still sneak a cigarette-- not because she misses it, but because she knows if she goes home smelling like tobacco you'll start peppering kisses on her mouth every ten minutes to make sure she's too distracted to smoke again.

she's sooo frugal. i think the reason she's wearing the same outfit for the whole show is she's just the type of person to be like "it still works?" while talking about her boxers that have a quarter sized hole near the crotch.

it's cute in some ways. she never throws out an old glass or jar-- most of your cups and storage is old pasta sauce and jam jars. each empty bottle of whiskey becomes a vase on a shelf or windowsill-- for little flowers, leaves, and weeds you and sevika always bring home to brighten up your space.

it's annoying in other ways. you have to secretly throw out her old socks and underwear once or twice a year, slowly replacing them with new socks-- but not too quick, or else she'll get suspicious as to why all her socks are hole-less.

she gets a little bit better at spending when little fucker comes around. she just can't say no to her own baby.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

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[mockerycrow]

Congrats on 4k! Saw the post I was wondering if you could do a platonic fanfic? So with Dad!John Price + teen!reader with the prompt “I just wanted to be like you” with reader tell price that they’re thinking about join the military and with price being like “absolutely NOT.”

Take your time if needed!

-🫠

DIFFERENT PATH (Dad!Price x Teen!GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

[WARNINGS; Dark thoughts, angst, price is a good dad but he needs to control his tempter, you butt heads and you’re both stubborn asses.]

YOU HAVE BEEN uncharacteristically quiet at the dinner table, John notes in his head. You’re a bit closed in on yourself as you actually eat your food instead of talk your head off like usual. He notes the way you keep your eyes lowered, your shoulders hunched; alarm bells are going off in his head because he isn’t sure if something happened, because you aren’t telling him anything.

You have been like this since school—you’re usually eager to hang around John since he’s usually away off somewhere in a different country, leaving you with a family friend for a couple of weeks or months at a time. This time? You came home, gave John a quick hug, a quiet “hi”, and you were in your room until he called you for dinner. He did not bother you once you shut your door—if you need space, he wasn’t going to deprive you of that. John knows he needed his space after coming home from school when he was younger.

“So,” John hums, a green bean in his mouth. He quickly chews, swallows, and takes a sip of his ice water before continuing. “How was school?” There’s a moment where your eyes actually flicker to him for the first time all night before they flicker back down to your plate, moving your food around with a fork; you shrug. John let’s out a sigh and tilts his head. “Words, kiddo.”

“It was fine.” You respond, your tone neutral. John notices the way you aren’t eating much, every few minutes is a few bites. You’re either scarfing it down, or you don’t eat it at all because you can’t stop talking. “Fine?” He questions, wiping his mouth with his napkin. You nod in response, knowing he’s trying to pry more information out of you. “Can I go to my room?” You ask, your jaw tight.

John pauses for a moment, a knot in his stomach forming. “Yes, you can.” He responds after hesitating for a few seconds. A heavy sigh leaves him as he watches you spring into action, grabbing your plate and bringing it to the kitchen before jogging up the stairs to where your room is. John knew this would eventually happen, something running across in his path of parenting where you wouldn’t want to tell him about something.

It’s definitely not the first time you’ve taped your mouth shut about something, but as you’ve grown to be more independent—you’ve been very independent as he’s been away a lot—he fears the worst. John just hopes you would trust him enough to tell him about something bad happening; even if you were involved and there was drugs or something else, he wants you to trust him. John wants you to know that no matter what, he would love you. Nothing would change that.

“Goddammit.” John mutters, cleaning up the table, grabbing his now empty plate and dirty dishes. He brings them to the kitchen and washes off his plate before sticking it in the dish washer with the utensils, spotting your barely touched food. John puts his hands on the counter and leans against them, slipping back into thought once more. Maybe it was time to talk to you about how he would still love you, even if you were involved in some bad shit? Is that the correct move?

John hates it—being on his own as a father. Your mother has never really been in the picture and you’ve luckily never taken an interest in knowing her, so he’s ruled the possibility of your mother coming back into contact. John doesn’t want to think about the other possibilities; the other stuff that could suggest a reason for this clammy reaction.

No, he decides, if you need something, you will come to him unless he deems it necessary to properly intervene. John puts plastic wrap over your plate and puts it on a shelf in the fridge before he retreats to his office. He keeps his door cracked for you in case you decide to change your mind—he knows something is up—and he grabs a book, sitting down in his office chair. John blinks at the book in his hands before flipping open to where he left his bookmark.

You come downstairs an hour or two after dinner was served. John was only half processing his book, rereading the same sentence at least four different times when you knock on the cracked door. John blinks and looks up from his book, quickly putting the bookmark between the pages and shutting the cover. “Come in.”You open the door with a nervous look, your hands fidgeting. The cat quickly runs into the office with a soft “mrr” as you walk closer to his desk. John holds his breath for a moment as you approach. “What’s goin’ on, kiddo?” John asks softly.

You sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk with your hands in your lap. You glance at his face a couple of times before you groan and rub your face. You look back at him, your eyebrows furrowed. “Look, I know we talked about this before, but..” You trail off for a moment, looking to him for some sort of guidance. John gestures for you to continue with, “We’ve talked about a lot of things, love. Go on.”

You press your lips together before you utter something that makes John’s heart drop. “I was approached by a recruiter in P.E. class today.” John shakes his head quickly. “Absolutely not.” He says harshly, crossing his arms. “You already know my answer, I’m not signing anything.” You groan loudly and lean back in your chair. “Come on, Dad! This is truly what I want to do in life, I—“

“It’s a hard NO. Do you hear me?” John hisses, looking at you. It’s almost like he’s speaking to one of his men when they messed up. “You do not want to be in my line of work. You have no bloody idea what actually goes on.” You and your dad have had this kind of conversation before; back when you were fourteen. John had just assumed you were just getting more attached to him—since you were twelve, he’s been able to go on leave to be with you more often than he had been able to before. John just assumed it was sudden attachment due to the (family friendly) stories he had shared.

But no, even two years later, you’re still insistent on what you want to do. “Dad, please, just listen t’me—“

“My answer is and always will be no. You have no fuckin’ idea what happens out there, kid. It’s nothin’ like the games I’ve gotten you, you hear me? It’s nothin’ like the shows or the movies you begged me to buy you!” John snaps, his tone borderline vicious. You flinch at his tone, your heart dropping to your stomach. Your avert your eyes; John has never spoken to you like that before. You try to hold back the tears, but your gut is tight, throat burning as well as your eyes.

“I just..” You mumble. “I just wanted to be like you, Dad.”

John blinks, your shaky tone bringing him out of his protective rage. Guilt swirls in his chest, dripping down to his gut and settling uneasily. “Fuck, I—“ He stutters for a moment before taking in a breath in to gain his composure. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to snap at you like that, that’s completely on me.” John says with a much gentler tone than before, guilt lacing every word. Your gaze sticks to his desk instead of his face as you shrug, your eyes burning.

“That’s not okay for me to do, kiddos I just..” John lets out a heavy sigh. “You know I’ve been in the military my entire life; it’s not pretty. It’s not like the films you see, alright? I’ve seen.. many, many men and women be torn apart by bullets, blown up by explosives—hell, you know the nasty scar on my left side? I walked into an explosive rigged room when you were three years old, darlin’.”

That causes you to pick up your head and look at him with wide eyes, the tears brimming your eyelids. You blink, a tear quickly falling down your cheek. John has a guilty yet solemn expression, his eyebrows furrowed together; likes yours do when you’re also upset or thinking too hard about something. “Nearly cost me my life, kid. Nearly cost you your dad.” John says the last part quieter. He watches the way your eyes dart around as you process this information, your lips parting after a moment.

“Look.. I..” You trail off for a moment, your fingers licking at the seams of your pants. “I still.. I still want to, I just..” You pause. “I don’t see myself doing anything else, dad.”John closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. “You still have a year or two, I just.. I can’t sign anything for you, kid. If you die, I just—“

“—whAt if you die, dad?? You just admitted to me a risk you took and you’re still in the military despite having a kid!” You suddenly burst, your voice breaking. John blinks at you in surprise before folding his hands together in his lap, leaning back in his office chair with a quiet squeak of the bolts. “Why is it so different if I went in??”

John looks at you, at your passion and your frustration. “Because you haven’t been tainted by this life, love. You’ll never look at anything the same.” You give him a hard stare, the sadness turning into anger. “And if I said I’m ready for that?” A beat passes. “I’m not signing anythin’. But once you’re a legal adult, I can’t stop you.” You press your lips together; that’s one of the many things you and your father have in common. You’re both incredibly stubborn and won’t back down, and maybe you both bend and break the rules a bit. “I can wait.”

[mustainegf]

This is a crazy sad idea I had the other night

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ¹⁹⁸⁷

I wake up to the pitter of rain against the windows. The air was dead, with the smell of old wood and the remains of cigarette smoke from the night before. The house held its breath. Lying there, in sheets that smell of memories, the leather and aftershave smell with the damp air and cleaving to everything in this room. His room.

James has left his space this way ever since, the mess of records that he insists have some sort of order, utter chaos to anyone else. Guitars leaned against the wall, scattered papers on the desk. Hard to tell, really. A few half empty beer bottles remained on the nightstand, one of them with the label peeling off where his fingers had unconsciously picked at it.

I sit up and blink away fogginess in my head. My body is heavy, I'm trying to move underwater. Really, I don't want to get up. I want to be wrapped in the warmth of this room, in the memories that lean against me from every corner. But I know I cannot stay here forever. The guys will be up soon, and we'll all gather in the kitchen, making laugh, eat whatever we can find, making plans for the day. It's 1987, and life moves fast. Even if I don't feel like keeping up.

Lately, James has been different. Quieter. Or maybe I'm just noticing things that were always there. The way he sometimes stares off into space, his fingers tapping out rhythms for his own ears. The way he lingers a little too long in doorways, expecting something or someone to appear. He doesn't talk about it, though. None of us do. We just keep going, acting like everything is okay.

Maybe he's downstairs already, fiddling with his guitar, a low hum of his voice humming along to whatever song's in his head. I smile at the thought. James Hetfield. My roommate, my best friend, and sometimes... I don't know what. Something more, maybe. Or something less. It's hard to define what we are.

I drag myself out of his bed and into my jeans,the necklace around my neck is getting heavier with the days. The little locket inside, the one I never take off, a picture of him. I rarely open it. I don't have to. I can pull up his face on the screen in my head anytime. Those diamond cut blue eyes, that wonky smile capable of illuminating the whole damn room.

I trudge softly down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. I used to joke this place was haunted, maybe the ghosts of musicians still waited here, looking for their chance at popularity. James would laugh at me for it, calling me ridiculous, but sometimes. Sometimes, I truly wish it were. And maybe it is.

But it's still an empty kitchen. No James, no one else. Just the light patter of rain, the ticking of the clock on the wall. My face droops immediately. He's probably out in the garage, messing with his guitar, or he went for a drive. That's what he sometimes does when his head needs clearing. I'm fine. I'll see him later.

I sit at the table, running my fingers over the grain of the wood in an absent circle. The house is too quiet. Too still. I shut my eyes and try to recall the last conversation we had, but it's all hazy, reaching for smoke. My mind drifts and for one moment, I might have sworn I heard him, his voice calling my name up the hallway. I snap my eyes open and my heart's racing. But there's nobody.

Just the house. Just me.

I shake my head, feeling pathetic. Need to stop doing this, stop waiting for things that aren't there. I'm not some little girl anymore.

But still… I was hoping the house was haunted.

I lie later on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, the Scorpions poster on his ceiling boring an image into my skull. The rain has calmed. I have no idea why I am in here. I should do anything else, do something else. Instead, I draw his pillow closer to me, inhaling into the now-faint scent of him that still clings to the fabric. I know if i keep breathing it in, it'll only smell like me. And that's no good.

I simply wish that he would just come back now.

I heard the opening of the door behind me, and my heart leaps half a second, hoping it is him, but it isn't. It's Cliff.

He steps inside, his eyes soft as they land on me, knowing exactly what's going on. That's always been him, kind and patient. He doesn't say anything, not for a minute or so, just walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress.

And then I don't know why, but I just start crying. It's out of nowhere, tears spilling down my cheeks before I can even attempt to stop them. They soak into James' pillow like a hello. It's kind of really embarrassing, actually. I'm not a crier. But here I am, sobbing into James's pillow like some sort of broken thing, and I have no idea why.

Cliff says nothing more, but reaches out and gently brushes my hair from off my face, and I imagine his touch is James'.

"He loved you, you know," Cliff says in a voice soft enough that it caresses my slow heart.

My body freezes up. "What?

"James," he says, his fingers still moving through my hair, soothing me like I was a little girl. "He was crazy about you."   I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You don't have to say that, Cliff. I know you're just trying to make me feel better."

But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He just looks at me with those sad eyes of his, chestnut hair falling slightly in his eyes.

"He was gonna tell you," Cliff whispers. "After the tour. He had this big, stupid plan. He wanted to take you out to dinner, make it all special, you know? He was nervous as hell about it, too."

Why is Cliff saying this? Why now?

Again, Cliff says, "He never had the chance." Cliff's voice is no louder than a murmur. "But he loved you. Really did."

I wrap myself into a tight, clinging ball with his pillow. "But he's still here," I choke. "James is… he's still here, Cliff. He's just… he's just out somewhere, right?"

There's such a long pause, when Cliff speaks again, his voice is full with a sadness that I don't want to recognize. But I do.

"He's gone, sweetheart."

I shake my head wildly, eyes refusing to believe what I already know is true. "No. No, he's not. He's coming back. He's just—"

"He passed, remember? Last year. The bus."

I stop breathing as the room tilts, heavy with fog, pushing against my skin, promising to smother me. I remember, yet I don't want to. I don't want to think about that night, the phone call, a feeling of my love slipping away.

"I saw him," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I swear, Cliff, I saw him. He was right here."

Cliff doesn't argue, won't try to reason with me. He just pulls me into his arms, holding me as I break apart. He strokes my hair, whispering soft words that I can't quite make out, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that James is gone. He's been gone for a year, and I've been living in this house, waiting for a ghost that will never come home.

Cliff lays me back down, tucks James’ blankets around me as if I am some sort of child. He doesn't leave, though. He stays beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

"He really did love you," Cliff says again, much softer this time. "More than you know."

The house isn't haunted. At least, it isn't haunted the way I wish it was.

I still wear you in my locket, James. I always will.

And maybe someday I'll find you again.

[daisies-daydreams]

Husband/Papa Ghost Headcanons

Pairing: Simon (Ghost) Riley x Wife!Reader Category: Fluff Warnings: Suggestive Content, Swearing, Descriptions of Labor/Contractions

Author's Note: This is a continuation of this request (WARNING: 18+). Enjoy!

Simon would be a proud papa, that's for sure.

He didn’t use his phone that much before, only to text or call people. But his storage space began to run out pretty quickly with all of the photos and videos he took of your daughter, Lily.

“What are you doing, Si?” you giggled. Lily banged on the toy piano while your husband was crouched down, phone camera rolling.

“Filming Lily’s performance,” he replied matter-of-factly. You chuckled and kissed the top of his head, ruffling his dark brown hair. Your two-year old daughter cheered when she finished her song, face lit up and arms stretched above her head in triumph.

“All done!” she beamed with a wide smile. Both of you clapped.

“Good job, Lil,” Simon chuckled.

Simon nearly passed out when you told him you were pregnant with your second baby (not that it came as a surprise to you both👀).

Just like your first pregnancy, he’d try to be there for you as much as he could. It was different now with Lily in the picture, but she made many of your days full of joy and laughter.

I can see him being a stern yet reasonable dad. He’d discipline his kids yet never intentionally hurt them.

Lily’s lower lip pouted as she avoided his gaze. Simon’s arms were at his sides as he eyed the blue stains on her face and the empty candy jar on the floor. He lowered himself to be at her eye-level.

“Lily, baby, did you eat the candy even though Mommy told you not to?” Simon asked, trying to keep his voice soft and steady. Lily burst into tears, rubbing her eyes with her little, sticky hands.

“I sowwy,” she sniffled. His heart ached, but he knew she had to learn to listen to her mom.

“I know, baby,” he sighed as he pulled her into a hug. She cried into his chest. “Candy tastes yummy, but it’ll hurt your tummy if you eat too much,” Simon explained. Lily sniffed, snot dripping from her button nose and onto his shirt. He pulled her back and looked her in the eyes. “No candy for the next three days, okay? Then you can have it again,” he explained while holding up three fingers. She puffed out another sob before nodding her head.

“Okay, Dada,” she sniffled.

Your second pregnancy was more difficult than the first. You had more health complications, which worried Simon half-to-death. He couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to you while he was thousands of miles away on a mission.

All of 141 were like family to you. They'd pop in every once in a while, especially Lily's godfather, Soap.

"Unk Nee!" Lily squealed. Soap grinned ear to ear at the attempt of his nickname ("Uncle Johnny"). She giggled as she ran into his open arms. He spun her around as you walked in from your bedroom. You gave a tired smile, leaning on the wall and rubbing your swollen belly. Simon was still working on his car in the garage, yelling out that he'd be there in a moment.

"How's my wee firecracker doin'?" Soap beamed. Lily ducked her head into his shoulder, her small dirty blonde curls bouncing. Both of you laughed. "Gettin' shy now, are ya?" Soap chuckled.

"You know how kids are," you waved. Soap smiled as he set the toddler down. She rushed back over to you, hiding behind your legs. You patted her head gently.

"How you doin', lass?" Soap asked as he stepped further inside. You sighed, Lily clinging to your maternity pants.

"This pregnancy's kicking my a-butt, it's kicking my butt," you quickly changed your wording. Soap snorted as Lily cackled behind you.

"Mama said 'butt'!" your daughter sang. You grumbled and collapsed your face into your hands.

"Sounds like she's got quite the potty mouth, huh Lily?" your husband chuckled beside you. You felt him snake his hand around your waist. He pecked your cheek, his skin coated in a sheen of sweat from his hard work.

"Why don't you give me a spanking later to teach me a lesson?" you whispered lowly into his ear. Red immediately flooded his cheeks as his hand gripped your hip. Before he could retort, another figure walked through the front door. Lily peeked from behind your legs and gasped as Price entered the room.

"Grandpa!" Lily cheered while pointing her finger at the captain.

You've never heard a room grow so quiet in a single second.

Both of you explained that Price was most definitely not her grandpa, yet she was insistent on the terminology. The captain teased Simon about it constantly.

"I think you taught her to say that," Price chuckled.

As the due date approached, Simon's heart was shattered. He was being sent away on a longer mission, and it required that he made no contact with you. Your husband assured you that he'd be back in time for the delivery, and spent as much time as he could with you and Lily before he left.

A few weeks later, Simon was sprinting through the hospital to get to your delivery room.

Simon’s heavy footsteps echoed down the hall as he whipped around the corner. A blonde nurse shot an incredulous look at the masked man as he sprinted to the counter.

“WHERE’S DELIVERY ROOM 109?!” Simon boomed. The poor woman's face went pale as she pointed a shaking finger down the hall. His head snapped as he shouted a ‘thank you’ behind him. Simon rushed past several nurses and doctors, the door getting closer. He could hear your wailing pierce through the hallway. Simon nearly crashed into the doctor when he stepped out into the hall.

“MR. RILEY!” the doctor gaped with wide eyes. Your husband’s chest rose and fell as he panted. Another harsh cry broke out through the room. “Quickly, she’s about to start pushing,” the doctor rushed him inside. Simon's eyes grew wide as they locked with yours.

"Si," you called softly. Your face was pale, sweat covering every inch of your tense and aching body. Simon rushed over, immediately clasping his hands over yours.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” his dry voice croaked. You gave a weak laugh before jolting forward, another strong contraction ripping through you.

“B-Bullshit,” you tiredly chuckled through gritted teeth. The doctor and nurses came closer to your bedside.

“Okay, Mrs. Riley. It's time to start pushing. Are you ready?” the doctor asked. You swallowed thickly, your entire body shaking as it was wracked with waves of pain. Simon squeezed your hand and lifted his skull balaclava to place a gentle kiss on your lips.

“You’ve got this, love. I’m right here,” he assured. You nodded before sucking in a deep breath.

Not long after, your baby boy, Thomas, was born.

His throat grew tight when you suggested his late brother's name. You were afraid you'd overstepped, but he quickly kissed you on the lips and told you it was the perfect name for the newest addition to the Riley family.

Simon stared in awe at the small baby swaddled in his arms. You were fast asleep in your new bed, exhausted from the long, grueling day. Thomas' plump, rosy cheeks glowed softly as he yawned. Your husband beamed when two small, dark eyes just like his own gazed up at him.

“Hi there, little Tommy,” Simon breathed.

Both of you were unsure as to how Lily would take to her new baby brother. However, when her eyes lit up and she squealed when she saw him for the first time, Simon knew she’d be the best big sister.

Simon would make it a goal to read to Lily and Tommy every night. It melted your heart when you sat with him, Lily in her bed and Tommy in his crib listening to his low voice lull them to sleep.

While most date nights were spent inside your home nowadays, he was just happy to spend any time he had with you.

Simon would leave little gifts or notes around the house, letting you know what an amazing mother and wife you are.

If you feel insecure about your body after giving birth, he'll do everything in his power to remind you otherwise.

Your eyes widened as a sudden slap streaked across your ass. You whipped your head around. Simon's eyes were trained on the TV, though the hand draped over the arm of the couch said enough. You crossed your arms, thankful that Lily was playing in the adjacent room and Tommy was fast asleep in his crib.

"Got something to tell me, Si?" you said with a quirked brow. His lidded, chocolate-brown eyes flicked over to you, his hands reaching over to pull you on your lap.

"Simon!" you gasped. Laughs spilled from your lips as your husband bombarded your neck with kisses, his large hands reaching down and squeezing your bum.

"Can't help myself, sweetheart. Not when you're walking around with this cute arse of yours," he mused. You bit your lip and wiggled in his lap. He nibbled on your ear, his voice low and husky as he whispered into it.

"Tonight, after the kids are asleep, why don't I show you just how irresistible you are?" Simon groaned.

Tommy was a much more of a fussy baby than Lily. He’d keep both of you up constantly. You called your/Simon's relatives or friends over every so often so both of you could have a break.

“How are you feeling, love?” Simon asked. Both of you were lying in the hammock in a park, the summer breeze rocking you back and forth. Your best friend was at home watching your children. Heavy bags rested below your eyes as you stretched.

“Fucking exhausted,” you sighed. Simon chuckled, brushing your hair from your forehead and planting a kiss over it.

“I know, hun. Why don’t you take a nap, yeah?” he suggested. You nodded, letting sleep quickly overtake you. He breathed in through his nose, his mind wandering too much for him to fall asleep. Instead, he took in the sight of his beautiful wife wrapped in his arms as the rest of the world melted away.

____

Thank you for reading! ❤️

(Writing these melts my heart ngl. We love Papa Ghost in this house).

[kamesama]

domesticity with ryōmen sukuna

— note + warnings: my lil' head is full of him; headcanons but not rlly formatted like them idk; modern! au; disgusting domestic fluff; spicy moments here and there ( feat. brief mentions of nudity, pet names, degradation, praise, just some basic intimacy yo ); mentions of food; brief mentions of alcohol and tobacco; fem! ( wife! ) reader; long post ( almost 1.5k and i still wanted to write more but i need to get ready for class ).

every now and then, he comes home with burdened hands; a thickly arranged bouquet, your favourite pastry from that bakery standing a pesky distance away from your home, little bag with lace and frills and silk neatly folded at its bottom. he adores your reaction — the way your eyes are rendered overwhelmed with shimmer the moment you see him and whatever saccharine little thing he decided to please your wits with that day. the way you cling onto him, your muscles nearly aching from a sense of gratitude and excitement, or merely tenderness on the days you are fatigued and just quietly thankful. it's so fun to see you pleased with such a gesture; so silly, so endearing.

his armchair is his throne, and your throne is his lap. at times, he settles for the spot on the sofa; the one that has his name engraved on it with an ink of memory and habit. lounging there provides a proper view of the space around him, so when you walk in, showing off whatever delicacy he's bought to hug your curves, he sees the entire picture, perfectly framed. he cocks his head to the side, his knuckles pressing into his cheek as he tells you to twirl around for him, princess, so that the skirt of your dress may flutter or so he could have a good look at the way that lace-edged hem of your brand new knickers lightly sinks into the soft flesh of your buttocks. he pats his lap for you to come and take a seat like a good girl, and he may just show his appreciation for how ravishing you look.

yet, on the drearier days, when time seems to drip painfully slowly and when the invisible frost seems to linger in the corners of your home and bodies, he leans back into his mighty armchair and pulls you close — bare or modest, it matters not, as long as you are against him and he can trail incoherent patterns across your hip or run his fingers through your hair. something weighs on his vision and his eyelids threaten to falter underneath the dull pressure — he yawns and closes his eyes, aware that you, too, have given in. his thick glass of whiskey sits empty, sweating cold droplets of water; the cigarette butt squished in the ashtray.

meals are greatly indulged in; homemade, takeout, eating out. after all, sukuna's a connoisseur of gastronomy. wrinkled widows and middle-aged housewives did not utter a single word of lie whilst making the statement that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, for sukuna indeed shows immense pleasure if you decide to treat him to a little something, whether it be some quick morsel or a sightly dinner sprinkled with the grandiose. his tastes are peculiar, however, so your outings in the evening either start or end up at a pricy spot with mouth-watering dishes.

when either one — or both — of you demand a rest from the confinements of your home, thoughts or chores, cruising through the highway and city roads is a welcome option. whether it be in a car or sukuna's motorcycle, a ride is a ride. underneath the streetlights after dark, or in the minutes just before the sun starts to sink into the horizon, or right after the rush hour when the roads are suddenly free of a tremendous burden. it's a little bit of adrenaline, and head free of pesky thoughts, your arms around his waist and your laughter that seems to fade into the breeze after a few seconds. the glimpse of you staring out of the car's rolled down window as your favourite song plays on is oddly sweet, and sukuna finds himself content with smaller things in life.

the ultimate betrayal of trust is giving in to the unholy, godforsaken urge to watch that one episode after a frustrating cliff-hanger — alone. there are spots in your routine which you fill with some stupid reality show or a theatrical series, most of which neither of you expect to grow so attached to. the image is that of a dimly lit living room, a bright screen and sound of chewing as you lay close to one another, occasionally commenting on and reacting to whatever is occurring within that wondrous glowing box of visionary delight. sukuna is transparent with his tastes; his expression twisting in some vague sense of disgust at poor writing, or brows raising in interest as the music shifts to a melody that is a tad more dramatic. the salt remains on your tongue and sticks to your lips.

he loves the way you attempt to be subtle with your affections and desires when the movie you're watching proves to be too dull. he sees you within the periphery of his vision — how you throw a glimpse or two towards his handsome profile, your gaze smoothly trailing down the line of his nose, dripping from its tip onto his lips only to take a turn up his sharp jaw. he'd call you dumb and naïve for thinking that the gears within your skull are not being obnoxiously loud with some starved intent, but he bites his tongue for the sake of indulgence. the tip of your index finger ghosts over his skin before you press your lips to his cheek gingerly, begging for a sprinkle of attention, and when he does not go out of his way to satisfy your whims then and there, you whine and complain into his ear how the movie is so boring... truthfully, he would have scoffed and wrinkled his forehead at the terrific acting and horrendous story-telling, too, but he swallows down whatever atrocity his eyes are witnessing on screen lest you grow bolder and needier with your advances, because he adores seeing you try harder.

some days you're bolder, when you come stomping to him as his eyes follow the rows and rows of black-ink characters pressed into the paper or glowing from the screen. your perfume is demanding, your outfit revealing, your lipstick's shade a herald of debauchery. try harder, he wordlessly dares as he spares you but a single glance, acknowledging the intent that you're absolutely overwhelmed with. sometimes he is not in the mood for your little schemes, so when you push at all his buttons with that voice thick with desire and relentless attitude that ignores his every warning, what else could he possibly do than give you what you've wanted, tenfold? he bruises your thighs with violet handprints and paints your neck with ruby red stamps of wanton need and irritation and leaves your legs quivering, shaking like a leaf because you, needy, naughty little thing, have asked for it.

other days he demands your attention. when you're reading your book, or watching your show, he approaches with bold, shameless kisses to your neck; open-mouthed and wet, not shy of whatever thought clouds his mind. sometimes there is barely any lechery in the way his fingertips sink into the flesh of your thighs or the way his palm caresses your back. sometimes he hungers for that which he deemed unfamiliar before you; for his head to rest against your breast and the sound of your heart-beat echoing in his ear. no matter what the motive is, his approach is direct, and his arguments temptingly good.

the smell of clean bedsheets, stained only by a whiff of slumber, is intoxicating on the weekend mornings; those always end in some lounging and rolling around, small kisses and sleep-laced grumbles. it's slow, it's leisurely, as if time holds no weight or consequence. they lead to another thirty minute nap, or a hungry yet slow session of love-making that ends up lulling you all the more. it's a shared shower, toast for breakfast, smell of bitter coffee or matcha, and the two of you in your own little world for the day.

sometimes you wake up before him and abandon your spot on the bed; let it grow cold and lonesome. standing on the sidelines, by the nightstand, provides you with a different view from the one you're used you when your cheek is sunken into the pillow. other than sukuna's resting face, you see the entirety of him fully — the cover half-heartedly trying to hide any indecency; the expanse of his muscular back moving rhythmically with each breath, resembling the way sea-waves come to hug the shore before being pulled back by an invisible force. the scratch-marks from your desperate fingernails are faded red on his shoulders, and he seems so tenderly mellowed as he roams his own dreamworld. you could lap up the sight, eat it up and engrave it into your brain, but settle for acting like a little stalker for just a minute or two, appreciating the sight of peaceful, unburdened sukuna who has his features halfway devoured by the soft embrace of his pillow.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability complex.

chapter 3. the butterfly theory.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. two seasons pass before joel’s very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. what’s meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frank’s becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joel’s arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!

warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...​

read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter

Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.

At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another day’s work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters — and perhaps the most obvious — a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.

So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summer’s sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match it’s slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking — the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robert’s lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the asshole’s nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frank’s garden. 

The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things they’ll need to bring with their next visit.

Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, there’s no sight of you.

Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joel’s indent has become stained into its very fabric. 

This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily he’d be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he can’t avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you aren’t around never quite work themselves up.

What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beast’s size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otis’ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that you’d leave your fur-friend behind.

In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.

Joel’s dwindling hope seems to follow.

Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.

In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.

And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.

“‘S quiet,” Joel’s not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long it’s been since the two were left in no company but one another’s.

Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. He’s been doing that more often than he’d like recently, lying.

To Tess, whenever she’d ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. She’d not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.

To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why he’d been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. They’d not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.

And, to himself, when he’s searching for answers of what’s been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, he’s a sleepless wreck.

Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.

With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way he’d once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.

“Ain’t seen much of your...” He pauses, considers what word best suits Bill’s affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. “The girl. She doin’ alright?”

That’s it, he’ll keep it casual.

Passive, hardly-caring.

Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days it’s been since he’d last seen you — two hundred and four, but who’s keeping count?

“She’s fine,” the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. He’s not entertaining Joel’s longing.

“That’s... good, yeah,” he’s not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. “I’ll let Tess know, give ‘er some peace of mind. She’s been wonderin’-”

“Cut the shit,” Bill barks over at him. “You aren’t asking for Tess.”

He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. “Where’s she been? Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Didn’t realise you were keeping count.” Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know he’d gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joel’s heart-rate spikes as he wonders if there’s one in the kitchen. “She’s out.”

Out.

A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel can’t stomach the thought of you being, much less if it’s without him.

“You sure that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t need your opinion on how I raise-” Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t need your opinion on how I take care of my people. She’s a smart girl, and it’s not her first time. She’s been going on solo runs since the end of winter.”

An act you’d never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. He’s scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harm’s way.

A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joel’s stature, reputation and morals.

“We’re old, she isn’t. There’s gonna come a day where she’s alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.” The other man’s risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though he’s merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. “And if she doesn’t get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.”

Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and I’ll make sure she’s never alone.

Bill never asks.

The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.

Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.

The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.

The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playin’ house, that’s what he’d proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest ‘f us are out here fightin’ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playin’ house.

The misplaced anger was truly Joel’s green eyed envy.

And his own self-hatred.

Maybe if he’d been prepared like Bill, he’d have less blood on his hands. Maybe if he’d foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, he’d never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.

A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.

It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.

When the haze settles, you greet him.

You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sun’s rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. There’s a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crow’s feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But it’s the right hand that holds his attention, it’s grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.

As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. He’d want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until you’re knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.

The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.

He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.

Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joel’s shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill won’t immediately notice it’s been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.

His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Baby’s first harvest, ‘13.

It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tess’ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, you’d gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?

He does like strawberry jam.

And he’d been afraid you’d never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.

With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joel’s attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter he’d had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise he’d not been in it since that night.

His mouth runs dry at the memory.

This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.

Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.

Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.

A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.

His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.

If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice? 

Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, he’d be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-

“Ok, so I didn’t manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?”

Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

That voice.

Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.

It’s all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He can’t see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.

You’re getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, he’s really about to see you. Finally, after so long.

What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as he’d lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?

Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.

Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe — and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises — his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.

You are smiling.

At him.

“Howdy, stranger!” Normally, he’d find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Long time no see!”

There’s a million things Joel thinks to say to you.

Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way he’s missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.

Instead, Joel inhales. 

And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You’re quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps it’s the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that you’re real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. “You okay there, big guy? Don’t go dying in this kitchen or else Bill’s gonna lose his shit!”

Big guy. That’s new. Joel’s indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.

He means to say he’s fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you he’s okay, you’re holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.

It’s nice to be comforted.

It’s even nicer to be comforted by you.

Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge he’d tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he can’t look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, he’s mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.

It’s dangerous, how much he wants to.

He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk — some nuts and bolts he’s sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding — but there’s something else capturing his attention.

It’s not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box he’s sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.

“‘S that ya got?” He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.

“Oh, that’s what I wanted to show Frank-” The moment Joel’s eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

“Throwin’ this shit out-” You’re near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach. 

He doesn’t comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.

 “Why? It’s harmless,” you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, he’s an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. “It’s literally just cake mix!”

You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact you’ll own some part of him, even as he’s miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.

“Ain’t no way in hell I'm lettin’ you eat that.” He says it for your own good, your own safety.

All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.

“Letting me?” You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. “Joel, you’re no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?”

It’s a kick in the guts.

And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if he’s honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harm’s way.

He’d felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, he’d vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. He’d do the same with you, if you’d just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I don’t ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.

Of course, Joel doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.

“The flour, you stupid girl, ‘s what started all this shit.” He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. “But if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go ‘head and be my guest.”

It’s like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was — violence, disobedience, assertiveness? — in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.

He’s so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. It’s only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joel.” The biggest lie of the century. He’s well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times he’s spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how you’d walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, you’re the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer you’re getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion that’ll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. “Besides, this batch is harmless...”

God, you’re so close. All he can smell is you — sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hair’s breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.

Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. It’s going to happen, he knows this, he’s accepted this. You’re going to kiss him, and he’s going to let you, and then he’s going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.

Just a little closer...

That’s it. Kiss him.

Kiss him.

God, please. Kiss me.

“Check the production date for yourself!” Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising he’s now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.

You’re holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.

“Still don’t mean you should eat it,” Joel’s stubborn, despite all, and can’t seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. “‘S gonna be long past its sell-by.”

“Please,” you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps it’s the helplessness upon Joel’s face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. “Sell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.”

A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.

There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.

Something is wrong.

Joel feels sick.

Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frank’s hand nervously tugging back on Bill’s arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.

“Tess!” Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“Me and Frank... we were walking...” She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip she’s got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. “A hole... Under the fence...”

Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. He’s got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safety’s on, he’ll need to remember that before he dares use it.

“How many?” He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. “Raiders, infected, or whatever. How many of ‘em got in?”

He can’t help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time they’d met, to upgrade those damn fences.

“No,” Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but that’s not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. It’s Bill, who’s pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. “Nothing’s got in. It’s out, something got-”

“I swear I turned my back for one second, kid,” as if everything else wasn’t enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like you’re a wounded fawn and Joel’s some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.

“What-” you start.

“The hell are you lot talkin’ about?” Joel finishes.

They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.

Frank takes the fall.

“It’s Otis,” he’s exasperated, exclaiming it like it’s the heaviest of burdens. Joel can’t quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression you’re wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. “Otis is missing!”

There’s a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyone’s eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of what’s spoken aloud.

Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.

“He was with me this morning,” Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. He’s explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joel’s never imagined the man capable of. “Out in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.”

The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.

A deep gasp cuts through the tension.

A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesn’t seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joel’s all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.

Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though. 

“He’s fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, he’d be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you aren’t anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. “Hey, hey, listen t’me. He’s gonna be okay. Bet he’s out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.”

You nod along to his words, as though you’re listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.

After a cautious step back, eyeing you like you’re a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. “Give me a few hours. I’ll track the dog and bring him home, alright?”

A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and he’s already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.

Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fence’s newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.

Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.

Your voice calls out his name from behind.

Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.

“I'm coming with you,” you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what you’re saying.

His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. “You sure as hell ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.” You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.

“No.”

He holds his ground.

“Yes.”

You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He can’t risk harming you, not even for your own good.

“No, you are-”

“Joel, please,” there’s exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry — a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. You’re nervous, in a rush. You’re here without anyone’s knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. “Just- I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.”

Talking is limited.

Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.

This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where it’s only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection — he can’t tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care — that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.

He misses his first shot — shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings — but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.

You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.

From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.

It forces him to rethink everything he’s come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly you’d wound up under Bill’s roof.

You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do.”

Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My old man,” it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe it’s a bit longer than a few minutes, the sun’s shine seeming a lot less dim from when you’d asked. You say nothing, however, don’t even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. “Dragged me out back to where he’d tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we weren’t goin’ back in till I shot it. Must’a stood there for hours.”

And that was that.

As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, you’d dropped the subject — maybe you’d noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened — and he’d never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.

You make camp by nightfall.

A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. ‘S too risky, he’d explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Don’t need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.

He’d given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.

Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.

You don’t seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“If you think that’s bad, you don’t wanna know what they’re feedin’ us in the QZ.” It’s a privilege you’ll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Bill’s traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. He’s glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.

“I'm surprised they feed you at all,” for all your grimacing, you’ve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. “Considering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.”

He wants to defend himself, tell you it’s not true. Tell you it’s only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, it’ll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. It’s the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.

But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.

“The hell are we, middle-schoolers?”

A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joel’s voice. It’s an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything — living or dead — within a ten mile radius to hear. But you’re being ridiculous.

Your suggestion is ridiculous.

And you’re shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.

“No, we’re two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,” you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess she’d loved so much. “And that counts as one of your questions, by the way."

He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. He’ll sit there, he’ll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, he’ll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and he’ll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-

“Which means,” you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. “It’s my turn to ask you something, mister.” Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. “What’s your favourite colour?”

If looks could kill, you’d likely still be alive.

Perhaps a little bruised, but it’s the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.

“What?” You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. “It’s like… The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really don’t think you want to tell me-”

“I’d just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,” the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. You’re waiting to know more. “I ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my mom’s, recently divorced, and with a whole new body she’d bought with the divorce settlements.”

A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. You’d still taste of the canned food you — reluctantly — devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.

“That sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,” you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes he’ll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.

“Surprised you even know what that word means,” he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesn’t know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of — horrifically overpriced — alcohol.

“Porno?” You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.”

That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joel’s brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises he’s speaking his thoughts aloud.

“You were in a QZ? You weren’t always with Bill?”

“Pittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasn’t always with Bill.” He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. “And those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.”

He hadn’t even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. He’d just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But you’ve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.

“Was it a one time thing,” unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. “With your neighbour?” He’s glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.

“No.”

“Ooh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.” If he wasn’t so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. “Did you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?”

“No,” he says once more, then quickly clarifies. “I didn’t sleep with other clients. But also no, we weren’t exclusive.”

“Did your mom-”

“‘S my turn, darlin’,” Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. It’s like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question he’s ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscience’s grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear you’ve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you he’d never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. “How did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?”

“God, you’re bad at this game! Two questions, again!” And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. “But no, I wasn’t with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldn’t have been brought in if it weren’t for Frank insisting they couldn’t just leave me out there to die.”

“You were alo-”

“Ah, my turn!” Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. “Did your mum ever find out about you and her friend?” 

“No, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and I…” Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out. 

Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.

“I was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasn’t always.” Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasn’t always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, he’s struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones he’s allowed to ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

That quiets his mind. For a moment, it’s a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and it’s pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesn’t want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.

“Green,” the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. “I never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. It’s green.” If you find his answer to be too late, or you’re disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you don’t give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. “Why were you alone?”

“Everyone changed, got bit, or died. I didn’t want to be next.” Perhaps he’s a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things you’ve lost like they don’t haunt you. Like you haven’t spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that they’d mattered, and that they’d loved you. Like you haven’t drowned in grief, the way he has. You’ve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore.  “Who’s your butterfly?”

The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just can’t help himself. “My what now?”

"You know, the whole ‘if a butterfly flaps its wings’,” you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. “Who's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"

He cannot run.

He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken — and visibly ignored — question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train — in truth, a fork-ful of food — towards her lips.

You’ve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.

Suddenly, he’s angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.

“‘S this what this whole things all about, huh?” It’s snarky, it’s cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you don’t even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact you’re letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. “You want me to tell you somethin’ traumatic, somethin’ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lil’ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ain’t special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.”

“Are you done?” You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joel’s laboured breaths filling the night air.

He’s not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joel’s entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him. 

"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?” You speak so softly, he almost doesn’t hear you. But he does, and it hurts. “Hell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. I’d only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldn’t let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding… interested in the answer.”

Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joel’s mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality he’s witnessed.

You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.

“Frank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Bill’s gate. I… I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.”

He almost calls you by your name, then by the name he’s given you. Sol. But it’s too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.

“I didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.” It doesn’t make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. “It was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never… discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.”

And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.

Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ain’t special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isn’t the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he won’t be the last. He’ll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.

The hoot of an owl. It’s somehow a reminder that you’re both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.

Those tears in your eyes still haven’t fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because you’re not brave. Because you’re not his girl. You’re the sun, and he’s just another planet that’s been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.

“One minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,” your voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps he’ll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him.  “And the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, that’s something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."

God, does it linger.

He’s tried to lose track. He’s tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he can’t.

Just like how he can’t think of what to say right now.

He knows he should comfort you.

He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then he’d be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and that’s one thing he’s getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.

“What,” he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and he’s got no other layers to keep you warm with. “What were you gonna name her?”

You’re gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if that’s enough to regain your composure.

“That’s her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frank’s flowerbeds,” there’s a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, you’re talking about her, you’re honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel can’t do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that he’s the greatest asshole alive. “It’s silly but… I like to think it’s her whenever the snowdrops bloom.” 

“'S a nice name," he’s a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you it’s okay. Tell you he’s sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think he’s trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesn’t get to see what life blooms from atop his daughter’s grave?

"It was my mom's,” you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you can’t believe you’re admitting this to him. Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, he’d feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. “She'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."

Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.

He can’t remember why he called her Sarah.

You’re sleeping next to him.

He’s spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.

But it’s sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and he’s back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the world’s least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.

You’d been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. He’d told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.

You told him that you hadn’t imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadn’t grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. He’d rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didn’t mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.

But you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: “Move over.”

And now he’s here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.

You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.

It’s not the only thing that grows harder, however.

Maybe it’s because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that you’re actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.

Whatever the reason is ultimately doesn’t matter. Lamenting over it won’t change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And he’s trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend he’s not aware of his own body and the erection it’s bestowed upon him.

But you won’t stop moving, you won’t lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.

He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms you’re just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.

As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.

He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he can’t, won’t, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.

Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and he’s down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when he’s working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tess’ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truck’s hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.

His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she — you — moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he should’ve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you. 

Joel, he can hear it, the way you’d sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

“Joel,” he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what he’s doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand —  far more delicate — envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I do,” you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. “Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.

It’s embarrassing how much of a mess he’s becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. It’s embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.

“Because of you.”

“Me?” You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. “All I’ve done is try to sleep. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?”

“Yes.”

“Do I make you weak?”

“Yes, fuck!” He feels like he’s gone back in time and you’re playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck you’d called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. “I’m gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.”

But you won’t let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm he’s trying so hard to stave off.

“No, I’m too tired,” even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? “Let's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.”

“Tell me you’re wet,” it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know you’re enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know you’re not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.

“I am,” you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. “So wet. Love touching you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. “Then let me fuck you, please.”

“No, just…” You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He can’t help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. “Just wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.”

Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.

With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. You’re there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesn’t want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.

What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways he’d pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.

Maybe this time he’d try your other hole. He’s wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until you’d bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. You’d protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. He’d always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.

He’d not be kind. No, not when the time comes. He’d ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once he’s sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. He’d push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. They’d move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where you’re not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.

Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once he’s through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word you’ll ever need to know.

But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.

Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that you’re there, in his arms, closer than you’ve ever been.

The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?” He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes he’d not even notice close peering open to look down at you.

“I didn’t mean- I wasn’t trying to make you angrier with the questions.” Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joel’s mouth. “It’s just… You’re a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder… I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.”

With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.

Something wet wakes Joel.

It’s a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that it’s taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.

Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of nature’s critters.

A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.

Lick. 

His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.

“Sunshine,” he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. You’re not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking he’ll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. “C’mon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here who’s mighty excited to see you.”

That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, “what’re you talking abo- My baby-boy!”

No sooner than you’ve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sun’s rays.

You’re pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, “don’t ever do that again! I was so scared!” The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joel’s lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otis’ soft fur.

“Must’a caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,” Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. “He’s a good boy. Aren’t’cha, boy?”

Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joel’s thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otis’ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.

Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joel’s grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joel’s. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.

As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than he’d like it to be, stands the borders to Bill’s sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than he’d like it to be, the place where you’ll part ways.

He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.

He needs to speak soon, act now, before it’s too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.

“My, uh,” a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. “My daughter.”

Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You don’t speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.

“She was my… Whatever you called it, last night.” He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. You’ve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. “The one that changed my life. She was so… bright, I used to worry one day she’d blind someone with her smile.”

In his memories, she’s always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joel’s almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile. 

“She was everything good about me,” he says, and finds he can’t help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. “None of the bad.”

“Can’t imagine there’s much on that list.”

“I know, ‘s hard to believe there’s even one good thing about m-”

“No, Joel,” he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like you’re trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. “The bad, it must be a short list.”

Three of you — man, woman, dog — find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joel’s feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherd’s collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dog’s incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.

Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.

"C'mon, Texas,” Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. “We're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."

Bag already on his shoulder, Joel can’t feign a reason to linger a little longer.

“Wait!” You call out, parting from Frank’s side, fingers scratching at Otis’ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. “Thank you, Joel.” It’s just a whisper. He’s not even sure exactly what you’re thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before you’re stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Bill’s gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.

When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.

One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.

[demialwrites]

Experiment of Passage

I'm happy to have finally finished this! I wrote this back when I had soft feelings for pre-Nibelheim Sephiroth. Smut with feelings (some of them uncomfortable), basically.

You're not that close. And you're just like every other fan, you do wish you were that close. You even diligently kept an ear to the ground, hoping to get an opportunity to join the Silver Elite, Sephiroth's secretive fan club. Luckily, your job has you running all over the place, up to the SOLDIER floor and down to other levels. It was a good distraction. You had earned that level of clearance and a heavy workload to match. In other words, there's no time to fawn over him.

For his part, he also appeared to be run ragged. Quite a few times you scurry past him, him with his slower gait. He's often splattered with varying levels of blood. And colours of blood (from fiends?). The way he went about casually in that state was unnerving but you scold yourself inwardly. Getting dirty was just part of his job.

One day, he stops you in the hallway. This time he is clean. The black leather of his outfit has a dull shine. His hair has been brushed. You're relieved to see it but also entranced by his unreal and unique beauty.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I have something for you.”

“Yes, Sir,” you reply in a practiced manner.

You bring up a free hand up to receive what you expect to be file folders. Instead, he places a steamed bun partially wrapped in a square of parchment paper on your palm. It’s still warm.

“It’s the pork one, which they run out of early,” he explains.

‘They’ meaning the cafeteria. You're genuinely, and pleasantly, surprised. Your shock morphs into a soft smile. He chuckles, pats your shoulder, and continues on. You take this as a sign to head back to your desk for a short break and enjoy the bun. Chewing on the warm and comforting spongy dough, you try to picture Sephiroth in the lineup at the cafeteria.

You’re not sure what he likes about you. Maybe he likes how you scurry through the halls, you think with a mental shrug. Either way, he keeps bringing you snacks. He keeps bringing them and you keep accepting them gratefully. You dial up your response just a bit. Not enough to deceive but just to encourage. This is the best-looking delivery boy you have ever seen.

It’s late in the evening and you forgot to eat lunch. You vaguely register the headache but you don’t connect it with the self-neglect. You’re too focused. And honestly, you’ve been trying to eat less to compensate for Sephiroth’s delivered goodies. Your work clothes are getting a little tight. You’ll hand in your resignation before you turn him away, though.

“Sorry that I’m late.”

You look up from your computer screen to see a takeout container being placed on your desk. It lands politely in a free space between your files and other clutter. Steam, and the promising scent of some kind of sauced noodles, rise from the slits in the closed lid. Your empty stomach stares out of your eyes in anticipation.

“I had to ask where-”

Before Sephiroth could finish his sentence, and before your thoughts could catch up with your joy, you throw your arms around his waist and squeeze. You feel his stomach expand in a soft gasp. His belt buckle is cool against your cheek.

Oh, right. This is an office. You had better act professionally.

You let go, peeking up at him to gauge his reaction. You see eyes dancing in amusement set in a relaxed expression.

“Uhhh, thanks,” you mutter, cheeks hot.

He glances down at your mouth then back to your eyes. “You're welcome.”

He’s still busy but you can see that he makes time for you when he can. Your conversations naturally expand to include topics beyond food. You quickly discover that it’s like he’s bigger on the inside than he is on the outside. There’s so much information in there. You just have to ask and it willingly flows out. The only roadblock is your security clearance, which is disappointing but understandable.

And sometimes, he expresses an opinion so pessimistic that it gives you mental whiplash. You take it as a boundary around the current topic and try to steer the conversation elsewhere. Everyone has their issues, you assume.

You once thought you’re being too much.

“Maybe I should get you some textbooks,” he says.

“Then what would we talk about?”

You’re afraid he’s sick of explaining things to you. But then he surprises you with his answer:

“Your opinions.”

Oh.

As someone so low in the company, you’re not often asked for your opinion, especially not on the topics you two discuss. It’s then that you realize he’s interested in knowing more about you. You’re excited but also embarrassed. What if he didn’t like what he found? You’re mundane in comparison to him. He’s not bored of your company yet but that could change. Still, you vow not to let it get in the way. Not too much.

Months later, you receive an unusual email. That it comes from R&D shocks you well enough. You have never gotten an email from them. Then you see who it is from and the usual background noise in your mind stops. It’s like your unconscious is focused on reading it, too. Then you see who it is about and you get up and start pacing. The content makes you think it had to be a joke. Who has hacked into the company email? Who wrote such a sick joke?

Your steps slow. You gently scratch your cheek thoughtfully. Then again, you’ve never heard of anyone impersonating Director Hojo in a fake email. Sadness douses your agitation. The emotion clashes with Sephiroth’s image in your mind. But no matter what he looks like and is capable of, he’s human.

This could be a huge mistake but you agree to the Director’s invitation. You have so little information about the experiment he invited you to participate in that the alarm bells don't go off in your mind. That in itself should have been a warning to steer clear. But it’s too late now; you’ve already agreed to go. You want to help Sephiroth.

It’s the day of the ‘experiment.’ You head up to R&D. Who you assume is an assistant directs you to a small, windowless room to get ready. You change into the robe provided to you and emerge into the hallway.

“Yes. Perfect,” says the professor, examining you with eyes distorted by his glasses.

If it wasn’t for the hierarchical culture strictly maintained in the company, you would have loudly demanded what the fuck he thought he was saying. When he ignores your quiet rage, it dies pathetically. He leads you down the hallway. Besides what just happened, there are other reasons you’re incredibly uncomfortable in his presence. You can’t put your finger on it. The way he talks is also strange, in a bad way. Like he’s on another planet and only projecting his image onto this one. If he’s on another planet, he should stay there. You survive this encounter knowing you'll see Sephiroth on the other side. It’s small and truthfully, he hasn’t done anything but it’s a little heroic to you.

The professor leads you to a door. The door is strangely nondescript and clinical considering what was supposed to happen next. He uses a keycard to open it. You hurry in just to get away from him. The room on the inside is just as sadly nondescript. It’s not the usual Shinra black but it’s close enough; it’s dark, steely grey. The lighting is dim. If this was any other setting at all, it could have been romantic. The thought gives you nausea. The door slides shut behind you.

Sephiroth rises from a bed tucked at the side of the room as soon as he sees you.

“You. What are you doing here?” His voice is cold and rough, like slabs of stone.

He’s angry. He runs his hand over his face, beginning to pace. It would be a lie if you said you weren't hoping he was angry because he didn't want you to see him like this. It would mean he cares what you think. But that made you feel awful, which wasn't why you were here. You want to help. It seems you had your work cut for you to convince him to accept it.

“He told me that if I didn't do it, he would send someone else.”

“He would do that, yes. But-”

“I came here to give you a choice. I can leave now and they'll probably delay this to find someone else.”

“He won't let go of this, though!”

“That's why I came to give you the choice.”

He shouldn't have to be making this choice at all. Not at all. He should be yelling and destroying the entire room with his superhuman strength to protest. But he doesn’t. You're not sure what stops him. Is it the professor? After getting this little peek into Sephiroth's life as a part of SOLDIER, if he stabbed that creepy professor, you'd be secretly cheering. As long as you weren’t in the room at the time, of course.

“Hurry up,” comes the professor from the ceiling, in a creepy sing-song voice. There must be speakers embedded there. The sound brings an abrupt halt to Sephiroth's pacing. “I don't have all day.”

Sephiroth stands silent and still, head bowed. His reaction to the professor's voice told you everything. Well, it told you enough. This kind of behaviour from the professor wasn't new. You think back to how your rage died so easily in the hallway. You didn't have much longer with that train of thought because Sephiroth rounds on you.

“I don't want you involved with this. It's too dangerous.”

“I agreed to this. I knew there'd be risks.”

“No. You don't. You don't know the risks.”

“I'm not letting you do this alone,” you insist.

Based on your involvement in this, the risks must be getting involved in R&D. This is another vague, bad thing you can’t put your finger on. There’s always been thick, inky clouds hanging over the department but you could never figure out why. It hits you that someone must be controlling the flow of information. You no longer had the time to unravel that realization, but it could partly explain the depressing aura that seems to follow Sephiroth wherever he goes. His surprising pessimism. Maybe it’s not surprising after all. There’s no denying his confidence and strength but maybe his personality could have been brighter if he spent less time in this department.

You try to reach out to him one more time. “Well? Would you rather it was someone else? If that’s really what you mean, I could go.”

His expression sours. You want to convince him but you don't want to push too far. You’ve said all you have to say.

“So do you want me to leave?” you ask one last time.

“No.” His reply is tight and resolute.

You're unsure what else to do so you sit on the bed. The atmosphere is tense so when the mattress creaks, you flinch.

Rather than follow you, he’s brushing the ceiling with his fingertips, meticulously searching for something. He seems to find it because he reaches up with both hands. It’s a reminder of his inhuman strength as what appears to be a speaker comes down like a tulip bulb-shaped eyeball from a socket. He twists the cord and pulls, severing it. He lets it drop to the floor. Several more holes later and the ceiling looks like Swiss cheese. There are also four cameras you wouldn’t have found yourself. It takes more effort, but he crushes them between his palms before letting them also drop to the floor like disgusting objects.

You sag with relief, releasing tension you didn’t know you held. Perhaps you had been too focused on Sephiroth to notice. For his part, he’s no longer agitated but he's still stiff. It reminds you of his sword. Looking at him, you finally realize he's wearing a matching robe. Your eyes travel down his frame. The fabric drapes and hugs, giving his muscles a softer curve. He looks comfortable to hug, which is unexpected. When your eyes make it back up to his face, you realize he's caught you looking.

Sephiroth gives you a wry half-smile and holds his arms out to the sides. “What do you think?”

You look him up and down, face scrunching in thought. Then you say, “No different than usual.”

He frowns in confusion, looking down at himself. He smoothes the edges of the robe on his chest. It’s parted to expose his chest in the same style as his usual attire. “Oh.” He laughs lightly. “Old habits, I suppose.”

He shrugs the robe off his shoulders to reveal more of his chest and his stomach. Your eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. Holy. This is a man and a half. You swallow, hopefully subtly. You would be lying if his body, which seemed perfectly designed to be a warrior, didn't trigger a skittishness in you. Had he been designed? Is that truly possible? Based on the few strange, and sometimes terrifying, rumours you heard coming from R&D…no, those kinds of thoughts are for later.

“You look great.”

You manage a small smile because it's true. A person can be awe-inspiring and pleasing to the eyes at the same time.

He dips slightly in relief. “I suppose it's true, what they all say.”

You're shocked to hear that. “And you didn't believe it, all this time?”

“I still look different.”

His gaze hardens and your gut tells you to drop the matter. As much as you want to play therapist, now's not the time. And he's not wrong. You've never seen a man like him.

He licks his lips and an emotion flickers across his face. You're lucky to catch it.

“Are you scared?” you ask.

His eyes narrow.

“Sorry. Too personal?”

“I'm fine.”

He says it so easily. Either way, you’re not scared of him anymore. But you do feel awkward so you look away.

Sephiroth asks a question and you’re just on the cusp of understanding but it’s too quiet. You look back up at him.

“Sorry, what?”

He increases the volume slightly. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What? You mean what to do next?”

That sets you off-kilter for a moment. Then you decide, he must not be asking because he doesn't know or hasn't thought about it. He must be asking because he wants you to choose the direction in which this is going. Surely, he’s masturbated, you think to yourself. You rub your hand down your face, banishing the thought before the following mental image forms too clearly. It feels intrusive.

When you look back at him, he’s looming over you. It makes no sense that he would be trying to intimidate you at this point. You’re in too deep. You stare up at him but he doesn’t budge, like a larger-than-life statue. He’s just watching you.

Oh.

“Are you feeling awkward?” you ask.

He shakes his head but his expression and slumping shoulders betray him. “Sorry,” he says sadly. “I’m sure this isn’t what you-”

“I don’t mind,” you interrupt. The question is plain on his face so you continue. “Everyone’s awkward at first. If you ask me, it humanizes you.”

He seems to accept what you say. In fact, he’s looking more comfortable. Still stiff but getting better. What’s also stiff is…the massive erection jutting awkwardly from his pelvis. It would be comical, if not for what you were supposed to be doing. Even if he’s feeling better, surely he’s a long way off from getting aroused. He sits next to you on the bed and hisses in pain.

“Are you in pain? Why would that jerk make you do this while in pain? ”

He says nothing. You stare at him, waiting for an answer. Or at least to be told to back off.

“It was an injection,” he says, way too lightly. He tried to cover it with the barest of smiles.

“Oh,” you say. Because what else could you say?

Your response sounded woefully inadequate, even to your own ears. But you’re not sure what the appropriate response is. Maybe anger. Maybe you should storm off and refuse to be any further involved. Should you hug him in an effort to give comfort? The last one should feel right but, somehow, it doesn’t. You still feel the distance between you. But you're unsure if it's the distance between yourself and the ‘hero’ Sephiroth or yourself and the man struggling awkwardly with this situation.

“How come I’m the only one naked?” he asks, breaking the heavy silence and lightly bumping your shoulder with his.

It’s his turn to lighten the mood. You force a smile and slide off your own robe. Forcing a smile doesn't feel so bad because you want to smile for him but it's still difficult, considering the situation.

He slowly drinks your naked body in with a slow sweep of his gaze. His gaze travels down, meeting yours when it returns to your face. Your lips part. He catches the slight movement like the alert warrior he is. You slowly meet in the middle, bangs tickling your face. It's absolutely cliché but this man deserves his cliché kiss.

You start with a couple of chaste smooches, then lead him into something more heated by grazing your teeth across his bottom lip. Sephiroth takes the hint and opens his mouth to you. It's awkward but he's trying. You suspect he's thought about it but had little opportunity to practice.

Your hand finds its way down to grasp his length, earning you a deep purr from the other man. If you try to take your hand away, he holds it there, squeezing. His eyebrows come together in an expression of what appears to be relief. Hopefully, it's from the pain he was feeling earlier.

“It barely reaches around,” you say, worried.

He hums. “I've been told that I'm above average. It looks average to me.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. There’s some kind of disconnection there that you’re not sure about since you don’t have a penis yourself. It’s not like your siblings or male friends would have talked to you about it, nor did you wish they did.

“Uhhhh, that's not average.”

“I see.”

There’s no way he will fit without foreplay. It's a little funny that now it's your turn to be the information dispenser. It's not that he doesn't know anything about women's bodies but everyone is different and you have to explain specifically about yours. He listens carefully, though with wandering eyes.

He does it all too gently. You eventually have to tell him won’t break. You guide him to touch your nipples. To touch your favourite spots but with a more firm hand. He does so but he also wants to run his palms and fingers over every inch of you: down your sides, into the curve of your waist, and back up your stomach. His touch makes your nerves sing and crackle and cry out for more all at once. He chases you down that hole. It’s full of warm water and the warm water is his embrace, his presence, his smell, and the way he finally feels comfortable kissing you. You vaguely remember he had been squeezing your thigh just a second ago but his finger is suddenly at your slit, hesitating there. You reach down to jam it in faster, closing your thighs to keep his hand there. He’s not going anywhere but that this is just a one-time thing lingers in the back of your mind. It’s a pleasurable blur. You manage to teach him to curve his finger. He’s a natural. You can’t manage the words. You have to squeeze two of his fingers together to communicate that he has to give you more. You’re both awkward at this point so he doesn’t question it. It’s not that he’s going slowly but you slide closer on the bed to meet his hand, anyway. Two of his fingers are so thick and feel so good stroking the front of your walls that this could be it for you. If Sephiroth didn't even penetrate you, just came on your stomach right now and left, you would consider this a great experience. A win for you.

You were supposed to be guiding him but you’re losing control of the situation. You sink slowly deeper, deeper, deeper. The warm water is about to slip over your mouth when you squeeze his wrist and reluctantly rip your mouth from his.

“Stop!”

You’re treated to an astonished look. It's the furthest from calm and collected you've ever seen him. You have to laugh, telling him nothing is wrong. The poor man was doing so well and you just yelled at him in the middle of it.

“I’m sorry. But if we don’t really get started right now…”

He blinks, understanding. The way his nostrils flare, you could almost mistake the fire in his eyes for anger. That would be a mistake, a mismatch to this situation. What he was feeling was a burning need. A burden.

Guilt punches you softly in the gut. You had been enjoying yourself immensely just now, with no thought about his needs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, leaning up from the bed.

He pushes your chest gently to get you to lie back down. “No.”

“You’re not going to break me.”

He avoids your eyes. “Like you said, let’s get started.”

You don't feel acquainted enough to push him about it–contrary to the situation you both find yourselves in–and you yearn to relieve him of his pain. He ends up insisting you be the one to insert him inside you. But lying down, all you can do is bend it down and tuck the head inside. But even that has you silently groaning, because it's warm, firm and thick enough to press down toward your anus, giving a taste of the fullness you're about to experience. There's still some lingering pressure from before, dully demanding why it wasn't relieved from Sephiroth's fingers minutes before.

It's good that you didn't. Sephiroth is still a man and as such, he wants more. He slides his hips forward slowly. The stretch is still painful and you give it your all to keep the truth off your face.

“Does it hurt?”

Lucky guess, you think to yourself.

“Yep.” As soon as you feel him retreat, even a centimetre, you wrap your legs around his hips. “Nope, don't stop. Let's get this over with.”

Sephiroth sees that you've got a small smile and he relaxes again.

You thank whatever gods exist that Sephiroth has the strength and control to make shallow, precise movements, chipping away at the tightness of your core, giving him room to thrust deeper, bit by bit.

Even though lust is clouding over Sephiroth's gaze, you guide him down for a kiss, in case he needs a distraction from any doubts. He stops his movements briefly to concentrate on how you lead the kiss to something deeper. He leans farther into you, taking more of what you're offering and resumes thrusting, but faster.

When he pulls away and opens his eyes, you ask, “How does it feel?”

“You squeeze me and it feels heavenly, but like I’m being pushed out. When you relax, I feel welcomed inside.”

Your response is a mixture of shock and embarrassment at his assessment. You can't imagine his mission reports contain such language. You reassure him again that everything is fine, though, you remembered at that very unlucky moment that this isn't a bedroom but a lab with a bed chucked inside. If you tightened up around him, he didn't notice. You encouraged him to wrap his arms tighter around you. Here he was, needing your help and your encouragement, and here you were, desiring his protective embrace. You felt a small measure of guilt, poisoning the experience. But that was only true if the professor hadn't poisoned it from the beginning. You had to wonder where the beginning even was.

But there’s no point in dwelling on the negative when the hero of Shinra is between your legs. It’s with that last though you finally come. Sephiroth watches with wonder as your orgasm takes you. As soon as your body relaxes, he pulls you close and smashes his mouth against yours. He seems intent on smothering his own cry, as it comes in the form a stuttering, strained hum. He pulls back with a low sigh that almost sounds reluctant.

Reluctance or not, this wasn’t just a fun one-night stand. The post-coitus warm fuzzies can’t change the fact that the room is still sterilized, lab grey. That Professor Hojo is still waiting somewhere for you both to be done. The truth blankets the both of you like a thin layer of ash. He gives you a soft smile but it makes you sad instead of happy.

“You’ve…made this enjoyable…”

Sephiroth struggles awkwardly to communicate his gratitude but your mind tugs you towards the door. He looks down between you and realizes he’s still keeping you there by remaining inside you. After seeing that, you’re torn. You do want to leave but you also don’t want this to be the last time you see him. Before he can move, you gently clap your hands to either side of his face, to his surprise.

“You did well.”

That reassures him well enough. He carefully retreats from your body. You sit up and close your legs. Sephiroth grabs both of your robes and hands you yours. You mutter a grateful thanks. He does some stretching, rolling his shoulders, and it has him looking more at ease in his body after. Though you wonder how much of it is real based on what you saw between him and the professor.

“There’s a bathroom. There,” he says.

You look where he’s pointing. There’s a plain door, blending in with the wall that you didn’t notice before.

“There are no cameras in there. I checked earlier.”