#Inside car window cleaner

[laceandlipstick]

hunt me down | d.w

dean winchester x f!reader

MDNI

word count: 5.8k

summary: one bed, one reckless night, and nothing between you and dean would ever be the same again.

warnings: one bed trope, rough p in v, oral f!receiving, dirty talk (dean’s silly like that), slight restraint (if you squint), let me know if i missed any!

a/n: this was a passion project for my bsf @sudsnribbons hope u enjoy my love

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he nearly shot you.

In fairness, you had just tackled him to the ground inside a crumbling barn, both of you hunting the same vampire without realizing it. Your heart hammered as you lay sprawled across his chest, pinned down by his broad hands, the glint of a silver blade flashing dangerously close to your throat.

Then he smiled — all crooked grin and cocky confidence — and the heat that surged through you had nothing to do with adrenaline.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a low roll of thunder. “Otherwise you’d be leaking all over this floor.”

You shoved off him with a muttered curse, cheeks burning hotter than the midday sun.

Dean just laughed, brushing dust from his jacket, the rich rumble vibrating straight down your spine.

You should have left it at that. You should have walked away and never thought twice about him.

But of course, that wasn’t how your story with Dean Winchester was going to go.

⸻

Two weeks later, you’re riding shotgun in his ’67 Impala, salt-and-burn job behind you, night bleeding dark and heavy across the open highway.

The radio hums something low and bluesy, and Dean’s fingers tap absently against the wheel. Every now and then, his green eyes flick toward you — quick, assessing glances that make your skin prickle with awareness.

You stare out the window, pretending not to notice. Pretending the air between you isn’t electric.

It’s a losing battle.

“So,” he says finally, voice lazy but laced with something sharper. “You ever gonna stop playing shy and tell me what your deal is?”

“My deal?” you echo, keeping your tone light.

Dean smirks. “Yeah. You’re a hell of a hunter. Quick, smart… sexy as hell. Yet somehow, you’re still flying solo. Why’s that?”

You snort, shifting in your seat. “Maybe I like my own company.”

Dean’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. “Honey, if I were your company, you’d never be lonely again.”

The words settle in your gut like a lit match dropped in gasoline.

You swallow hard, willing your pulse to steady, but it’s useless. Dean Winchester is an inferno in denim and leather, and you’re standing way too close to the flames.

“Careful, Winchester,” you murmur, finally daring to meet his eyes. “You might not be able to handle me.”

Dean grins, slow and devastating. “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I can handle you just fine. Question is… can you handle me?”

You tear your gaze away before you do something stupid — like pull the car over and find out exactly what he means.

Instead, you settle deeper into the seat, pretending to relax, pretending you don’t feel his eyes burning into you like a brand.

The silence that follows is filled with unspoken promises.

⸻

The next motel you hit is a run-down little place off the main highway. Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing like hornets in the humid night air. Dean cuts the engine, and for a second, neither of you move.

Finally, he tosses you a smirk. “One room left,” he says. “Manager said it’s got two beds. Hope you don’t snore.”

You arch a brow. “Hope you don’t talk in your sleep.”

Dean chuckles, low and rough. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ll be wishin’ I was asleep.”

The words hang there between you, daring, suggestive. You push open the door before you can embarrass yourself by blushing again.

Inside, the room smells faintly of stale smoke and cheap cleaner. One bed is pushed up against the wall, the other closer to the window. You drop your bag on the nearest mattress, trying to act casual, but Dean is too close behind you, his presence a solid, burning thing at your back.

You hear the soft rustle of his jacket hitting the chair, the creak of the bedframe as he sits down.

“You gonna hog all the hot water, too?” he asks, voice all lazy amusement.

You shrug out of your jacket, feeling his gaze scrape over your shoulders, down your back. Every nerve ending lights up like a live wire.

“Guess you’ll have to be fast,” you toss over your shoulder, heading for the bathroom.

Dean’s chuckle follows you like a touch.

And when you close the door, you lean against it for a second, breathing hard, feeling heat flood your cheeks.

This was going to be torture. Sweet, unbearable torture.

You shower quickly, but not quick enough to escape the images playing in your mind — Dean, sprawled out on that bed, long legs stretched, green eyes half-lidded with heat. Dean, close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.

You curse under your breath, toweling off fast.

When you step out in your sleep shorts and a loose T-shirt, Dean is stretched across the bed nearest the window, boots kicked off, TV remote in hand. His shirt is rumpled, his belt undone but still looped through his jeans. The sight of that loose belt — the suggestion of it — sends a molten rush straight through you.

Dean glances up, and for a moment, he says nothing. His gaze skims over your bare legs, the curve of your hips, the shadow of your collarbone beneath your T-shirt.

You shift your weight, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of bare skin.

“You clean up nice,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before.

You clear your throat. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Dean smirks, slow and sinful. “Sweetheart, the ideas I have… you couldn’t handle ’em.”

Your stomach flips. You yank back the covers on your bed, climbing in quickly, tugging the blanket up to your chest like armor.

Dean chuckles again, turning his attention back to the TV. But you can feel him still watching you, feel the weight of his gaze like hands trailing over your body.

You pretend to sleep. You pretend not to notice the way Dean shifts, getting more comfortable, the way the low rumble of his breathing fills the room.

You pretend you don’t imagine crawling across the short space between the beds and letting all that cocky bravado melt away under your touch.

Sleep is impossible.

⸻

You don’t know how long you lay there, staring at the stained ceiling, listening to Dean breathe.

At some point, the TV clicks off.

Dean shifts, the bedsprings groaning under his weight. You squeeze your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, but you can feel him watching you again — like a tangible thing, heavy and hot in the darkness.

“You awake?” His voice is a low whisper, rough and full of something dangerous.

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Dean exhales, a soft curse under his breath. The mattress creaks again as he stands. You hear the soft pad of his boots hitting the floor, the rustle of denim sliding down legs. You swallow hard, biting your lip to keep from making a sound.

When you dare to crack one eye open, Dean is climbing into bed — your bed.

You stiffen instinctively, heart hammering.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, voice barely audible.

Dean smirks in the dark. You can see the white flash of his teeth. “Window’s drafty. Cold as hell over there.”

You narrow your eyes. “There’s another bed.”

Dean shifts closer under the covers, his bare arm brushing yours. His skin is warm — almost too warm — and you can smell the clean, woodsy scent of his soap still clinging to him.

“I’ll behave,” he murmurs. “Scout’s honor.”

You snort softly. “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

“Nope.” His grin widens. “But I look damn good in uniform.”

You turn away, facing the wall, but it doesn’t help.

Dean’s heat seeps into your side, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the back of your neck.

Minutes pass.

Long, slow, torturous minutes.

You shift, pulling the blanket higher. Dean shifts with you, the mattress dipping. His thigh brushes yours — not an accident.

You freeze, barely breathing.

Dean’s voice is a low rumble against your ear. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“You think you’re the only one suffering?” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

Silence falls between you — heavy, loaded.

Then Dean laughs, low and dangerous.

It’s the kind of sound that promises very, very bad things.

Good things.

You don’t move when his hand drifts across the small space between you, fingers ghosting the curve of your hip over the blanket. A featherlight touch — asking, not taking.

Your body lights up like a struck match.

“You want me to stop,” Dean murmurs, his lips so close to your ear that you can feel them move, “say so.”

You bite your lip, fists clenching the sheets. Your whole body screams for him to touch you harder, deeper — to take — but something stubborn in you holds the line.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re gonna regret starting this, Winchester.”

Dean’s hand stills.

His breath is ragged against your neck.

“Baby,” he growls, so low it’s almost a snarl, “I’m already too far gone.”

You dare to glance back at him, just a little — enough to see the way his jaw is tight with restraint, how his green eyes are dark and burning.

One move.

One move, and you could have him.

But you don’t.

You turn back toward the wall, every nerve in your body straining.

Dean swears softly. His hand retreats, but not before dragging slowly — deliberately — over your waist, your hip, your thigh.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trembling.

Neither of you sleep that night.

⸻

The morning light creeps in through the thin curtains, pale and dusty.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep — if you even did — but when you blink your eyes open, the first thing you notice is that Dean is still there.

Still close.

Too close.

His arm is slung heavy across your waist, his bare chest pressed along your back. You can feel the slow, steady thud of his heart against your spine — the heat of his skin, the solid, unmistakable weight of him.

And something else, too.

Something thick and hard, nudging insistently against the curve of your ass.

You freeze. Your pulse skyrockets.

Dean shifts behind you, groaning low in his throat, like he’s trying to get closer even in sleep. His hips roll, just a little, and the thick press of him drags along your backside, hot and heavy.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Dean,” you whisper, but it comes out broken, needy.

He stirs — awake now.

You feel the exact moment his body goes tense. His breath catches, a soft, strangled sound against your neck.

“Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely. His hand flexes on your waist, like he’s torn between pulling you closer and pushing himself away.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rough with sleep and hunger. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, you push back — just a fraction of an inch — enough to feel the full, hard length of him against you.

Dean swears viciously.

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls.

You tilt your hips, teasing him. “Maybe I like it.”

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Dean flips you onto your back in a single, fluid motion, caging you beneath him. His hands are planted on either side of your head, muscles flexed, every line of his body taut with restraint.

His face hovers over yours, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. His green eyes blaze down at you — hungry, desperate, feral.

“You have no idea,” he snarls, “how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”

And then he kisses you — hard, bruising, devastating.

It’s not soft, not sweet. It’s claiming.

Dean kisses like he’s starving, like he needs you to breathe, and you open for him willingly, moaning low in your throat as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hot and demanding.

You fist your hands in his hair, dragging him closer, tasting the hunger in every rough pull of his lips, every desperate scrape of teeth.

Dean breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Tell me you want this.”

You meet his eyes — blown wide with lust, desperate and raw — and there’s no hesitation, no fear.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

Dean growls low in his chest, deep and primal.

“You’re gonna get it, sweetheart,” he promises darkly. “Every goddamn inch.”

He peels your T-shirt up over your head in one swift motion, groaning when he sees you — bare, flushed, wanting. His calloused hands skate over your skin, reverent and rough all at once, mapping every curve, every shiver.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself. Like he can’t believe you’re real.

You tug at his own shirt, desperate to feel him, to get your hands on that broad, strong body you’ve imagined a hundred times over.

Dean strips it off, baring a chest dusted with light hair, muscles flexing under golden skin.

He’s a force above you, a living furnace, and when he ducks his head to kiss down your throat, your collarbone, your breasts — you arch up, gasping, fingers clawing at his back.

His mouth is hot and wet, teeth scraping lightly, teasingly, until you’re squirming under him, whimpering his name.

“Dean—”

He shushes you with another searing kiss, grinding his hips down, letting you feel exactly how hard he is for you. Exactly how badly he needs you.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up to meet his, desperate for more friction, more everything.

Dean curses again, voice wrecked.

“Need to taste you,” he growls against your skin. “Need to hear you fall apart for me.”

You don’t have time to answer before he’s sliding down your body, nipping, licking, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers.

When his mouth finds the apex of your thighs — bare, aching, ready — you cry out, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.

Dean groans like a man tasting salvation.

And then he devours you.

Dean’s mouth is sin, pure and devastating.

He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning deep in his chest like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue works you open — slow at first, deliberate — every flick, every swirl designed to unravel you molecule by molecule.

You’re already a mess, gasping, writhing under him, clutching at the sheets.

Dean chuckles against your core, the vibrations making you whimper.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. Sweetest thing I ever had.”

You moan brokenly, hips bucking up into his face.

Dean moans and pins your hips down, forcing you to take everything he gives.

He slides two fingers inside you, thick and perfect, curling just right, and at the same time his tongue circles your clit, hot and relentless.

The pleasure is too much.

Too sharp. Too perfect.

You shatter — screaming his name, coming hard against his mouth, against his fingers — your body jerking helplessly, every muscle locking tight before falling boneless into the mattress.

Dean doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, drinking you down like he’s starving, savoring every tremble, every moan.

Only when you’re gasping, too sensitive, does he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a cocky, filthy grin splitting his face.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart,” he rasps.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Dean’s crawling back up your body, grabbing your thighs, spreading them wide around his hips.

You feel him — hot, hard, heavy — pressing against your entrance, still clothed in nothing but throbbing need.

“Condom?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.

“Bag,” you manage, voice shaking.

Dean fumbles in your duffel at the foot of the bed, cursing under his breath when he finds it. He rips the foil packet open with his teeth, slicks himself quickly, and then he’s back between your thighs, pushing your legs up, lining himself up with you.

His eyes lock with yours — wild, hungry, burning.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growls. “Last chance.”

You wrap your legs around his hips, dragging him closer. “Dean,” you whisper. “I need you. Now.”

He swears — low, broken — and then he’s pushing in, the thick head of his cock stretching you, making you cry out.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, burying himself slowly, inch by devastating inch. “So goddamn tight. So perfect.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You’ve never felt so full, so claimed.

Dean drops his forehead to your shoulder, trembling with the effort not to move.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he mutters. “Feelin’ you around me — fuck — like you were made for me.”

He draws back, almost all the way out, then slams back in, hard and deep.

You cry out, head tipping back.

Dean finds a rhythm — deep, punishing thrusts that leave you gasping, clinging to him, desperate for more.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, thrusting harder. “Take it. Take all of me.”

You meet him stroke for stroke, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room.

Dean growls, grabbing your thigh and hiking it higher, angling you so he can drive even deeper.

You see stars. You can’t even think.

His hand finds your throat — not squeezing, just holding, possessive — and the shock of it makes you clench around him, wringing a raw moan from his lips.

“You like that, baby?” he snarls, fucking into you harder. “You like me takin’ you like this?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Dean, please —”

He covers your mouth with his, swallowing your cries, his thrusts rough and wild now, desperate.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groans against your lips. “Too good. So fuckin’ good.”

His fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, brutal circles, sending you hurtling toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he commands, voice dark and filthy. “Come on my cock.”

You fall apart again — shattering, screaming his name, every muscle clenching, your body spasming around him.

Dean follows with a growl, driving deep, grinding his hips against yours as he spills inside you, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves.

You just cling to each other, panting, wrecked.

Dean buries his face in your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, his body still shuddering slightly.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against your skin. “You hear me? Mine.”

You smile, dazed and sated, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

Dean stays inside you for a minute, still pressed tight against you, catching his breath. His weight is heavy — comforting — and you cling to him, fingers sliding up and down the slick muscles of his back.

Neither of you says anything.

No words needed.

Finally, Dean groans softly and shifts, pulling out with a low grunt that makes your cheeks heat all over again.

He ties off the condom quickly, tossing it toward the trash without even looking.

You expect him to roll away, maybe pass out like most guys would.

But Dean surprises you.

Instead, he reaches for you, tugging you against his chest, wrapping you up tight in his arms. One big, warm hand cradles the back of your head. The other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your temple, voice low and wrecked but gentle now.

You nod, still a little dazed.

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Fucked you good, didn’t I?” he teases, but there’s something raw and vulnerable underneath the cockiness — like he needs to hear you say it. Like he needs to know he didn’t break you, only made you his.

You smile, sleepy and sore and ridiculously happy.

“The best,” you whisper. “No contest.”

Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his green eyes warm, soft, utterly wrecked with affection.

He brushes a few sweaty strands of hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness.

“Yeah?” he says, grinning that stupid, boyish grin that melts you faster than the sex ever could. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now.”

You laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin smells like sex and sweat and soap, like everything you never knew you needed.

“I think I can live with that,” you murmur.

Dean kisses your hair, slow and lingering.

“You better,” he says, voice low and rough. “Because I’m not lettin’ you go. Not after this. Not ever.”

You fall asleep like that — tangled up with him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady and strong under your ear.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Wrapped up in Dean Winchester’s arms.

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part iii)

FALSE EQUILIBRIUM—A balance that was never truly balanced.

summary: Joel’s delicate attachment to Leela and baby Maya deepens along with—her resistance, his denial, and the slow, inevitable way he’s always finding his way back to them. As they navigate a freak accident, Ellie sees it. He does too. Almost.

a/n: ah-woohooooo more of Joel being a thickheaded numpty, so enjoy! I would love to hear all your unhinged, lovely thoughts!

It had been a quiet few weeks for Joel.

Not the kind of quiet he liked—the stillness of early mornings, with the wind rustling the trees and a guitar strumming in his hands. No, this was the one that came after a storm, when the air was dense with the scent of rain and the world felt... upside down. Unsettled. The kind of quiet where the damage had already been done, and all that was left was to pick through the wreckage.

The kind of quiet that made a man think too much. It pressed into him, heavy and suffocating.

Since that night in the car, since he’d seen her unravel in real time, the tacit MO had changed. On more welcome news, Mal had stopped coming around. No thanks to him, of course.

Joel saw him through the window the first morning he returned to Leela's place. Mal was coming up the path with the same easy stride, hands in his pockets like he had a right to be there. God, just once, he wanted to knock the teeth off that goddamned kid.

Joel set down his hammer and exhaled through his nose. Bless Tommy for leaving the fun part to him. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped out onto the porch before the kid could even knock. The heavy door groaned on its hinges behind him, and he let it.

Mal spotted him and gave a lazy wave, stepping forward. “Hey, man. I’m just here to—”

Joel shifted in front of him. Not aggressive. Just there. An immense wall of quiet warning.

Mal stopped short, blinking up at him.

Joel wasn’t even trying to stand taller, but he didn’t need to. He just crossed his arms over his chest, let his shoulders square out naturally, let his stance say everything. He wasn’t fucking moving.

The kid hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh—is there a problem?”

“I’ll take it from here,” Joel said, voice even.

Mal frowned. “What?”

“I said, whatever it is, I got it.”

There was a pause. A moment where Joel could see the gears turning in Mal’s head, where the kid was piecing things together a little too slow for his liking.

“Okay, but Tommy said—”

“Yeah, well.” Joel leaned forward, just enough to be felt. Watched Mal’s jaw tighten, and watched him shift back on instinct. “Not anymore.”

That finally landed. Mal thankfully rocked back on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced past Joel, toward the house, then back, brows knitting together, trying to make sense of what was going on. What he'd done wrong.

"Uh... do you want help, at least?" he offered, cautious.

Joel let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh—if you could call it that. There was nothing warm in it. "You run along now."

Mal lingered for another second, like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. And like a kid being told off, he tucked his tail and left.

Joel didn’t bother to watch him go. Just turned on his heel, grabbed the door, and went back inside. “Fuckin' pest,” he grumbled under his breath.

The house was quiet—only the soft creak of the stairs, followed by the sound of careful, steady footsteps.

He looked up and saw Leela was making her way down, one hand carefully bracing against the railing. She was in sweats and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled into a low-hanging bun. There was something different about her face today—sharper, cleaner, blanker maybe. Or maybe he was just seeing her in a better light now.

She caught him staring. "Was that Mal?"

Joel simply lied, "No."

She pressed her lips together. Not quite disappointment, not quite relief. Something in between. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe later.”

Joel hooked a thumb through the loop of his tool belt, retrieving the hammer he’d slung there. He looped it through the air once, catching the handle in his palm.

“Don't worry about it. He’s a busy guy,” he said, keeping his voice light as he crossed her on the staircase. “Lotsa shit to fix around town.”

More importantly, Leela didn’t ask why or how. Soon enough, she stopped looking for Mal. Didn’t even question when Joel started showing up every day instead with his old tool belt slung over his shoulder, standing at her door like it was the most unassuming thing in the world. She just looked at him—one glance, one unreadable flicker of those dark, tired eyes—and then moved on like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t there at all. Stiffing him, essentially.

And Joel knew that kind of distance. This gaping rupture, widened between people when something sore and hideous had been exposed. When someone had seen too much; known too much. Leela knew she’d overstepped, and now she was pulling back.

Joel knew that feeling. He’d done it plenty himself. That instinct to retreat, to pull the shutters down, to make yourself small. Hell, he’d lived it. Had become it.

So he let it happen. He let her pretend again. Didn't push, didn't say anything.

He simply worked.

The nursery was coming together, slowly but surely. The new pendant lights were fixed, casting warm pools of gold over the room. The shelves stood straighter, stocked with whatever Maria had been sneaking in—baby books, folded blankets, onesies, a small range of wooden toys. And the old fuchsia rug he’d found in Leela’s storage? It tied the whole damn thing together, like a relic of a forgotten life, all lived-in and warm for the baby girl.

Joel stood in the centre of it all, Maya cradled in his arms, rocking slightly on his heels. Not that she could appreciate any of this yet. A safe space of her own.

He had never been the kind of man who cooed at babies either. Hadn’t been that way when Sarah was small, hadn’t been that way in the years since. There was something about them—so soft, so fragile—that made him cautious, like he had to hold back, keep himself in check.

Maya made it easier.

"Hi," he whispered to her after her naps. "Did you sleep well? Huh, pretty girl? You hungry? C'mere."

She made tiny, thoughtful expressions like she was really listening to him. Her little hands were always reaching, always curious. Right now, she was watching the lights with those big brown eyes, mesmerised by the slow shift of the shadows on the ceiling, her mouth parting slightly in wonder, her head barely still on her little shoulders. Her fingers curled absently in his collar, barely grasping, like she just liked knowing he was there.

She’d been a fussy one lately—tired, restless, wanting to be held more often than not. Lonely, always so lonely. And with a mama like Leela, who drifted too easily and got lost too deep in her own head, Joel figured it wasn’t a bad idea to show her around. Give her something new to look at.

“What do you think, baby girl?” he murmured, drawing her closer, his palm smoothing down her tiny back. “Did I do okay or what?”

Maya blinked up at him, her whole body stilling for a second before she let out a soft, breathy coo.

Joel grinned. “Yeah?” he chuckled. “That a yes?”

She wiggled in his hold, that gummy little smile coming alive, kicking lightly against his ribs, and Joel felt himself exhale—deep, easy, something loosening inside him. She liked it. The nursery. The lights. Him. Maybe none of it mattered in that little head of hers, but she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t fussing. She was looking at him like she trusted him, and God help him, but he wanted to deserve that.

He took her toward the shelves, kneeling carefully with her in one arm, balancing his weight as he pointed to the row of paint cans. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s pick a colour. What’s it gonna be, huh?” He tilted them slightly, exposing the faded labels. “We got white. Some kinda blue. Green.”

Maya reacted immediately, tiny fist stretching out, fingers grazing toward the muted green.

Joel huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? That your favourite?”

Her fingers brushed the side of the can, fascinated by the cool metal, a quiet coo slipping from her lips.

Joel hesitated. Just for a second. Then he gave in—because how the hell could he not?

Slowly, almost like he was afraid to spook her, he shifted her a little higher against his chest. Lowered his head. Pressed a kiss to the soft crown of her head.

She was warm. Fuzzy. Still had that darling baby smell—something between powder and milk and fresh laundry, it damn near knocked the air out of him. He let himself linger, just a little longer than he probably should’ve, breathing her in.

Maya stirred—not in protest, but with this soft, excited little kick of her legs against his ribs, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Joel exhaled, slow. Felt something in him loosen. Snap, maybe. In a quiet kind of way. Before he could think better of it, he kissed her again—this time on the side of her head. Then once more, near her temple. Another just above her ear. Until he started to feel like it was not enough.

She wriggled in delight, mouth wide, gums flashing in a big, open grin, her whole face scrunching like she could feel it all sinking in.

Joel huffed—half a laugh, half a breath. Shook his head, kissed her once more.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I got you.”

And maybe—maybe she already knew that he really fucking loved her. Knew it the way babies just do sometimes. That he was solid. That his arms weren’t going anywhere. That he’d never let her drop.

A rustle at the doorway made him glance up from a kiss. Leela stood there, her hand lightly braced against the frame, watching him.

Joel was caught off guard, leaning away from Maya a bit, settling her lower against his chest. “Hey,” he greeted, voice low. “Just uh, givin’ her the lay of the land.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. She only flashed a tight, fleeting smile before stepping forward, arms extending toward Maya. “You wanna take a bath with mama?”

Maya twisted in his hold, cooing eagerly now, small hands reaching for her mother. Even after everything, her mother was still her favourite person.

Joel let her go, careful as he passed her over to Leela. Their hands brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and he ignored the way it lingered, how her fingers barely curled in his before she took Maya into her arms.

“She’s been good,” Joel muttered.

Leela nodded, running a gentle palm over Maya’s back. “There’s lunch downstairs if you’re hungry.”

Joel studied her for a beat, his fingers brushing idly against his tool belt. “…Did you eat something?”

She hesitated. Too long. Then nodded slowly.

He didn’t call her on the lie. Instead, he nodded back, watching as she turned on her heel, shifting Maya closer against her shoulder. She left him with another tight, fleeting smile before disappearing down the hall.

Joel breathed out a sigh, glancing back at the half-finished room. Maya’s soft, content coos still lingered in the air. The green paint sat on the shelf, waiting.

And for some damn reason, he felt lonelier than he had in a long, long time.

It had taken him eleven days. Too long for a man like him. But he hadn’t rushed at all. He should’ve, but he didn’t. Had he been the same old Joel—good ol’ Texas Joel—this would’ve been a job done in a heartbeat. A blink, and he’d be out of her way. He wouldn’t have noticed things. Wouldn’t have lingered like a moron.

Maybe it was because of the way Leela barely spoke to him anymore. Or that she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she checked on his progress in clipped words and hums, wouldn’t even glance his way when she passed Maya to him like clockwork, a silent, wordless thing between them.

Maybe because when she leaves him standing at the porch at the end of the day, the door closing shut in his face, it didn’t feel like closing a chapter. It felt like a fucking wall going up.

Joel found her in the kitchen that evening, standing by the counter, wrist-deep in soapy water. It was late, Maya was snoozing her little head off upstairs, the house dim except for the overhead light humming low above them.

She didn’t stagger when he entered, didn’t look at him either. Just kept scrubbing the hell out of a plate, though he was pretty sure it was already clean. He dawdled near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.

He should’ve left. Should’ve let the silence settle. But he couldn't just leave it alone.

Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, leaning a hip against the counter. “Y’know, you got a dishwasher. It's half the effort,” he pointed out.

Leela gave a small huff. “Electricity’s scarce.”

Joel snorted. “So is water, darlin’.”

She finally glanced at him, just a flicker, then back to the sink.

He tapped his fingers against the counter, searching for something—anything—to keep her in this moment with him. “Made good progress today,” he said. “Maya... she tried to turn on her side. Can't get the angle right, y'know. The nursery; well, I just need to fix up that dresser and—”

“Look, thank you. But I’m really tired, Joel.”

She said it without looking at him, her voice level, no bite to it. Just a statement. A locked door. He should’ve expected it, should’ve shrugged it off and moved on. Instead, something about the words, directed at him, sat wrong inside him. All that hurt-people-hurt-people-drivel that Maria used to say came back to bite him in the ass.

He hesitated, shifting his weight onto his feet. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I should get going.”

She said nothing. Just shut off the faucet, dried her hands on a towel, and walked past him, close enough that the damp heat of her skin lingered for half a second longer than it should have. And despite fighting the urge to glance back at her as she left the room, he watched her disappear down the hall.

Joel stood outside her door for a long moment, which he had conscientiously locked, staring at the chipped paint of the doorframe, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked to the porch swing. It swayed slightly in the cold breeze.

Was it juvenile to think maybe she’d prefer his company? Was it fucking brainless of him to crave somewhere to belong? A purpose? Was he meant to die alone in a strange house and surrounded by empty whiskey bottles? Maybe. Probably. But hell if he didn’t wish it anyway.

Joel didn’t want to admit it—not directly, not even to himself—but he wanted to talk to her. Not about anything in particular. Not about that night in the Maranello, or how her little, breathy laugh was possibly the best thing to hear after those roars and clicks of the world beyond, or why she’d started looking at him instead of through him.

He just wanted something. Because before, there had been something. It wasn’t like talking to most people, where you had to pick your words apart before they even left your mouth, where you had to navigate bullshit small talk or forced pleasantries. With Leela, it had been... easy. Unspoken. A warm kind of quiet, the kind where he didn’t have to think too much, where he could just be.

He'll admit it, just this once—he liked that about her. He liked that a moment didn’t have to be forced. That he didn’t have to overthink, that they had a rhythm, a delicate system between them, one that made sense even if neither of them ever put words to it.

But now?

Now, she barely looked at him. Nowadays, when she passed Maya to him, it wasn’t with that soft, knowing ease or a friendly grin, no matter how tired it had been—it was mechanical, transactional, like handing over a set of keys. Like a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here, and he didn’t know what to call that. Didn’t like the way it made his instincts turn over, uneasy, in his chest.

All that lingering had finally paid off, and Joel had found his way in. He wasn’t going to show it, of course—wasn’t gonna give himself away like some fool—but damn if he wasn’t relieved.

After days of unending cold shoulders, after all that stiff distance, this was the first real opening he’d gotten. An excuse. A way to talk to her without forcing it.

He had been fixing a flickering wall lamp that had been bugging him for some time now, in the second-floor hallway, standing on a step stool when—

CRASH.

The whole house plunged into darkness. The light he’d been working on blinked out, along with the rest of them, and then—a groan. A pained, breathy, hitched groan from below. His entire body tensed before his brain caught up.

Then came the wailing. Maya.

Joel’s heart stammered, caught between two instincts. The damn near gutting sound of the baby girl's frightened cries and that groan—that voice—he'd distinctly heard from the basement.

Fuck. His feet moved before his mind did. He leapt off the stool, tools cluttering to the floor, ignoring the protesting ache in his knees as he tore down the hall to Maya’s room. She was red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, fists curled as she screamed, trembling from the shock.

"Hey, hey, Maya," Joel hushed, scooping her up into his arms, and pulling her against his chest. "S'okay, sweetheart. Right here. I got you."

He shushed her, palm stroking warm circles over her back, bouncing her lightly in his arms. His heartbeat was loud, hammering in his ears, drowning everything out but the damn groan still hanging in his mind.

Leela.

She was down there, in that cursed basement, alone. And that sound had been awful.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his lips to Maya’s head before pulling back. More for himself rather than her.

“I'm right here, baby. Nothin’ to be scared of.” His voice was controlled—but his hands weren’t. His grip on her was a little too tight. They quivered a little.

Maya sniffled, her cries quieting just enough to slow his pulse, and he took that as his chance. Keeping her tucked to his chest, he made his way down the stairs, nearly flying, boots thudding against the wood.

His breath hitched as he reached the basement door. “Hey, you down here?” he called, shoving it open with his shoulder, jogging down to the dim space below.

Then he saw her.

Leela was slumped against the wall, it was obvious that she had been tossed into it, her silhouette barely lit by the glare of an emergency lamp in the corner. She was gripping her shoulder fiercely, rubbing it like she was trying to erase the pain. Her fingers dug in hard.

The remnants of her little "science project" upgrade lay scattered around her. Loose wires, metal scraps, a circuit board still humming with life. The main plug socket was connected. Was she fucking stupid? There was a baby upstairs, and she was ready to risk her home for that dumbass machine.

And her face—Fuck. She had gone pale. Eyes squeezed shut. Her chest rose and fell like she was working through an intense wave of pain.

“Christ.” The word came out more like a breath than anything. Joel took a step forward, but when his eyes landed on the tangled wires, something burned under his ribs.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out rougher than intended, fear clawing at his throat, disguising itself as frustration.

Leela’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but sharp. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.” She held up a hand to stop him before he could kneel down beside her. “Just a bit of bruising. Maya first.”

Joel clenched his jaw.

She was right. Damn it, he hated that she was right. Maya, now hiccupping soft little breaths against his chest, was the priority.

“Right,” he muttered, though the reluctance in his voice was clear. He cast her one last look, making sure she was still upright, still breathing normal, before turning back up the stairs.

It took ten whole minutes to get Maya settled, and that was a miracle in itself. He'd resorted to pleading under his breath, but she had continued to watch him, eyes wide, refusing to let sleep take her like she knew something was wrong. She was perceptive. Just like her mother.

Finally, finally, her little lashes fluttered shut, her tiny hand still gripping onto his shirt.

Joel exhaled, relief going awash his tension. “Good girl,” he murmured, before unfurling her fingers from his collar, brushing a kiss over them and laying her back down.

Then he was sprinting again. Back down the stairs, faster than he should have been, hand gripping the railing tight.

Leela hadn’t moved much. She was still slumped against the basement wall, her breaths deep and restrained—like she was trying to breathe the pain away.

Joel came down to a crouch by her feet. “Hey.”

“I'm fine, Joel, really,” she assured quietly.

Though, he could tell she was pissed at herself. She hated being like this—vulnerable, hurting, unable to brush it off and acting like it didn’t happen. But Joel saw it. He saw her. How she'd tilted her head against the wall, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Leela truly was fine. Bruised, rattled—but fine.

Joel had checked her over once more, ensuring nothing was broken, no serious harm done, and he had to force himself to believe her when she said she’d be okay.

But her hands. Oh, Christ. The dim glow of the emergency lamp cast a dull shine over her skin, and that’s when he noticed—the raw, reddened patches along her fingertips. The unmistakable burn marks where the electricity must’ve bit into her.

"Shit." He exhaled sharply through his nose, scraping a hand down his beard as he stared at her fingers.

She must’ve seen the look on his face because she tucked her hands close to her stomach like she could make them disappear. “Seriously,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve had worse.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. She wasn’t wrong. And that made something in him burn even hotter.

“C’mon,” he muttered, nodding toward the stairs. “Up.”

Leela hesitated, but the way he stood—the way he waited—made it clear he wasn’t asking. So she sighed and pushed herself upright, and Joel stayed close, arms extended safely around her, watching the way she moved, the way her body reacted.

She didn’t stumble. Didn’t wobble. That was good. No concussion or broken bones. A knot in his chest loosened instantly.

Once they made it back upstairs, Joel had her sit at the kitchen table, lit up from the sunshine filtering through from the afternoon sun. He set a bowl of warm water down in front of her, the steam curling into the space between them. He grabbed a small tin of ointment after a bit of rustling through the cabinets, then a roll of gauze, then paused, eyes flicking to her.

She was watching him. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Joel breathed out, slow and even, then came back over, pulling a chair beside her. He reached for her wrist, gently, carefully, lifting her hands into his own. A silent ask. Permission. Lesson learned from the last time he'd touched her.

Leela tensed for half a second before sighing, letting him take them.

She was trying to play it off like it didn’t hurt. Like it was fine. But as soon as he dipped her fingertips into the warm water, she sucked in a quiet breath through her teeth.

Joel’s grip tightened just a little. He tried to squeeze everything he had felt these past few days into a single word—“Sorry.”

He worked, taking it slow, gently swiping away the dust and grime, watching the way her skin flinched under the heat. His thumbs moved gradually, steadily, like he was afraid to make it worse.

“Y’gotta be more careful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Damn wires ain’t worth all this. Remember, you’ve got someone countin’ on you.”

Leela let out a soft, tired laugh. “I didn’t know I had a nanny now.”

Joel shot her a look. “You don’t. You got me.”

She blinked at that.

Her lips parted slightly, but whatever she was about to say, she thought better of it. Instead, she let him work, let him take care of her, and trusted his instincts, and that felt like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge just yet.

Once her hands were cleaned, he dried them carefully, mindful of the more sensitive spots, before smoothing ointment over each burnt fingertip.

Leela twitched. “Ow.”

Joel grunted. “Ain’t gonna feel good, but it’ll keep it from blisterin’ too bad.”

He finished wrapping the gauze around her fingers, slow and precise, making sure they weren’t too tight. Leela stared down at her hands when he was done, flexing her fingers slightly, testing the bandages like she wasn’t sure what to make of them. Three fingers on each hand.

Joel blew out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face as he took in the house.

It was quiet. Too damn quiet. God, he hated this. That unnatural kind, where something had been cut short too suddenly—like the whole place had been stunned into silence. The shot-out lights overhead blinked weakly before finally dying out for good, leaving nothing but the cold creeping in from every corner.

It was already moulding in. The draft slithered through the cracks in the windows, curling around his ankles, and sinking into the wood beneath his feet. The thermostat had shut off along with the rest of the power, which meant no heat. Not with how damn cold it got out here. Jesus, he'd forgotten to tuck some extra layers around Maya.

His eyes swept the room. A busted power grid. A rattled woman nursing bruises. A two-month-old baby upstairs who didn’t know a damn thing about survival, who didn’t understand that warmth wasn’t something she could just take for granted.

And this woman—this stubborn, frustrating woman—was already trying to stand up like she hadn’t just been thrown into a wall.

"I'll go check it out. Don't worry, Joel, I know what to do," Leela offered, pushing herself up.

Joel shot out a hand, firm, stopping her before she could get any further.

"You ain't fixin’ shit, you hear me?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, but hell if he cared. "Sit your damn ass down. You're stayin' at my place till I get this sorted."

The prospect did not sit well with her. He could see it in the way her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking to the window like she was already searching for another solution.

She shook her head. "I can't—"

"That's not an option."

She looked at him then, her brows drawing together. And he knew what she saw—knew she saw that hard-set determination in his face, the part of him that had already made up his mind.

What she didn’t see—what he’d never let her see—was the way his chest was burning with something too tight, too damn close to fear.

Because he’d walked into cold houses before. Knew what happened when the temperature dropped too low. Had seen bodies frozen stiff in the middle of the night, curled up as if that had been enough to keep them warm. Had seen what happened when people thought they could tough it out. He'd rather never see or smell that ever again.

Now, Leela thought she could tough it out. But he wasn’t about to let her gamble with a baby’s warmth just to prove a damn point. And if she thought this was some kind of negotiation, she was dead wrong. Because he wasn’t giving her a choice.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself, softening the edges just enough so he wasn’t barking orders at her like some kind of drill sergeant.

“Just for a while,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Till I can fix whatever the hell you fucked up down there.”

Leela didn’t answer right away, lips pressing into a thin line. But she wasn’t stupid.

She glanced up toward the stairs, toward where Maya was still sleeping. Then back at him. Joel could see the exact moment she gave in. Her shoulders slumped as she relented.

He nodded, standing up, already running through what needed to be done. “Good. I'll go bundle up the kid.”

X

Joel hasn't exactly planned to have company. Ever.

Maria and Tommy showed up sometimes. Ellie, too—though not without complaint. She claimed the place smelled like old people and swore visiting would tank her cool factor. But even when they came around, he never let them stay too long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before he was ushering them out the door with a gruff, Alright, get on, and some excuse about needing to be up early. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having people around. It was just—his place wasn’t made for that. He hadn’t made it for that.

It was single floor, nice and compact. He slept on the pullout couch in the living room. Not because he didn’t have that one really sweet bedroom, but because it was easier nowadays—closer to the door, closer to the window that faced the big white house across the street. His sink was a mess of dishes from last night, crusted over and rotting in the stale air. His cabinets weren’t stocked with food so much as they were with whiskey and coffee.

He came home. He ate. He slept. He woke up. Showered. Left. That was it. That was his life. It was enough and to spare.

So when Leela and Maya showed up at his front door, he wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on, then.”

Leela ducked inside first, shaking the cold from her coat, eyes flicking around the place as if she were already judging him for it. And maybe she was. Hell, Joel sure as shit would. Because this—this eyesore—was how she was gonna see him. As some tired, deadbeat old man who hadn’t even tried.

Maya stirred against her chest, her little hands fisting in the collar of Leela’s coat.

Joel cleared his throat and reached for her automatically. He needed his calm here. “C’mere, baby girl.”

She squealed at the sound of his voice, squirming, her small fingers flexing, gripping the fabric of his flannel before she finally settled against him, warm and soft. Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, a strange kind of tightness unwinding from his ribs. He hadn’t even realized he’d been bracing for something.

“She can stay with me,” Leela said softly, slipping out of her coat.

Joel shook his head. “Nah, you get some rest. You’re takin’ the room down the hall.”

Leela blinked, surprised. “And you?”

Joel busied himself with Maya, playing catch and release with her tiny fists, letting her grab onto his finger before slipping it away. “I’ll be fine. Got the couch.”

She frowned. “But you’ve got that bad back.”

Joel sighed, jaw twitching. “Yes, ma'am. Thanks for noticin’.”

Leela’s mouth quirked slightly, just a little, but enough that it softened something in her expression. “You should take the bed, Joel.”

He hummed, shaking his head, shifting Maya a little higher against his chest. “You just shot into a wall and burned yourself, darlin’. I think you’re entitled to a bed.”

She tilted her head at him, her brow pinching together like she was trying to figure something out.

Joel stared back, more stubborn than apprehensive, his grip tightening just a fraction around Maya’s small body.

He wasn’t sure what it was, that look of hers. But damn if it didn’t make him feel like he was seen in a way he wasn’t used to. Like she was really looking at him—not the grumpy bastard everyone in Jackson thought he was, not the fixer, not the old guy sleeping his way through life—but him.

Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. “Look, you’re takin’ the bed, that’s that. Maya can sleep next to you, so she’ll be closer if you need to feed her later.”

Leela was still staring at him, quiet for a long beat.

Then, eventually, she sighed. “Okay.”

It wasn’t much, but it felt like that little something Joel had wanted. Like an inch of the cold between them had finally cracked, letting some warmth in.

Look, of course, Joel had always known his house was too damn small. He just hadn’t felt it until now.

There was no privacy to be had, not really. The pullout couch in the living room faced the bedroom door, left cracked open just enough for him to see the gentle rise and fall of Maya’s little body curled against where Leela would sleep later. The bathroom was the only one in the house, meaning if she needed it in the middle of the night, she’d have to walk past him to get there.

Not much space. Not much distance.

So when he heard the soft shuffle of her feet against the wood floor, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even have to look up from the guitar in his hands to know she’d wandered further inside, drawn toward the small corner of the living room where he kept his workspace.

It was a cramped setup—a shabby studio table shoved against the wall, two half-finished guitars resting on stands nearby. He’d only just started working on them, but it gave his hands something to do, something to create.

Leela’s fingers grazed over the unfinished wood, her touch featherlight. “I didn’t know you were this talented. A luthier.”

Joel chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Layin’ it on a bit thick.”

She ignored him, curiosity guiding her hands as she thumbed over the strings. A quiet hum vibrated through the air, not a real note, just a sound. She tilted her head, listening.

“Would you make one for me when you have time to spare?” she asked, glancing up. “I’d love to learn.”

Joel almost laughed, because—yeah. Yeah, he’d drop dead before refusing that. “‘Course,” he said, voice low but certain.

Leela’s eyes found it too easily, drawn in like a moth to an old light. He almost wished he'd hid it away.

The picture that had survived time and death, sat on the corner shelf, tucked between a coil of guitar strings and a worn-out rag, the frame dull with dust he never bothered to wipe away. The glass was cracked, a thin vein running through the top left corner, but it didn’t matter. The image was still there. She was still there.

Sarah, grinning wide, her curls bouncing as she leaned into him, arms slung around his shoulders. Joel remembered that day. He’d taken her out to some shitty little carnival on the edge of town, and let her sucker him into one of those rigged ring toss games. She’d won a stuffed bear—cheated, more like, because the booth worker had taken pity on her—and held onto it the whole night like it was the greatest thing in the world.

She looked happy. They looked happy.

And it hit him—like it always did, like it always would—how long it had been since he’d last heard her voice. Since she’d called him 'Dad!' in that exasperated, teasing way of hers. Since she’d looked at him like he was the safest place she’d ever known.

Leela didn’t say anything. She didn’t even reach for it, didn’t let her gaze linger too long. Just acknowledged it, felt it, then moved past it, like she understood that some ghosts weren’t meant to be disturbed. Let them rest.

Joel swallowed. It wasn’t often that someone gave him that kind of space—left his past untouched, let him sit with it without trying to crack it open.

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, brushing her fingers through her hair again—one of those little habits of hers, nervous and absentminded. The strands were overgrown, frayed at the ends, and he knew she probably didn’t have the time to fix it, or maybe just didn’t care enough to. He should tell Maria to give her a trim.

But, she wasn’t wearing that pearl-buttoned nightdress tonight. This one was blue, like the sky in summer. Smooth. Loose-fitting. The frilled sleeves barely touched her shoulders, and it wasn’t anything special, not really, but—he liked it. That colour looked pretty on her skin.

The thought relaxed in his chest like an itch he didn’t know how to scratch.

Leela watched her fingers trail absently over the wood grain of the desk. “I owe you an apology, Joel,” she murmured, quieter now.

Joel listened and didn’t speak, just let the words settle between them.

“For how I’ve been treating you.” She swallowed, gaze flicking up to him, uncertain. “You’ve only ever helped me, and you're so good with Maya. I know it wasn’t fair of me to just… shut you out.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

But she wasn’t convinced. She hesitated, jaw tensing, lips parting slightly before pressing shut again. There was something she wanted to say like it was dislodged deep, festering, in her chest.

“That night in the car…” She took a breath like it might help balance her. It didn’t. “It wasn't you. I had—before Maya, I was—there was—”

Joel knew that look. The way her throat bobbed, her fingers curling against the desk like she needed something solid to hold onto. Holding herself together. He didn’t let her unravel, just not tonight.

“Stop,” he said, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain.”

Leela blinked at him, studying his face, like she was trying to decide if he meant it. So he shrugged, forcing a small, easy grin.

“Perks of havin’ me around. I don’t care for the details.”

A small breath of laughter escaped her. Real, unguarded, softening the edges of her face. He loved to see it on her. “That's a relief.”

Joel leaned forward, rubbing his palm over his knee, the dull ache settling in from the long day.

His voice was lower when he spoke. “It’s just nice to be there, y’know?” He wasn’t good at this—saying shit like this—but it began to get easier with her. “With Maya. And you. There's more purpose than just shooting things beyond the barricade.”

Something flickered across Leela’s face.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, and her knuckles paled with how tightly she gripped it. “You’re welcome home anytime, Joel. My door’s always open for you.”

Joel’s chest pulled tight.

He looked at her. And he thought about that damn oak door, how she never locked it, how he’d always given her hell for it in his head. And how, for the first time, it didn’t feel like carelessness.

It felt like trust. Not in this boring town of survivors. But in the neighbour across the street who'd ferreted his way into their lives.

Leela took a slow breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “So, you don’t have to come around just to fix things next time.”

Her voice was softer now. And then—something else. A small, almost shy laugh slipped past her lips, barely there, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say this next part out loud.

“Come to eat. To talk. To see Maya.” A beat. “And me.”

Joel felt it then—the shift. It wasn’t big, wasn’t some grand, earth-shaking thing. But it was there. He felt it.

"Maya loves you so much."

Joel glanced at her, unable to hold back the sympathy. He should’ve just let it sit. Should’ve just nodded, grunted something, and let the conversation move on. But instead, he said, low, “That bothering you?”

Leela hesitated, but only for a second. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her neck. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

Joel stayed quiet, watching her.

She let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “It’s just... I don’t feel like her mother. Not really.” Her voice was even, but he could hear the strain underneath, the sharp edge of something she didn’t want to say aloud. “I do everything I’m supposed to. Feed her. Hold her. Change her. But it’s just... a list to get through.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I thought it would be different. I know it's such an awful thing to say.”

Joel felt that like a punch to the gut. He knew what she meant. Knew how goddamn isolating it could be—to go through the motions, do the right thing, and still feel like you’re on the outside looking in.

“She’s yours, darlin',” he said after a moment. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—at making sense of feelings, at giving comfort. He was trying. “That’s what matters. Sometimes it's not a magic switch, you can't just flip it on and feel it. Sometimes, you grow to love someone. Over time, energy, effort.”

Leela scoffed, quiet, barely there. “That all it takes?”

“No,” Joel admitted. “But it’s good enough.”

She finally looked at him then, something cautious in her expression, something raw. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to say anything else. Just let the silence stretch, easy and open, not asking for more than she was willing to give.

Leela swallowed, nodding slightly, like she was tucking the words away, considering them.

The space between them, once weighed down by hesitation, by careful sidesteps and unspoken rules, felt… lighter. Like the tension that had settled into the cracks between their words was finally easing, letting some warmth slip through.

His throat worked around something unspoken, and he rolled his shoulders back, shifting from feet to feet, like he could physically shake whatever the hell was loose inside him. The words that wanted to come didn’t.

Instead, he settled on something simpler. Something safer.

“You should get some rest.”

Leela’s gaze lingered, searching, like she was trying to read something in his face. Then she nodded, flashing a grin. “Sure,” she murmured. “Goodnight, Joel.”

Joel held her gaze for a moment longer. His fingers flexed at his sides, a familiar itch settling in his chest, the kind that always came when he stood in doorways when someone was walking away and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow or stay put.

He watched her retreat into the room, disappear behind the cracked door, and stand there for a moment before finally turning away.

The door was open again. And that was the thing about doors.

They worked both ways.

X

While on the road, Joel had spent years sleeping in places that barely counted as beds. Hard ground. Rusted truck seats. Creaking, sagging mattresses in abandoned buildings where one wrong turn meant waking up dead. Even now, safe inside these walls, inside this town where people thought fences and routine were enough to keep the bad out, behind homes with locked doors—well, should have locked doors—he never truly slept deep.

Always on alert. Always half-ready. Even in the comfort of a home he could call his.

Joel lay on the couch, stiff as the thing itself, staring into the rough fabric. He wasn’t asleep—he never really was—but he kept his back turned anyway. It felt like the right thing to do, a courtesy or some form of privacy in a house too damn small to actually have any.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Long enough for the warmth of the fire to ebb. Long enough to hear the wind pick up outside, rattling at the windows. Long enough to wonder if Leela had finally managed to fall asleep.

He exhaled through his nose and, without really thinking about it, rolled over onto his side, eyes shifting toward the bedroom.

Leela was out cold.

Her hair had been pulled back into a loose braid, but strands had escaped, curling softly against her cheek. One hand dangled into the mattress as if she’d fallen asleep patting Maya and never quite finished. He could see the slow rise and fall of her chest, deep and steady, her body given over to exhaustion.

Joel frowned as his eyes drifted lower. The blanket had slipped, barely covering her waist, her legs left bare to the chill of the night. One knee peeked out, the curve of it catching the dim, murky light of the bedside lamp. He felt his jaw tighten, his fingers flexing at his side. Wasn’t she cold?

But then his eyes landed on the baby in front of her, and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased right out of him.

Maya was not asleep. Flat on her back, legs kicking sharp, barbed movements, her tiny fingers flexing in the air, opening and closing like she was trying to grab something invisible. Every so often, she let out a soft little coo, her breath light, testing, careful not to wake her mother.

Joel squinted. Lifted his head a little. Maybe she was just shifting in her sleep.

Nope, the kid was fully awake. Big, round eyes blinking up at the ceiling, mouth open in a little round ‘o’ of discovery, her hands reaching for her own damn feet, like she’d only just realized they were attached to her.

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. He could just leave her be. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t fussing. She'd fall asleep on her own.

But then she spotted him.

Her entire little body bucked, like the excitement was too much for her tiny limbs to contain. A bright, panting laugh bubbled from her mouth, and her hands curled, fists flailing like wanted to launch herself toward her.

Joel sighed. That was it. No walking away now.

Ignoring the slow, persistent cramp in his back, he shifted, pressing his hands into the pullout and pushing himself upright. His knees popped when he stood, and he winced, rolling his shoulders as he made his way into the bedroom. The floor groaned under his feet, but Leela didn’t stir. She was too far gone, too lost to the bruises and the exhaustion pressing her under.

Maya, on the other hand—beamed up at him, wiggling harder, completely unbothered by the late hour, her tiny hands batting at the air.

Joel sighed through his nose and crouched down beside the bed. He held up a finger to his lips. “Ssh, ssh,” he murmured like she had any damn understanding of the concept.

Her fists continued to flail, little feet kicking the air, and he sighed, leaning down to scoop her up. She fit into his arms easily, the way she always did—small and naming the nook to herself, all warm skin and bundled sleepiness. Sleep fired right out of his system.

“You're gonna wake your poor mama,” he whispered to her.

Shifting Maya against his chest, he glanced at Leela again. She hadn’t moved a muscle, fast asleep. But the blanket had slipped low, barely covering her waist, her arms left uncovered to the cold.

Joel hesitated for only a second before leaning over, taking the edge of the comforter and tucking it around her, careful not to wake her. The fabric pooled at her shoulder, and she sighed quietly in her sleep, sinking into the warmth of the bed, but not waking.

Good. She was finally catching up on sleep. When was the last time he'd seen that girl rest? Never. She'd always woken up the earliest, wandering between her papers and blackboards in the living room.

Maya let out a content little hum against his shoulder, and Joel blew out a breath, stepping back out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. He wasn’t going to bother putting her back on the bed. She was too awake for that.

Instead, he plunged back onto the couch, settling into the cushions and adjusting her against his chest. She curled into him easily, her featherlight weight pressing against his ribs. She hummed again, a soft, breathy little thing, and then—one of her fists landed against his sternum with a dull thump.

Joel huffed, peering down at her. “You tryin’ to knock the wind outta me, trouble?”

Maya lifted her head to blink up again, dark eyes round and glassy in the dim light, looking like she had something important to say. Then her fist lifted again, this time smacking more of a lazy pat than anything with real intent.

He narrowed a playful glare on her, shifting her a little higher against him. He poked at her cheek. “We got some problems, or is this just your way of lettin’ me know you’re still awake?”

She didn’t answer—fucking obviously—but she did something close to it. Her mouth rounded in a small, exaggerated ooh, and her fingers fumbled against his shirt before one of them caught onto his.

Joel felt the soft, clumsy pull of her grip, then the unmistakable wet warmth of her mouth closing around the tip of his finger.

He grimaced, but not in any real discomfort. “Great, there you go. You're lucky you're so beautiful.”

Maya suckled lazily, brows furrowing like she was concentrating really hard on the task, and Joel exhaled, letting her gnaw as much as she wanted.

Joel stared at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, careful circles against her back.

She was a happier baby now. Not screaming. Not crying as much. Just there. Comfortable and safe.

He swallowed against the feeling mashing against his ribs. His jaw unclenched, let his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. And he let out the longest breath known to man.

It had been years—years since he’d felt this weight, this warmth, this need pressed against him. It was a different life, a different world, but somehow, it wasn’t. His body still knew this, still remembered the rhythm of it, the quiet intimacy of a baby trusting him enough to just be here, curled up against his chest, with no fear, no hesitation.

And goddamn him, but he loved it. Loved the small breaths puffing against his collarbone. Loved the way she looked up at him, slow and sleepy, tapping her tiny knuckles against him like she was checking to make sure he was still there. Loved that he didn't have to think about anything, not feel like the whole world was closing in.

Loved this.

He wasn’t thinking about the past. No, he wasn’t. But if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t admit it.

The sound of the front door unlocking jolted him.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his entire body tensing for a fight as his hand instinctively curled around Maya’s small back, protective, ready. His other hand curled into a loose fist at his thigh.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside.

Ellie.

“Joel?” she whispered, peering at him in confusion.

Joel just stared at her. Not because she was here—she was always stopping by when she damn well pleased—but because for the first time in his life, he was the one who forgot to lock the damn door.

Maya shifted against his chest, making a soft noise, her tiny fingers still curled around his. Joel gave her a small, reassuring bounce as if she’d needed one.

Ellie, meanwhile, was still standing there, taking in the sight of him on the couch, a whole baby in his arms, and the bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at the woman asleep inside. The pretty neighbour that had Joel all riled up.

Her eyebrows lifted and mouth twitched as she crossed her arms. “This isn’t a hostage situation, right? Am I an accomplice now?”

Joel sent her a flat look. “Whatever gave that away?”

Ellie then continued to stare at him and at Maya.

It was the kind of look Joel had gotten used to over the years, the one where she tried to figure out if she was hallucinating. Because she’d seen Joel Miller do a lot of things—wrangle Clickers, nurse a cold one, fix up a rifle—but sitting on his couch, cradling a whole-ass baby like that? It was a new one. Like unlocking a new character in a video game.

Her lips pressed together, eyes still flicking between him and the kid, and then—she snorted.

“Oh, man,” she whispered, shaking her head, a shit-eating grin spreading over her face. “I wish I had a camera to capture this gold.”

Joel sighed. “Alright, get on with it.”

Grinning, Ellie plopped herself down beside him, the whole couch shaking, immediately leaning in close to peer at Maya. Almost as if she was the first infant she'd seen in her life.

“Hi, baby,” she cooed, voice going all high-pitched and ridiculous. “Hiiii.”

Maya blinked at her, unmoving, her fists curled safely in her mouth, her tiny brows furrowing as if she were trying to figure out just who the hell this new person was.

Ellie wiggled a finger in front of her. “Here. Go on, grab it.”

Maya did not. She just kept staring, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, utterly mystified by the sudden intrusion.

Joel huffed. “Guess she ain’t impressed.”

“Guess she’s got taste, you dick,” Ellie shot back. Then, her face softened, a little smirk curling her lips. “She’s fucking adorable. Look at those eyes, damn.” Joel barely had time to process the warmth that spread through his chest before Ellie tacked on, “So, definitely not yours.”

His scoff came out before he could stop it. “Oh, real funny, kid.”

Ellie chuckled, finally settling back against the couch, still watching Maya like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “How come they’re here?”

Joel didn’t go into the details, never liked to. About Leela’s bruises, about how she’d been too damn stubborn for her own good, about how he’d practically had to drag her in here to sleep in his bed.

Instead, he just muttered, “Blackout. Gonna head back in the morning and check it out.”

Ellie hummed like she knew there was more to it but didn’t feel like prying.

For a while, they just sat there in silence, and Joel simply let himself watch. The room was dim, the fire in the hearth burned low, throwing flickering shadows across the worn wooden floors. The cold pressed against the windows, creeping in through the cracks, but in here, it was warm—quiet, steady. Both in him and around him.

Ellie leaned in closer, her breath puffing softly against Maya’s round little cheek as she wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “What about this? You like this?” she murmured, tapping her tiny nose, and making a series of stupid clicking sounds.

Maya blinked, floored by this, her wide eyes tracking Ellie’s every move like she was watching the most fascinating thing in the world.

It took another few moments, but then—finally—Maya’s tiny fingers reached out, wrapping shyly around Ellie’s outstretched one. Not tight, not possessive, just curious. Testing.

Joel felt that feeling again, twisting deep in his ribs, imperceptive and calm and unnameable. He could get used to that feeling. It plugged every scar, physical and mental, until his shoulders felt ten times lighter.

The kid he’d sort of raised, playing with the baby he was yet to.

And for the first time in a long time, that muddle just… settled. It was late, too late in life for this kind of thing. But hell, cut him some slack.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring into the last of the fire, watching as the embers pulsed and flickered, struggling to stay alive. His hand absently smoothed over Maya’s back, following the slow rise and fall of her breathing, feeling the tiny weight of her against his chest. She was still. Not fussing. Just there.

Ellie shifted beside him, stretching her legs out, resting her arms against her knees. She wasn’t in a hurry to fill the silence. She just sat there, watching him in that way of hers, like she saw more than she let on.

“So,” she finally said, voice casual. “How’re things between you and…?”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Just flicked her chin toward the bedroom.

Leela was still dead to the world, sunk into the kind of sleep that didn’t let you turn over, didn’t let you dream. Her hand had slipped out from beneath the blanket, fingers curled loosely against the mattress. He wondered how long it had been since she’d let herself rest like that, without one ear open for some threat, without her body coiled tight, waiting for the next hang-up.

Joel looked away. He shifted slightly, adjusting Maya, keeping his voice even. “There’s nothing between us.”

Ellie hummed like she wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, no shit.” She stretched her arms behind her head, smirking. “She’s way out of your league.”

Joel snorted, shaking his head. “No argument here.”

He didn’t need Ellie to tell him that. He was thickheaded, but he wasn't blind. Leela was… Leela. Stunning in that exotic way, compassionate as a human, insanely intelligent. And him? What was he exactly, a cut-throat? A fighter? A relentless fucking human who just refused to die? Twenty years ago, a woman like that wouldn’t have given him the time of day, much less a second glance. A girl like her, back in the world before, would’ve had a whole life ahead of her, a whole set of possibilities. Not this. Not him.

And maybe that’s how it should’ve been. Maybe that’s why this didn’t make any sense.

He tensed his grip on Maya and felt the way she instinctively burrowed against him, curling her little fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She cooed again, watching his mouth move to form words.

He could be something for her. If Leela wanted it, he could carve out a space in Maya's life, be her constant, be her safety net. Hell, be this baby girl's father. He would compromise in a blink. That was different. That was right.

But having Leela herself? That was something else entirely. That was dangerous. That was selfish. There were too many ways it could go wrong. Too many ways it would end badly.

Not because of him, or her, or anything either of them did—just because that was the way life went. He wasn’t made for this kind of thing anymore. Wasn’t built for it. He was too damn old, too set in his ways. And even if she—somehow—wanted this, wanted him, what then? How long until he fucked it up? How long until he lost it?

The way he always did.

He swallowed hard. “I’m too old for her,” he managed to mutter.

Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You're fucking kidding. The world ended. There is no standard. And you still care about what, an age gap? Brownie points? Jesus, Joel. You've been through too much to care.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept his gaze on the fire, jaw tight.

It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about how it looked or what people would say. Hell, no one would care. He wouldn't care. They were past that kind of bullshit.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still impossible.

Because Joel knew himself. He knew what it was like to want something real, to care about someone so much it hollowed you out from the inside. And he knew how fast it could all go to hell.

It was about the fact that she still had so much time. That she could still find someone real, someone better. That she deserved more than a haunted, greying man, who could barely sleep through the night, combing through his days, who lived waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

And she deserved better than a man too tired, too worn down by life, to give her more than what little he had left.

Ellie sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Y’know…” she started, then stopped.

Joel glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly.

She didn’t go on right away. Just drummed her fingers against her knee, staring into the fire, her face unreadable. For once, she wasn’t running her mouth, wasn’t making a joke to cut through whatever was settling between them. She was thinking. That alone put him on edge.

Finally, she said, “It’s different. These last few weeks. Even Tommy sees it.”

Joel frowned, not at the words themselves, but at the way she said them—slow, cautious, like she wasn’t just talking to him but trying to make sense of it for herself.

Ellie had always been good at reading him, sometimes better than he wanted. But this—this was different.

She flitted her gaze toward the bedroom, where Leela was still out cold, her body barely stirring under the blankets. Then to Maya, curled up against him, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt, her soft weight pressed into his chest. Finally, she looked back at him.

She didn’t spell it out. Didn’t need to.

Joel swallowed, shifting slightly where he sat, adjusting Maya’s weight in his arms. His hand smoothed down her back, more out of habit than anything else. He glanced toward the bedroom too, toward Leela, who hadn’t moved an inch. Yes, it was different.

But Ellie wasn’t done. She hesitated, rolling something over in her head before finally letting it out.

“It’s… good, y’know? You having this nice thing.” She waved a vague hand toward the baby, toward Leela. “You don't usually let yourself have nice things. Something that’s not just me.”

Joel’s breath caught.

Ellie had always been his reason for waking up in the morning, the one thing keeping him tethered to whatever life he had left. And she knew that. Knew it in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought with tooth and claw to prove she didn’t need him to keep her standing. That he had his own life. But now, sitting there, she wasn’t mocking, wasn’t teasing. She was just… saying it. And she was goddamn right.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just pushing forward because he had to, wasn’t just surviving out of habit. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall.

He had something to come back to. Something steady. Something small and warm and his, even if he didn’t know what the hell to do with it yet.

He looked down at Maya, at her tiny, trusting weight in his arms, at the way she twitched slightly in her sleep, lips parting around a breath. His hand smoothed over her back again.

Ellie saw the moment it clicked. The way his face shifted, just slightly. She smirked, satisfied. And that her good work here was done.

Then, just like that, she clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Well,” she said, voice slipping back into that familiar teasing lilt, “guess I’ll let you get back to your hostage situation.”

Joel rolled his eyes, settling deeper into the couch as Maya nuzzled against his chest. The kid was out cold now, her little fist still tangled in his shirt.

Ellie was already heading for the door when she threw out in a whisper, “Oh—almost forgot. Maria asked me to tell you to bring your girl by the dam sometime this week.” She smirked, holding up air quotes. “Said she’d like ‘inventor insight.’”

His expression deadpanned. “Maria ain’t letting her go anywhere near machines.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Ooh-kay. Controlling much?”

Joel gave her a warning look. “Ellie.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “I’ll just tell her myself.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, already seeing how that would go. If Leela knew Maria was interested, she’d want to help. She’d go, eager to prove herself, eager to be useful. And then she’d get herself hurt again, pushing past whatever limits she had, just like she always did. That wasn’t happening.

“She’s stayin’ away,” he muttered. “She’ll go, then want to help. Overdo it. Get herself hurt or worse.” He gave Ellie a pointed look. “Better not.”

Ellie let out a sharp laugh, all evil intent. “And you’re telling me there’s nothing between you two?”

“Ellie,” he hissed, too fast, too sharp—just as Maya stirred slightly against his chest, her little face scrunching. He froze, holding his breath, waiting to see if she’d wake.

Ellie’s smirk was damn near insufferable.

“Denial,” she sang out, drawing out the word like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.

Joel sent her a flat look.

Ellie just wiggled her fingers in a wave and made for the door once more. “Night, old man.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet house, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Joel exhaled slowly, his hand smoothing absently over Maya’s back again.

Denial. Maybe. He wasn't ruling it out yet.

X

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[bloodibambiidoll]

Nasty Girl ⟡˖ Older!Rafe Cameron x Perv!Reader ⟡˖

✰ Rafe is an arrogant dick, over a decade older than you and your dad’s boss, you shouldn’t want anything to do with him. So why can’t you stay away? ✰

۶♡ৎ This is a request from my angel @babygorewhore I love you sm, this one’s for you pookie ۶♡ৎ

✰ Age gap (Rafe is early 40s reader is mid 20s), Obsessive behaviors, perverted acts involving panties, gagging, choking, spit kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, pussy slapping, pillow humping, pussy eating, cum eating, size kink 18+MNDI ✰

You can’t stand Rafe Cameron. And the fact that you’re so obsessed with him only makes you hate him more. No matter how much you hated the way he walked around like he owned the world, or the rotating door of women he brings around, you can’t shake this irresistible pull he has on you. You shouldn’t feel this way, not only is Rafe a huge dick he’s also over a decade older than you and your dad’s boss. It started off small, stealing glances at him every time you visited your dad at work, dressing in your most revealing dresses and skirts to his work events, making off handed comments and brushing past him when there was clearly room to go around. It wasn’t until you caught him in a bathroom with some lanky blonde bent over the counter while noises that resembled a crow left her body that you finally lost it.

You decided to leave the company charity event early, making sure to pass Rafe’s car and leave your tiny pink thong on his side-view mirror. He wouldn’t know they were yours, but he would know that they didn’t belong to the girl he was currently balls deep inside of because you saw her coral thong pushed to the side. After that it was like you couldn’t stop. You started leaving your panties anywhere you’d think Rafe would find them. In his office on his desk or the chair, his car became a favorite, you even managed to loop one around his drink while he wasn’t looking at the country club once. After the first few pairs you started leaving dirty photos of yourself along with them. Not showing your face, of course. Just shots of your ass and tits, always matching the underwear you planned to leave. You thought about maybe just texting or even emailing them to him but your dad gave him both of those things “in case of emergency”. So you decided to do it old school and take photos on your Polaroid. It was sexier that way, anyway.

But you haven’t done anything like what you’re about to do. You’re upstairs with the sound of loud voices all drowned together barely making it through the thick, high floors beneath you. It didn’t take you long to find Rafe’s room. A double door at the end of the long hall with gold ornate knobs was very clearly the master. You also weren’t surprised he had a keypad lock on his door, especially throwing a party like this. Your dad and his coworkers are everyday businessmen to the sivlian eye but behind closed doors they’re into some pretty deep criminal shit. Luckily you already managed to break into his laptop. It was almost too easy, he navigates technology like a grandpa even though he’s only forty. You had a passing thought about teaching him a more efficient way to organize his work laptop but you quickly shut it down. You’re supposed to hate him. Even if you him to fuck you until you can hardly breathe. He had a whole entire document of passwords and key combinations and you may have written all of them down. So you easily slipped inside after entering the numbers on the keypad.

You spent some time looking around and it was about what you expected. Sleek, expensive furniture, no decorations, the white walls bare aside from a random picture of a boat near the window. It's so clean it almost seems like no one lives here but you assume that’s probably due to the cleaners. You go through his drawers, nothing of interest really, unless you count all the clothes you could potentially steal. His bathroom is just as clean as his room and you can’t help but smirk when you notice a full skin care routine sitting on his counter. So vain. But, you can’t deny a man who is invested in his hygiene is extremely sexy. You smell his expensive colognes, his body wash, even his fucking shampoo. You inhale every single one like it’s your drug of choice. Though, you’re sure they smell a million times better on his skin, mixed with his musk.

After spending some time snooping, your focus turns back to the real reason you came in here. You walk into his large walk-in closet and flick on the light. There’s a glass jewelry case in the middle, filled with designer watches, rings, chains, and sunglasses. You approach it and try to pull open the top drawer when you’re met with resistance, you notice another combination lock. But a lightbulb goes off in your head, remembering the key code marked “jewelry case” before pulling out your phone, finding the numbers and unlocking the drawer with a click. The first drawer is, as expected, more jewelry that matches the items in the display case above. The second drawer though, that’s a different story. When you slide it open instead of expensive designer, it’s filled with lace and silk.

Every single pair of your panties you’ve left for him are in this drawer, along with the Polaroids stacked neatly. Upon closer inspection you notice that they’re covered not just in your cum, but his too. It has your pussy nearly dripping, you were already wet from the minute you saw him earlier tonight but now you can feel your slick dripping down your inner thighs, causing them to stick together under your micro dress. You have to practically drag yourself away from the sight of your underwear under lock and key, almost like they’re treasure, covered in a mixture of Rafe's cum and your own.

You look around the rest of the space and the entire span of the closet is lined with his clothes hanging on wracks. One side is clearly business attire and the other is more casual. Though there isn’t a huge difference, you’ve never seen Rafe in jeans and a t-shirt. You can’t decide if the thought is more sexy or comical. It’s hard to imagine him being well, relaxed. You grab a black button up before exiting the closet, undoing the buttons as you go. A thousand dirty fantasies run through your mind as your eyes roam over the king sized bed. But there’s one you can make a reality right now. The whole reason you came in here. You grab one of his silk pillows and wrap his shirt around it before placing it in the middle of the bed. You turn around to grab your Polaroid out of your bag and then crawl onto the mattress, mounting the pillow. You don’t bother taking your fuzzy platform heels off either, he can sleep on the grime from the bottom of your shoes along with the juices from your pussy for all you care.

You start off slow, running your hands along your body, groping your tits through the faux leather of your dress, imagining that they’re Rafe’s much larger hands. It doesn’t take you long to get worked up, your juices starting to make the cloth underneath you slick. You're so wet that when you start to jerk your hips back and forth on the pillow that you practically glide. The lace of your thong gets pulled tighter, adding extra pressure to your puffy clit. Your dress rides up your hips, revealing your ass and the plush of your thighs as your hips start to speed up. Once you start to really get into it you pull your panties to the side and yank the zipper that goes all the way down the front of your dress down your chest so your tits can spill out. You switch up the movement of your hips every few moments, rotating between using the pillow for leverage and running your hands down your body.

You start to get so lost in the throes of pleasure you almost forget where you are entirely until your white sock covered shin smacks against your pink polaroid camera. You smirk to yourself in remembrance as you pluck it from the bed and turn it on. You hold it above yourself while you press your tits together and spread your legs far enough to show your mound on top of his shirt and snap a photo. You take more than one this time, using almost the entire roll taking pictures of your body from various angles. You shove your fingers in your mouth. Take photos of your tiny thong string nestled between your ass. You even take one with his shirt held up between your teeth. That ends up being the last photo because the smell of his cologne hits your nostrils and it has you inhaling deeply while your hips start to subconsciously grind down again.

Rafe practically felt like a madman as he tried for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes to get out of this conversation with your father and their business partner. Every single time he tried to slip away he was pulled back in somehow. But that didn’t stop his eyes from traveling to the tantalizing view on his phone screen every ten seconds. He felt like a cat who caught a mouse it’s been chasing for months. All without even trying. You lead yourself into a trap he didn’t even set and it couldn’t be more fucking perfect. The fact that you had no idea that his entire house was bugged with cameras that he could see directly in the palm of his hand made his cock twitch. Rafe checked his phone the minute he got the notification that someone was unlocking his bedroom door, ready to send security up there to grab a thief. But he was oh so pleasantly surprised when he saw it was you. You weren’t like any of the other girls he’s ever seen in all his time living on this island. Your platform shoes and dark make-up were utterly enticing to him and your bratty attitude made him want to bend you over his knee until you cried. He also knew you were a naughty girl, with a dirty little secret only he knew. Rafe’s obsession for you only grew by the day and now it was at an all time high.

He decided to let it play out for a bit. He watched as you surveyed his blank walls and rummaged through his drawers. Then you made your way into the bathroom and he watched as you greedily inhaled his colognes and body washes. You went into his closet and somehow unlocked his jewelry case. He’d have to figure out how you managed to learn his key codes later. His heartbeat sped up when you reached for the second drawer but the way you looked down at the trophies you had ever so graciously gifted him with elation only made his appetite for you nearly unbearable. What really sent him over the edge though was how you were currently strandling his pillow as you bucked your hips with his shirt held to your nose.

The entire scene had him losing his mind with lust and you just kept taking it further. He watched you pull your tits out, the way you took all those slutty pictures for him and he wished more than anything in the world he could turn his phone up to full volume so he could hear the pretty little moans leaving your lips. He could tell from the avid speed of your hips and the way your eyes are rolled back that you’re close to your end and he’ll be damned if he isn’t there to see it. He finally excuses himself under the guise of having to go to the bathroom and slips up the large staircase with ease.

You're so close. The pace of your hips is so quick that the entire bed shakes underneath you as delicious euphoria is seconds away. You have the corner of Rafe’s shirt grasped tightly in your fist as you hold it up to your nose. The cloth is pulled taunt against your clit just right, drool drips down your chin onto the black material as you take in Rafe’s scent. Heat washes over you and you moan with reckless abandon, too lost in your tidal wave of an orgasm to care if anyone can hear you.

“I knew you were a dirty girl, but this is even better than anything my mind ever could’a dreamed up…” The sound of Rafe’s voice makes you practically scream and you clutch his shirt over your chest on instinct. Your entire body heats as you take in his large form leaning against the closed bedroom door. His arms are crossed and he has probably the most smug smirk you’ve ever seen in your life painted on his face as he looks over at you through hooded eyes.

“Rafe! I - aren’t you supposed to be hosting a party?” You scoff and roll your eyes, clearly trying to change the subject when you’re the one who broke into his room.

“Well… you see…” Rafe stalks over to you like a predator that caught his prey and stops at the end of the bed. He places his large hands on the mattress so he can lean down only inches from your face, his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes travel down your body before connecting with your own. “This little unassuming mouse wandered into my den without even considering that I have eyes on every inch of this house.”

“How - how long have you been watching?” You clutch onto the shirt tighter, hiding your boobs and bare pussy even though he’s already seen both on multiple occasions. Something about him knowing it was you was making you suddenly nervous.

“Oh, sweetheart, I get a notification when someone opens that door… I saw everything. What do we have here?” His eyes are blue fire as they land on the Polaroids and he picks one up with delight before picking up another and another until he’s seen every single one. He sets them aside in a neat stack before abruptly gripping onto the shirt covering you and ripping it down your body with a growl. You gasp in surprise and use your arms to cover your nipples while slamming your legs shut. “Oh, no, none of that. Don’t get all shy on me now, I’ve already seen it all.” Rafe grabs the pillow and pulls it from underneath you causing you to fall backwards on the bed onto your ass. “Would you look at that…” He looks down at the pillow with hungry fascination as a low groan rumbles through his chest. You watch as he runs the pad of his finger through the creamy wetness before bringing it to his mouth and holding eye contact with you as he sucks it between his lips. His eyes immediately roll back when your taste hits his tongue. “Fuckin’ delicious. But I’m always tastin’ you secondhand.. I can’t wait to taste that sweet pussy directly from the source.”

You’re utterly stunned for a moment. You look up at him with your jaw hanging open while you do your best to cover your most intimate parts when all you want to do is throw your legs open and fully submit to him. You always told yourself if he ever caught you that you would make him work for it. But with the way he’s looking at you now? You can already feel yourself slipping and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Who - who said I was going to let you taste me? And what do you mean secondhand?” You tried to say it in a biting tone but your voice squeaks and betrays your facade immediately.

“Oh, little mouse… this little back and forth we’ve been playing has been fun and all. But now you’ve wandered right into my bed and I’m done playing games.” Rafe abruptly grabs onto your ankles, pulling you down to the edge of the bed until your feet are dangling off and you try to pull your knees together again but he grips onto them and pulls them back open. “Quit hiding from me.”

His hands grip tightly onto the meat of your thighs, the gold rings on his fingers pinching your skin in a way that has you holding back a moan. The look in Rafe’s eyes is nearly animalistic as he stares down at your puffy, wet pussy. Your little black thong pushed to the side, covered in creamy, white juices. His fingertips travel down your legs gripping hard enough to bruise with every inch. He brings his thumbs to the crevices of your thighs and presses his fingers hard on either side of your folds, pushing your pussy lips together. You can’t hold in the tiny mewl that leaves the back of your throat. He punches your slick cunt together roughly a few times before pulling you apart. Your pussy clicks for him from your wetness as he pulls you open.

“Been waiting for this moment, ya know?” Rafe runs his thumb along your slit, gathering your wetness before bringing his thumbs to rub along the sides of your lips, teasing you. “I knew it was you. I had my suspicions from the beginning. Ever since you walked in on me in the bathroom…”

“How?” Your voice is a broken whisper, any thoughts of fighting back slipping further and further from your mind. Embarrassingly enough, you feel like you could come from just this.

“Well, I was almost positive after that cute little cherry thong…” Rafe grazes over your clit for just a moment before going back to teasing you. “Earlier that day you were wearing these sexy little jeans and when you bent over I got a view of that same thong. Then, to my surprise, the very same pair ended up in my office later that day.” He presses hard on your clit, giving it a few strokes and you think his teasing has finally come to an end but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. And he goes back to teasing your pussy tantalizingly. “But then, about a week later I saw you sneaking out of my office and I decided to let you get away with it.”

“You decided?” You push yourself up on your elbows and scoff with your eyebrow raised, your irritation with him returning. Rafe just smirks before shoving his thumb knuckle deep in your pussy and curving it against your walls. It makes your eyes roll back while you wriggle underneath him.

“Yes, princess, I decided.” His other thumb presses on your clit hard but doesn’t move. “Once I was positive it was you, I wasn’t ready for it to stop. Especially once you started leaving those little pictures for me. Who knew you were such a dirty slut.” He pulls his fingers from you before landing a harsh smack on your clit causing you to yelp.

“So you knew it was me and didn’t say anything? And then proceeded to keep them in a treasure box and jerk off all over them? Pervert.” Rafe slaps your pussy again, three times in succession.

“Stop being a fuckin’ brat. If I’m a pervert, what does that make you, huh?” He slaps your pussy even harder and then brings both of his hands down on your inner thighs with a loud smack. “Leaving me your panties, takin’ dirty photos for me, I saw you inhaling my cologne like it was a line of coke. And now I caught you in my bed, coming all over my pillow. You’re a nasty. Little. Girl.” He punctuates each word with a slap to your cunt and you can’t help but moan loudly for him.

“Yeah? Well you’re a nasty old man.” Your chest heaves but you still manage to paint a cheshire smirk on your face, your eyes twinkling with mischief as you use the last of your resolve against him.

“You know what? I’m sick of your bratty fuckin’ mouth.” Rafe grips onto the thin strings of your panties and pulls them down your legs before balling them up and shoving them in your mouth. The sudden intrusion makes you gag, but it’s not unwelcome. The act of dominance and the taste of yourself on your tongue has any and all attitude in you evaporating from your body. He grabs your chin and roughly shakes your head side to side. “That’s better. You gonna be a good girl and let me taste that perfect cunt now or do I need to beat the attitude out of you?”

You moan around the lace in your mouth and drop your knees to the sides, offering yourself to him. Rafe looks at you devilishly as he lays on his stomach on the mattress and throws your legs over his shoulders. He runs his nose along your inner thigh as he takes in your sweet scent before hovering over your pussy and inhaling deeply.

“Smell so fuckin’ sweet, bet you taste even sweeter.” The flat Rafe’s runs through your folds up to your clit before circling it a few times. He nips it with his teeth and shoves his tongue as far as it can go inside of you causing you to cry out and arch your back off the mattress.

“Quit wiggling.” Rafe growls into your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His large hand splay on your hip, holding you down as he eats you like a man starved. He circles two fingers at your entrance before pressing them knuckle deep inside of you. He caresses your sweet spot while sucking your clit into his mouth and it has an explosion of pleasure washing over your body as your orgasm consumes you.

Rafe pulls off of you when you come down from your high and brings the fingers that were just inside you to his chin dripping with your juices. He smears it around before sucking his fingers clean, groaning like he just ate the best meal of his life. He leans forward and plucks the panties from your mouth before slamming his lips against yours. The kiss is dominating and he shoves his tongue deep into your mouth, swirling it around and coating your taste buds with your own cum. He leans back to admire you and he feels like his cock is going to burst. Your hair is a mess, your dark lipstick is smudged and slick, and the zipper on that tight little dress is barely hanging on. Your tits are on full display as you lay like a perverted little angel with your legs spread beneath him.

“God damn. I’ve gotta fuck that pussy, baby.” Rafe pulls the zipper of your dress the rest of the way down before leaning up on his knees and reaching for the buttons on his shirt. “Take that shit off. Leave the socks and shoes though.”

He licks his lips as he continues to unbutton his shirt while his eyes practically swallow you whole. You quickly rid yourself of your dress and push yourself up onto your knees to watch him undress. You have to stop yourself from jumping him when he gets his shirt all the way off, his perfectly toned body towering over you. When he gets his pants down enough to get his cock out you can’t even hold in your gasp. He’s huge. So thick you aren’t sure you could wrap a single hand around him and so long that you aren’t sure if you could take him all down your throat.

“Fuck. I don’t know if that’s going to fit…” Your eyes are the sizes of saucers as you stare at his cock with your jaw slack. Those words make Rafe feel like he’s going to go insane and his hand flies to your hair, grasping onto it at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back.

“Oh, it’ll fit.” His tongue slides over his teeth and he takes his shaft in his hand so he can rub his precum along your lips, adding to the mess. Rafe uses his grip on your head to manhandle you onto your back before throwing your legs over his shoulders. He smirks down at you while he pumps himself in his hand. “You want it?”

“Yes, fuck. I want it so bad.” You tilt your hips towards him searching for any kind of friction but his hand presses down on your hip, stilling your movements.

“Oh, come on, baby doll. You can do better than that. How bad do you want it?” He taps the head of his cock against your clit a few times before running it through your folds. You try to angle your hips to push him further inside of you and he just tuts at you like you did something naughty before pulling his cock away entirely. “Let me hear it, beg.”

“Please, daddy, I want it so bad.” Rafe breathes out heavily through his nostrils and grips onto your throat, leaning down so his face is inches from yours.

“Oh, little mouse.. you’re just full of surprises, huh? I don’t think you know what you’ve done.” Rafe chuckles darkly and leans back up onto his knees, positioning his cock at your entrance. He presses his head into you and he’s so thick you already feel so full by the time he’s only a few inches in.

“Oh, god. I don’t - I really don’t know if it’s all going to fit.” The air is nearly taken out of your lungs when he thrusts his hips forward and you’re sure he’s all the way inside of you now but he pulls almost all the way out before slamming his cock into you to the hilt with his hips flush against yours. “Holy shit, oh my god.”

“I thought you wanted it so bad, now you’re whining that it won’t fit? I’m gonna fuckin’ make it fit and you’re gonna take it like the dirty little slut you are.” Rafe rams his hips into yours at a brutal pace as he grips onto your throat again and squeezes tightly. His free hand comes to rub circles on your clit and it makes your vision blur. “Yeah fuckin, take it. You gonna come for me? I can feel your pussy squeezing me. You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

“Yes, fuck daddy, please make me cum.” Your voice is a broken sob as your makeup smears messily down your face. “I’m so fucking full.”

“Yeah, that’s right, sweet thing. Give me your cum.” That’s all it takes to have an all consuming orgasm washing over you. Your walls convulse around Rafe’s thick length and he picks up his thrusts, chasing his own high. He uses his grip on your throat to press you down into the mattress and your legs fall down onto his hips. You lace them around him and this new angle has him hitting so deep you swear you’re going to feel him for days. The hand not on your throat hooks onto your bottom teeth, pulling your jaw open so he can spit on your tongue. You swallow without asking and then suck his fingers into your mouth greedily.

“You’re so fuckin’ nasty, ya know that? Letting your dad’s boss fuck you till you cry while he’s right down stairs. Leaving me your little fuckin’ panties. This perfect god damn pussy.” Rafe is babbling like a man possessed as he pumps into you hard and deep until his cock starts to twitch inside you. He growls as he fills you with ropes of his cum. When he pulls out you feel nearly hollow and then he shoves his fingers knuckle deep inside of you, collecting some of his cum on his fingers. You pull his hand back to your mouth and lick his fingers, moaning at your combined tastes.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you, little mouse.” Rafe stares down at you with a hunger that’s laced with obsession and you don’t even care because you’re just as obsessed as he is. “You’re mine now.”

Taglist: @nemesyaaa @strawberrydolly333 @sturnioloshacker @loserboysandlithium @gri959 @rafeinterlude @xoxohoneymoongirl @tacymbcm @bunnies-p1tst0p @starkeysprincess

Dividers by @anitalenia

[absdollievu]

Come Stay Awhile

Olderrich!abby x babysitter!reader

Warnings: abby is in her early 30’s, reader in in her late 20’s

The rain had started just as you turned up the long, winding driveway, the heavy drops tapping against your windshield as you squinted through the gathering gray. You’d seen pictures of the house online — it was part of the job offer — but pictures hadn’t done it justice.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a mansion.

Wide, tall, and built in clean modern lines, with sharp stone paths cutting through immaculately trimmed gardens. You swallowed hard and parked by the front steps, nerves chewing at your stomach.

You were just the babysitter. Nothing more.

Right?

The door swung open before you could even knock.

There she was — Abby Anderson herself.

Early 30s, taller than you remembered from the interview, broad shoulders filling the doorway like a wall you wouldn’t mind running into. She wore a loose black sweatshirt and joggers, her hair pulled into a low bun, a pen tucked behind her ear like she’d been signing important papers and forgot about it.

“Hey,” she said simply, voice low and casual, but her eyes were sharp. “You found it.”

You managed a smile, feeling a little like a lost cat she was about to shoo off her porch.

“Yeah. Thanks for…uh, hiring me.”

She stepped aside and gestured you in with a quick flick of her hand. “Come on. You’ll get soaked.”

The entrance smelled like lemon cleaner and new wood. Everything gleamed: dark floors, wide staircases, tall glass windows.

You stood there dripping water onto an expensive rug and feeling about two inches tall.

Abby shut the door behind you and tilted her head slightly. “You bring your stuff?”

You nodded and jerked a thumb toward your beat-up car. “Yeah. It’s, uh, not much.”

“Good.” She grabbed a set of keys from the little table by the door and tossed them to you.

You almost dropped them.

“I’ll show you where you’re staying,” Abby said, like it was no big deal.

Like you weren’t about to live inside her literal palace.

⸻

The guest house was somehow even nicer than any apartment you’d ever lived in.

It was detached from the main building, had its own kitchen, a little patio, even a washer and dryer. Abby helped you carry your stuff inside — three trips, even though you insisted she didn’t have to.

The whole time, you tried not to stare.

At the way her forearms flexed when she lifted.

At the little frown she got when she was concentrating. At how young she really looked when she wasn’t all buttoned-up in work clothes.

By the time you finished unloading, your nerves had cooled a little. Abby leaned against the doorframe with a bottle of water in her hand, surveying your sad little pile of belongings.

“You’ll fit in,” she said with a smirk.

You laughed, grateful she didn’t seem to mind how out of place you were.

⸻

Weeks passed.

You fell into a rhythm: school drop-offs, play dates, dinner prep.

Her kid was easy — smart, funny, quick to latch onto you like you were the coolest person alive. Abby kept her distance at first, always polite but busy. Always somewhere else.

But sometimes, you caught her watching.

At breakfast, when you made her daughter laugh so hard milk came out her nose.

At bedtime, when you sang low to get her kid to sleep.

At the kitchen table, when you doodled silly comics on homework papers.

Those moments were fleeting. Always broken by a phone call, a meeting, a door shutting upstairs.

Until that one night.

⸻

It had been a long day.

Soccer practice. Science fair projects. Grocery runs.

You were dead on your feet, tying your shoes by the door, about to head back to the guesthouse.

“You want a drink?” Abby’s voice came from behind you.

You froze — laces half-tied, one foot still raised.

Slowly, you turned.

She was leaning against the kitchen island, holding two glasses — whiskey already poured.

Her hair was down for once, messy from running her hands through it. Her sweatshirt sleeves were pushed up, veins standing out against her forearms.

She looked… normal. Soft. Tired in a way that made your chest ache.

You hesitated. You weren’t sure why.

It was just a drink.

Right?

Your heart thudded. You smiled, small and unsure but real.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love one.”

Abby’s mouth twitched like she wanted to smile too — but didn’t let herself.

You crossed the kitchen and took the glass from her, fingertips brushing hers for half a second longer than necessary. Neither of you pulled away first.

It was quiet.

The house hummed around you.

The storm still whispered against the windows.

For the first time since you arrived, you realized you weren’t scared of Abby anymore.

Not even a little.

You were scared of yourself — of how easy it was becoming to want her.

And across the countertop, Abby was realizing it too.

The way her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

The way her gaze kept dropping to your mouth when you talked about nothing and everything over the next few hours.

The way she leaned in when you laughed, like she couldn’t help it.

Something shifted that night — quiet, seismic, undeniable.

Neither of you said anything.

But when you said goodnight, Abby’s hand lingered on the edge of your sleeve, as if she almost reached for you.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

⸻

From that night on, everything between you and Abby changed.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Sweetly.

And maybe — if you were both brave enough — it wouldn’t stop.

⸻

After that night, Abby didn’t start showing up at your door with flowers or make grand gestures.

No — it was quieter than that.

It was the way she lingered at the doorway after you put her daughter to bed, sitting at the kitchen island while you finished cleaning up.

It was the way she started asking about your day — not the polite “how was it” of a boss, but the genuine curiosity of someone who wanted to know you.

It was the way she smiled now — small, almost shy, not the tight professional one she used to give.

The slowest burn you’d ever lived through.

And you?

You started finding reasons to stay a little longer after your shifts.

You laughed at her dry jokes until your insides hurt.

You kept catching yourself looking at her — at the crinkle of her eyes when she laughed, the way she always absentmindedly cracked her knuckles when she was thinking.

You were screwed. Completely, irrevocably screwed.

⸻

It was almost two months later, on another rainy night, that it all came to a head.

You were curled up on the couch in Abby’s massive living room — her daughter already fast asleep upstairs — flipping through some mindless movie on TV. Abby wandered in, holding two beers.

“You look dead,” she said with a small smirk, dropping onto the other end of the couch.

“Feel dead,” you mumbled, gratefully accepting the beer.

You sat there in silence for a while, the muted light of the TV flickering across the room.

You could feel her across the couch — the warmth of her body, the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.

Half an hour passed.

Maybe more.

You didn’t know anymore, the beer softening the edges of the world.

At some point — you didn’t even realize when — you shifted sideways, curling your knees up and resting your head against the back of the couch. Facing her. Watching her.

She was already looking at you.

Something pulled taut between you.

Tight. Breathless. Dangerous.

Abby set her beer down with a quiet clink.

Her hand flexed against her thigh like she was fighting herself.

And then — her voice, low and rough:

“You’re good with her.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Your daughter?”

Abby gave the smallest nod.

“You’re good…with me too.”

Your heart stopped.

Dead quiet.

You opened your mouth, searching for something to say, but Abby was already moving — slow, careful, deliberate.

She shifted closer.

Not much — just a few inches.

“You make this place feel like home,” she said, voice raw.

Your chest ached so hard it hurt.

Without thinking — without giving yourself time to doubt — you closed the distance.

Leaning in.

You stopped a breath away, giving her a chance to pull back.

She didn’t.

Instead, Abby’s hand came up — rough fingers curling behind your neck — and she kissed you.

⸻

It wasn’t a soft kiss.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

Years of loneliness and longing crashing all at once.

A kiss that said I didn’t think I’d ever have this.

A kiss that said I’m scared to want you but I do anyway.

You gasped against her mouth, and she swallowed it hungrily, her other hand gripping your hip like she was terrified you’d slip away.

You didn’t.

You stayed.

Pressed closer.

Kissed her back like you’d been waiting for this exact moment since the second you stepped onto her front porch.

⸻

Later, much later, you lay tangled together on the couch.

Her sweatshirt smelled like clean laundry and rain.

Her fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along your spine.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

You didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, when something breaks open inside you — something heavy and beautiful — you don’t rush to fill the silence.

You let it bloom.

And lying there against her chest, you knew:

this was just the beginning.

⸻

[freakmcnastyy]

After Last Night

Geum Seongjae x f!reader

Warnings: mentions of sex, smoking, one-night stand

Note: Heyyy this is my first fan fiction ever, and honestly I’m super nervous. I know Seongjae is supposed to be 17, but let’s just say he’s 18 for safety reasons. Also, English isn’t my first language, so please be kind!

-> Pt.1 / Pt.2 / Pt.3 / Pt.4

⸻

This isn’t where you were supposed to end up. Not in a stranger’s bed. The club? Fine. But this? No.

How did it happen?

The last thing you remembered was a guy —glasses, orange and white jacket— buying you a drink. And now… this. You were naked, barely covered by a white blanket. Something hard was pressing against your head. You turned to your left.

There he was.

His arm was awkwardly slung under your head like he wasn’t sure how to cuddle. He reeked of smoke and alcohol. You sat up slowly, wincing. The room was a mess —your clothes, his clothes, all over the floor. Your head throbbed, your body ached, especially between your legs.

On the nightstand, you saw a wallet. You grabbed it —not to steal anything, just… curiosity.

Geum Seongjae, age 18. Just like you.

Made sense. That club was full of 17-18 year olds anyway.

You stood up as quietly as you could and started putting on your black dress from the night before. You tried to ignore the dull pain in your body, especially there. You were so focused on leaving, you didn’t notice he was awake.

He sat up in bed.

You turned —your eyes met.

All that wild energy from last night was gone. Maybe it was just the morning daze.

“Morning,” he said, grinning lazily. You felt… weird.

You were already dressed and looking around for your phone.

“Where’s my phone?” you asked.

He yawned. “If you were so eager to leave, why didn’t you just go last night?”

He got out of bed, pulling on gray sweats and a black t-shirt. Another yawn.

“Probably in the car,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from the table and walking out.

He didn’t say anything else, but you followed.

You both headed to the parking lot.

He unlocked the car and gave you a little nod.

You grabbed your phone and purse.

The back windows were still foggy. Handprints. The whole car still smelled like sex.

You tried not to think about it. You turned to leave without a word. He watched you. Longer than necessary. He was used to one-night stands. So were you.

“Wait,” he called out.

You stopped, turned.

You just wanted to go.

He smirked and walked up to you quickly.

“Last night… wasn’t bad. I’d like to do it again.”

Was he serious? Joking? You couldn’t tell.

“I don’t sleep with the same person twice,” you said flatly.

It was your way to avoid emotional attachment.

“I’ll pay you.”

That one hit different. He sounded more serious now.

You stared. “Do I look like someone who does this for money?”

“Not at all. You look pretty decent, actually. The money’s just… an offer. Take as much as you want.”

You could’ve said yes.

Easy money.

And let’s be honest—he was hot. Doing it again wouldn’t exactly be disgusting.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, swallowing your pride.

You handed him your phone to put in his number.

He chuckled.

“Already saved it last night. As ‘Wolf.’ With a black heart.”

Still grinning like an idiot.

You rolled your eyes.

You looked back at him one last time before walking away for good.

He watched you disappear, then went back inside.

The car needed cleaning anyway.

With a bunch of wipes and cleaner in hand, he came back down.

Opened the back door.

That’s when he saw it—a silver sparkle on the seat.

A necklace.

Yours.

Obvious.

He smiled again.

He’d give it back next time.

For now, he slipped it into his pocket.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Squeaky Clean 5

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: damn, boy.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“So, if you terminate contract without two weeks’ notice, terms state you owe the agency an admin fee.” Jan explains over the phone. 

You sit in your car with her on speaker, idling behind the store, shellshocked.  

“How much?” You ask. 

“Based on how long you’ve been with us, four-fifty.” 

“That-- four hundred and fifty? That’s a week’s pay,” you exclaim. 

“Yes, well, we’d have to overextend other staff and then there would be training and recruiting. Seeing as you’ve not completed your probation period, we would be taking a loss.” 

“A loss? I’d still work, just for another client.” 

“There’s a lot of cleaners with seniority, they get preference. I’m sorry, but those are your options,” she says. She has no compassion, it’s all just money to her. 

You stare at the brick wall ahead of your car. Never mind about going inside. You’ll make your boxed macaroni with water tonight. Maybe as you scroll the job boards. If you get something quick, you’ll be able to cover the fee. 

Or. 

Or... 

Or you’ll have to face him again. 

You grip the wheel tight. It isn’t even your car. The fee comes out of your pay too. This whole thing is a grift. You lean forward and rest your head on the vinyl ridges. 

You see him, standing in front of the door, in his body armour and helmet. A man who could snap you like a twig. You exhale with a quake and roll your eyes back against the swell of heat. You have no choice. Not unless a miracle comes and you don’t believe in those. 

You drive home. Your apartment is small. Especially compared to his townhouse. How rotten. Look at you. Living at the bare minimum, living off his scraps based on how well you clean his floors. It’s not fair. And he can just do whatever he wants. Because what, because he wears that costume? 

You’re not hungry. You scroll through job boards. It’s all this bullshit AI training. You know it’s garbage. $100 an hour, yeah, you’re sure it will hit your bank account smoothly. Oh and Jan didn’t miss the non-compete clause. If you quit, you can work for another cleaning agency or even freelance for at least a year. 

Sleep is fractured by your anxiety. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Each time you move, you feel his hands on you. Your skin crawls and your insides burn. Why? Why you? Would it be the same if it was anyone else who’d taken that job? 

You stare at the ceiling as the sun rises outside your window. As the light shifts, your nerves flurry. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to go back. 

You flinch as a soft click comes from the kitchen. There’s a length of wall between the rest of your apartment and it. A bachelor with nothing more than a clunky radiator and scratched floorboards. Another click and the grind of the coffee machine. 

You sit up, chest thumping furiously. You’re dreaming. Your frail human condition finally forced you into submission. It’s a nightmare. It has to be. You're sure of it as he appears from behind the wall, leaning on the plaster with smirk. 

Steve’s hair is slightly askew. His cowl is gone but the rest of his suit is still in place. All but his gloves, tucked into his belt. 

“You know, I was always taught not to give up. Why do you think I am who I am,” he grips his hips as he pushes away from the wall and approaches you with decisive steps. “You don’t just roll over and let the world win.” 

You blink. It’s not a dream. You’ve never felt anything more real. 

“When you get a no, you don’t stop until you hear yes,” he stops at the foot of your bed, “or until they can’t say anything.” 

“Steve,” you bend your legs and push yourself back against the metal headboard. “What...” 

“You know, it’s funny. They didn’t tell me all the side effects.” He turns and sits on the side of the bed. “Nope. They said ‘it’ll make you strong. And big.’ That’s about all they told me,” he bends his leg and brings his foot onto his knee. He unlaces his boots, the ends of the laces snapping on the leather. “They don’t tell you how much you can hear. How much you can feel. Or not feel.” 

He scoffs and shakes his head, “either they didn’t care or they didn’t know. I can’t say which is worse.” He wiggles the boot off and switches boots. “Don’t tell you that your body turns into this callous shell. The caffeine in a cup of coffee does nothing. Nope. You’re body’s on overdrive. You get nothing. You only give.” 

He rips his other boot off and drops it. He sighs and leans forward, his elbows on his thighs as he bends his head. He smooths his blond hair. 

“I can hear through a car. Even from a block away. Even through the brick wall. And I can hear your heart beating from ground level,” he sniffs and rolls his shoulders, holding his head. “I can hear it right now too.” 

You’re silent. Paralysed. It’s all a game to him. He’s been following, watching. Even if the thought crossed your mind, you wouldn’t have caught him. He shows himself when he wants to be seen. Exactly as he does at his place. 

“I just want to feel one fucking thing that makes me feel alive,” he sits up. 

You stare at him. He slowly looks over his shoulder and meets your gaze. “I put the coffee on. Your head’s throbbing. Migraine. The cells in your brain are compressed. Lack of seratonin due to lack of sleep.” 

Your mouth falls open. He can tell all that. No, another job was never an option. Quitting, like he says, isn’t a choice. Why doesn’t matter. Why is a stupid question. Why won’t change what is about to happen. 

“Have a cup, take a shower, relax,” he commands. “I want you to feel it too.” 

[suyanova]

sub! g!p Liz or Rei x Reader, the plot is up to u... we NEED more fics of them 🗣️🗣️

KISS ME ──── kim jiwon.

𝜗𝜚 ┈ (🐇) after a rainstorm leaves you stranded deep in the woods, you and liz find yourselves huddled together in an abandoned cabin— wet, cold, and a little too close for comfort. what starts as shared warmth turns into something far more risky, forever.

✦ ݁ pairing: dom!gp!liz x sub!reader

✦ ݁ warnings: g!p liz, dom!liz, sub!reader, creampie, praise kink, nipple play, deep penetration.

✦ ݁ word count: 4.2k

the forest stretched out endlessly around you, a sea of dark green and damp earth. it smelled like rain even before the storm clouds rolled in—wet bark, crushed pine needles, the lingering bite of cold air threading through the trees.

the gravel crunched under your boots as you stepped out of rei’s car, stretching your arms over your head until your spine popped. the drive had been long and winding, the kind that lulled you into half-sleep between patches of patchy cell service and rei’s questionable playlist choices.

you took a deep breath.

the air out here was different—thinner, cleaner, quiet in a way that city air never was. it sank into your skin like a promise.

liz stood a few feet away, one hand gripping the strap of her backpack, the other shoved into the pocket of her hoodie. her hair was tied messily at the nape of her neck, blonde strands escaping to brush against her cheeks whenever the breeze picked up. she looked smaller out here somehow, swallowed by the endless trees and the heavy sky.

“this is it, huh?” rei said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. the excitement in her voice didn’t quite reach her face—she was already eyeing the cabins with a skeptical squint.

there were only two. both cabins sat tilted slightly on their foundations, as if even the land had gotten tired of standing up straight out here. the firepit between them was half-buried in fallen leaves, and a thin trail wound deeper into the woods beyond. cozy. isolated. probably haunted.

“i thought there’d be three,” you said, stepping closer to rei.

liz shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the hem of her hoodie sleeves tugged over her knuckles.

“i’ll take one,” she said quickly, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the trees, but she didn’t even hesitate. you and rei quickly exchanged a glance—then immediately broke into matching grins.

“ohhh, come on,” rei said, bumping her hip against liz’s. “already ditching us?”

“already feeling antisocial?” you added, flashing liz a teasing smile. “you’re allergic to fun.”

liz huffed, the faintest flush blooming across her cheeks. she ducked her head like she could hide it, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “you guys are loud.”

you watched her retreat toward the further cabin, her backpack bouncing against her side.

it was always like this—liz choosing distance even when her hands lingered a little too long when she passed you something, even when her eyes stayed a little too soft when you made her laugh.

you tucked that thought away for later, following rei to your shared cabin.

inside, it smelled like old wood and dust. the floorboards creaked under your weight as you dropped your bag by the bed nearest the window. rei wasted no time claiming the other one, tossing her hoodie over the frame and flopping back with a sigh.

you spent a while unpacking together, the conversation easy and lazy. rei chattered about her latest obsessions while you folded your clothes with half a mind on the fading light outside.

your hands paused halfway through zipping up your jacket.

“hey,” you said suddenly. “wanna go hiking before it gets dark?” in reply, rei cracked one eye open. before spitting out a sarcastic answer

“do you see the state of me?” she said, gesturing vaguely to herself sprawled out across the bed. “my hiking days ended the moment i got out of that car.” you laughed, tossing a sock at her head in respone.

“lame,” you teased, stuffing the last of your things into the dresser. “fine. i’ll ask liz. maybe she won’t be a coward.”

“good luck with that.” rei snorted, rolling onto her side and pulling a blanket over her head.

you slipped into your jacket, zipping it up halfway to block the growing chill. outside, the sky had gone that heavy gray that always meant trouble was coming—the air tighter, charged.

you made your way down the short dirt path to liz’s cabin, the crunch of fallen leaves sharp under your boots as you kept your head low, counting which leaf crunched the loudest.

her door was cracked open slightly, light spilling out in a thin slice. you knocked anyway.

liz appeared in the doorway, barefoot, her hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves still tugged over her hands.

you smiled, before striking her with your question, watching as her eyebrows raised in curiosity. “wanna go for a hike with me?”

for a second, she just blinked at you.

then, slowly, a tiny smile tugged at her mouth—the kind that barely curved the corners of her lips but still made something warm spark low in your chest.

“now?” she asked, voice soft, like she didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“yeah. before it rains.” you bounced a little on your heels, half teasing, half pleading, a hint of whining in your tone to keep her convinced.

liz hesitated—then nodded, disappearing back into her cabin for a second before returning in sneakers and a light jacket.

“okay. let’s go.”

you grinned, falling into step beside her as you started down the trail.

but what neither of you noticed, was the first droplets starting to darken the dirt at your feet.

—

the forest stretched wider around you the deeper you went—tall trees crowding overhead, their branches weaving a tangled canopy that turned the sky into a muted gray blur. the ground was soft underfoot, blanketed in layers of wet leaves that stuck to your shoes with every step.

the air smelled rich, like moss and bark and the faint metallic edge of coming rain.

you hiked in easy rhythm, your breath clouding faintly in the cold. liz kept pace beside you, her head ducked slightly against the breeze, sleeves pulled down to cover her hands. every so often, your arms would brush, sending tiny sparks up your skin that you pretended not to notice.

“i think we’re officially lost,” you joked, tilting your head back to squint up at the overcast sky.

liz snorted softly. “you’re the one who wanted to hike,” she said, shooting you a sideways glance, her lips twitching into a smirk she was trying to hide.

you bumped your shoulder into hers lightly, the contact sending a thrill down your spine.

“yeah, because i thought it’d be fun,” you said, dragging out the word dramatically.

liz let out a soft laugh, the sound low and warm in the chilly air. it was rare to hear her laugh so freely—and rarer still to be the cause of it. you tucked that small victory into your heart, letting it glow quietly there.

you kept walking, following a narrow deer trail through the trees. the world around you was soft, muted—the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but full, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

eventually, you found a small clearing.

broken logs crisscrossed the ground, slick with moss, and tiny wildflowers pushed up stubbornly between them. you slowed to a stop, breathing in the damp, earthy air, and turned to find liz already watching you.

“what?” you asked, smiling at her. she shrugged, looking away quickly, the tips of her ears turning pink.

“nothing,” she mumbled. “you just… you look happy.” but the admission was so soft you almost missed it.

you stared at her for a moment longer than necessary, feeling something shift—something slow and dangerous and inevitable.

then you laughed it off, teasing, “awh, you like hiking with me.”

liz rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile again. “don’t push your luck.” she scoffed, but obviously biting down on her cheeks to prevent a smile from escaping.

you stepped closer, just to mess with her, and she immediately stepped back—only to bump into a fallen log behind her, nearly tripping. you caught her wrist without thinking, steadying her with a hand around her sleeve-covered forearm.

your fingers curled instinctively around the soft fabric of her hoodie, feeling the faint tremor running through her muscles.

for a second, neither of you moved. the world narrowed to the space between your bodies—the shallow breaths, the tightening grip, the unsaid things clawing at the air.

you pulled back first, laughing it off even though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

liz cleared her throat, adjusting her hoodie like it could shield her from you.

“careful,” you teased lightly, turning back toward the trail. “don’t want you dying before the trip even starts.”

liz muttered something under her breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but when you glanced back at her, she was smiling.

it was small, but it was real. and it was all for you.

the hike stretched on, winding lazily through the trees. your conversation dipped in and out—soft jokes, shared stories, dumb arguments about which way was north. it felt easy, natural, like the world outside the forest didn’t exist.

until the first cold drop of rain hit the back of your neck.

you flinched, brushing it away, only for another to land on your forehead. and another. within seconds, the rain thickened, turning the forest floor into a slick mess of mud and wet leaves.

liz stiffened beside you, pulling her hood tighter around her face.

“shit,” you breathed, scanning the woods for anything resembling shelter.

the wind picked up, howling between the trees and rattling the branches overhead. water streamed down your jacket, soaking into your clothes until you were shivering.

“there—” liz pointed, her voice loud over the sudden roar of the storm.

you barely caught sight of it through the sheets of rain—an old cabin, tucked half-hidden behind a dense thicket of trees.

without thinking, you grabbed liz’s hand, lacing your fingers through hers and pulling her into a run. your boots slid against the muddy ground, the world around you blurring into gray and green as you stumbled toward safety.

the cabin door creaked on its hinges as you shoved it open, the inside dark and musty. it was barely bigger than a shed—one room, four walls, no furniture except for a collapsed cot in the corner—but it was dry.

you slammed the door shut behind you, both of you panting from the run. water dripped from your hair, your clothes clinging wet and cold to your skin.

liz stood a few feet away, blinking rain out of her lashes, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the exertion.

you leaned back against the door, heart still racing, and let out a shaky laugh. “well… that was fun.”

liz huffed, a soft smile ghosting across her lips, and shrugged off her soaked jacket. her hoodie underneath was plastered to her body, outlining the curve of her shoulders and the faint line of muscle in her arms.

you looked away before you could get caught staring, tapping your finger on your hip as a distraction.

an old blanket sat crumpled on a dusty shelf near the door. you grabbed it, shaking it out once to dislodge the worst of the dust, and draped it over your shoulders.

liz hesitated, then stepped forward, sliding under the blanket with you, sighing at the warmth enveloping around her, replacing the once cold feeling dancing on her skin.

her body was cold against yours, but the shared heat started to build quickly, seeping into your skin wherever you touched—hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, thigh against thigh.

for a while, you just sat there, listening to the rain batter the roof.

your head rested lightly against liz’s shoulder, your fingers fiddling with the frayed edge of the blanket. liz’s breathing was steady but tight, like she was holding something back.

every shift, every brush of your arm against hers, made her tense—only for her to relax a second later, like she was fighting a losing battle with herself. you stayed close, pretending not to notice how her hand flexed slightly every time your thigh pressed against hers.

pretending not to notice the way her breathing hitched when you shifted to tuck your freezing toes under her leg.

pretending you didn’t feel the weight of her gaze burning against the side of your face. you stayed like that—pressed close, breathing each other in—both of you pretending the tension wasn’t thick enough to drown in.

but it was. and it was only getting worse by the minute. the closer you stayed to her, the more you felt her breath increase, the more her movements felt miscalculated and unsure, and the harder she dug her hand into your back.

—

the rain pounded relentlessly against the tin roof of the abandoned shed, a steady drumbeat that seemed to echo inside your chest. the storm had rolled in faster than either of you expected, trapping you and liz in the middle of nowhere, miles away from the nearest soul.

the only thing keeping the chill from settling into your bones was the scratchy old blanket liz had found stuffed in a corner, now thrown over your shoulders as you huddled together on the dusty wooden floor.

her arm was around you, her body warm and solid against your side, but even then, you shivered. instinctively, you shifted closer, pressing yourself against her. your thigh slid over hers, your hip nudging into the sharp jut of her jeans—and that’s when you felt it.

a jolt went through you, sharp and electric. she was hard. painfully so, if the way she stiffened against you was anything to go by.

you froze, heart hammering, but liz didn’t move away. she just exhaled slowly, like she was fighting to keep herself still, fighting not to react. but it was too late—heat flooded your body, burning away the cold faster than any blanket could.

you tilted your head up, your nose brushing her jawline, and she finally looked at you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide, lips parted like she was already halfway to kissing you.

your hand moved first, curling into the fabric of her jacket, pulling her down—and then her mouth was on yours.

the kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing before she softened it, cupping your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something fragile.

her lips moved against yours slow and deep, coaxing you open, teasing you into giving her more, and you whimpered when she tilted your head back to kiss you even deeper.

liz shifted her body, sliding you both further down onto the wooden floor, pulling the blanket tighter over your heads to cocoon you in this tiny world of warmth and skin and breathless sounds. her thigh pressed between yours, nudging insistently against the heat of your core through your clothes.

you gasped when her hardness brushed up again, your hips jerking involuntarily. she chuckled softly against your mouth, a low, wrecked sound that made your stomach twist with need.

“you can be as loud as you want,” she murmured into your skin, her voice cracking slightly with restraint. “there’s no one out here but me, baby.”

your whole body trembled, desperate, burning. you grabbed at her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders, hands moving clumsily over her body as you stripped her down. liz helped you, her hands moving over your skin with reverence, until both of you were half-naked under the rough blanket, skin pressed to skin.

you could feel every inch of her—her flushed skin, the way her cock throbbed against your thigh, leaking already, desperate for you.

liz kissed you again, messier this time, her teeth catching your bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue. one hand slid up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until you whined, pushing into her touch. she kissed her way down your jawline, your throat, sucking gently at the sensitive spot just under your ear.

you writhed beneath her, overwhelmed, gasping into the air between you.

then—finally—she pushed her jeans and boxers down, freeing herself completely. you shivered when you felt the hot, heavy weight of her cock against your stomach, smearing precum over your skin.

she lined herself up, the head sliding through your soaked folds, gathering your slick, teasing you until you were practically shaking.

“liz,” you whispered, broken and needy.

liz didn’t make you beg twice.

she pressed in, slow and steady, stretching you open with the thick, delicious drag of her cock. you gasped at the burn, clutching at her shoulders, your nails digging in.

she kept murmuring soft things against your skin until she was fully seated inside you, hips flush against yours.

she stayed still for a second, letting you adjust, her forehead resting against yours as both of you panted for air.

then, with a low groan, she started moving. her thrusts were slow and deep, grinding her hips against yours on every downward roll, making sure you felt every inch of her dragging inside you. your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your hands fisting the blanket, your back arching helplessly.

liz kissed you again—sloppier now, her breath shuddering against your mouth—while her hips rocked into you over and over. each thrust was deliberate, almost punishingly slow, like she was trying to memorize the way you felt wrapped around her.

you whimpered when she angled her hips just right, brushing that devastating spot inside you with every movement.

“right there?” she breathed against your lips. “feels good?”

you could only nod, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt.

liz kissed your cheeks, your forehead, anywhere she could reach. her hands slid under your thighs, pushing your knees up, opening you wider for her.

the new angle made you cry out—a broken, desperate sound that echoed inside the little shed—and liz groaned at the sound, thrusting a little harder now, chasing it, addicted to the way you moaned for her.

“that’s it,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “let me hear you, baby. you’re doing so good for me.”

the words pushed you even closer to the edge, your walls clenching around her cock, making her stutter in her rhythm.

she fucked you slow and deep, grinding her hips on every thrust, dragging her cock against every sensitive spot inside you until you were falling apart. your body shook uncontrollably, pleasure building higher and higher with every stroke, every soft kiss, every whispered praise.

“liz—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“i know,” she breathed, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. “i’ve got you. let go for me.”and in response you did.

your orgasm slammed into you like a wave, tearing a ragged scream from your throat as your body clamped down around her cock. you sobbed her name, clutching at her like you might fall apart if you let go.

liz cursed under her breath, feeling you tighten around her, and barely managed a few more desperate thrusts before she buried herself as deep as she could and came.

you felt it—hot and thick, spilling inside you in pulsing waves—and the feeling only made your body jerk through another wave of aftershocks.

she held you through it, whispering soft, broken things against your skin as you both rode it out together, tangled up in each other, trembling and sweating and gasping for air under the pounding rain.

slowly, when your body stopped shaking, liz softened her thrusts until she was just rocking into you lazily, as if she couldn’t stand to pull out yet.

“you okay?” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair out of your face, kissing your forehead so gently it made you want to cry.

“mhm,” you breathed, voice hoarse and ruined, “so good.”

liz smiled against your skin, finally pulling out with a soft, wet sound that made you whimper. you felt her cum spill out of you, warm and messy between your thighs, and shivered at the feeling.

she bundled you closer, wrapping you tightly in the blanket, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your shoulders, your throat.

“you’re perfect,” she murmured, so full of awe it made your heart clench.

outside, the rain kept falling, but inside, you were warm, sore, and completely, utterly loved. liz sighed, rubbing your back and tracing soft patterns, smiling softly to herself before speaking.

“i didn’t think you’d be that loud.” she teased, letting out a chuckle as you smacked her arm playfully

“whatever. atleast i got you to finally kiss me.”

—

the rain had softened sometime during the night, fading from violent sheets to a steady, gentle drizzle that barely tapped against the roof.

the world outside the cabin felt still—hushed, like it was holding its breath. mist hung heavy over the trees, curling around the trunks and drifting low across the ground like something out of a dream.

inside, it was warm. liz’s body was wrapped around yours, one arm thrown loosely over your waist, her breath slow and even against the back of your neck. the blanket tangled around your bare legs, the air still thick with the faint, lingering scent of rain, sweat, and skin.

for a long moment, you just lay there, letting the weight of everything settle over you—her hand splayed against your stomach, the soft beat of her heart against your spine, the way her fingers twitched slightly every time you shifted closer.

you didn’t want to move.

didn’t want to break the fragile bubble the two of you had built here, tucked away from everything and everyone.

but reality tugged at you slowly—softly at first, then sharper, the way the chill seeped into your bones now that the storm had passed.

you shifted carefully, rolling onto your back to find liz already watching you, her eyes half-lidded, hair messy, hoodie rumpled in a way that made your chest tighten.

neither of you spoke, you didn’t have to. the look she gave you—soft, almost reverent—said more than words could manage.

you reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. her eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a low hum of contentment slipping from her throat.

“we should go back,” you whispered eventually, your voice hoarse from disuse.

liz only nodded, her hand finding yours under the blanket, her fingers weaving through yours with a care that made your heart ache.

even now, after everything, she touched you like you were something precious.

you dressed slowly, quietly, stealing glances at her as you both moved around each other in a rhythm that felt too natural, too intimate to be new.

when you stepped outside, the mist clung to your clothes, cold and damp against your skin. the trail back to camp was barely visible, the trees shrouded in low, rolling fog, but liz squeezed your hand once—firm and reassuring—and started walking.

the hike back was silent. not awkward—never awkward with her now.

just comfortable, steady. your steps fell into sync without even trying, and every so often, your fingers would brush, sending little jolts of warmth up your arm despite the chill still lingering in the air.

the campsite came into view faster than you expected—the two cabins still standing, the firepit long since soaked and abandoned.

and pacing outside the nearest cabin, hair a mess, jacket hanging half off her shoulders, was rei.

she spotted you instantly, freezing mid-step before rushing toward you, her boots slipping slightly on the wet ground.

“where were you guys?” she blurted out the second she was close enough, her voice pitching higher with worry.

“i woke up and you weren’t here—i thought—” she broke off, flailing her hands wildly before shoving them into her hair in frustration.

you opened your mouth, scrambling for something to say—some excuse, some explanation that didn’t sound completely insane—but before you could, you felt liz’s hand brush lightly against the small of your back.

you turned your head slightly, and your eyes met hers.

and just like that—without a single word—you both knew. the night, the rain, the cabin, the heat—the way your bodies had come together like they were always meant to.

it wasn’t just something that happened. it was something that would stay between you, stitched into your skin now, impossible to tear away.

liz gave you the faintest smile—small, knowing—and your heart twisted in your chest.

“we’re fine,” she said finally, her voice steady, smooth, like she hadn’t just wrecked you hours ago in the middle of a storm.

rei didn’t look convinced, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the way you and liz stood just a little too close, your bodies angled toward each other without even realizing it.

but she didn’t push, huffing loudly instead and muttering something about “next time, leave a damn note” before stomping back toward the cabin.

you stood there for a second longer, the mist swirling around your ankles, the damp air clinging to your skin, your pulse still racing.

then liz leaned in, her shoulder brushing yours, her voice low and warm against your ear.

“hey,” she murmured, and when you turned your head to look at her properly, she was already smiling—soft and crooked and so full of something you didn’t dare name yet.

her hand found yours again, fingers threading through with easy, instinctive certainty. you squeezed back, your chest tightening painfully with everything you couldn’t say out loud.

liz tilted her head slightly, her hair falling into her eyes, and said, in a voice so soft it was almost lost to the mist.

“kiss me”

[kabr0ztrousers]

Naive curvy fem reader who recently gave birth but her man left her to fend for herself. Mother in-law + father in-law (who are both vampires) disown their son and allow the reader and their grandchild to stay at their estate. They convinced her they will help relieve any tension. Like massaging her sore breasts, suckling or squeezing any excess milk, and licking and rubbing her pussy. Starts off as dubious consent but transitions to full consent when they tell her that she's more than a daughter in-law to them.

Kabr0z Episode 54: The In-Laws

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: blood; vampires; incest (no blood relation); age gap; power imbalance; dubcon to enthusiastic consent; receiving cunnilingus; giving cunnilingus and fellatio; very mild foot mention; technically intox; ghoulification;

A/N: Nobody's claimed the prize from my previous competition regarding vampires, but I had fun posing the question, so if you can give the clan the in-laws belong to with your request, you get to skip the queue! Two prizes up for grabs as the clan changed its name with Vampire V5 😁

Again, here's the daily reminder that I won't know what you want if you don't request it, so by all means request! My DMs and asks are open for a reason!

#######################################

You pulled up outside the wrought iron gates. You knew Nick grew up with money but this is old-school aristocrat level, a real Great Gatsby mansion. You reached out of your window to hit the buzzer

"Name?" A bored voice called over the intercom.

You told them who you were, you were getting to why you were there when the gate swung silently open. You drove on, gate swinging shut behind you. You didn't see the men with automatic rifles from the road, but you bet they saw you. Sophie fussed in the baby seat. You stopped to shush her back to sleep, the last thing you wanted was to make a poor first impression.

Too late. A pair of figures stood in the doorway to the house. The lights flattered them in the late evening, artfully curated shadows highlighting the razor-sharp creases of his suit, the elegant drape of her long red dress. They were looking at you.

Here was as good a place to leave the car as any, you supposed, and got out. Cradling your baby you approached the figures in the doorway. They smiled at you, the light making them look washed out and pale.

"So, we finally meet! So sorry we couldn't make the wedding" The woman spoke first "I am Lucrezia, this is Alfonso" the man bowed neatly at the waist, allowing his wife to continue "When we caught wind of what our dog of a son did! We're both so very glad you came to us"

You smiled, it's not like you had much of a choice. Both of your parents had passed while you were expecting Sophie, and you didn't really have any other family. "Thanks for having us, we'll try not to be a burden"

Alfonso laughed "It's not a burden at all! It will be so good to have a child about the house again, it gets awfully quiet with just me, your mother, the security, the cleaners, and the servants"

That sounded positively bustling to you, but their perspectives were probably different you guessed, a house like this needs upkeep

A man cleared his throat behind you "Your keys, ma'am?"

You turned, he was wearing a flak vest and an earpiece, his rifle secured to him with a strap "so we can park your car and unpack you"

The woman waved him away "There's time for that later, Giacomo. Now, let's get out of the cold"

It was a warm night. You followed the pair inside. They looked exactly like the old paintings on the walls of the house, though the varnish had darkened with age. Some of them looked to contain a young Peter too... Maybe these were of Alfonso's side of the family? There was quite a strong family resemblance with the boy, but then how was Lucrezia there?

They led you to a lounge, where they took seats on either end of a long sofa. You sat in an armchair, sinking into the plush velvet. "So," Lucrezia began "We'll hear no more of this not wanting to intrude business. You're family, and family takes care of family. Besides, it's not like we're hurting for bedrooms" They both laughed. You felt like a deer in headlamps. A rabbit cornered by circling wolves. The light in here was warmer than outside, but it didn't diminish the corpselike pallor on their faces, bluish lips on pale faces, dry eyes that didn't catch the light, and aside from when they spoke... No, that's silly.

Obviously they must breathe, right?

Sophie was picking up on something, too. She hadn't stopped fussing since you came in. Lucrezia stepped over to you, or at least you assumed she did, you looked up and she was simply there, dark eyes staring into yours

"There, there, the little one is tired! Come to Nana, little one"

You let her take the restless baby from your arms, playing with her with a fingertip. Sophie calmed at once, gurgling happily before settling into a deep sleep. Lucrezia gave her back to you. Was that... Blood on her mouth?

You blinked, it was gone. Probably just your overactive imagination. Driving for four hours after packing up your entire life would do that.

You looked at Lucrezia again, into those deep black eyes, dark in a sea of white "Let's get my granddaughter to bed, then we can talk about your future here"

You nodded. It's the best thing for it. She led you upstairs, to a nursery with a beautiful cot, pulling a tablet computer off the wall and handing it to you "Only the best for you, 4k camera and the best audio money can buy. If she so much as peeps, you'll hear"

You put Sophie down in the cot. Finally the two of you were safe again. "Can I have a bed in here with her?"

Lucrezia smiled at you, those eyes meeting yours again "Of course, I'll have the staff bring one in. She stepped out of the door, clapped her hands twice and shouted in the fastest Italian you'd ever heard someone speak before coming back "The bed will be brought in soon, now let's go back downstairs"

You followed her again. Alphonso looked up from a book when you entered, before getting up and ushering you down to the sofa between them.

Lucrezia's hands were on your shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscles of your back "You're so tense, why don't you relax?"

You had to admit, you ached. The massage hurt a little as Lucrezia eased the knots in your back from driving so long. Alfonso slipped off your shoes and began massaging your feet, pulling you so you lay across the two of them as they rubbed and squeezed you, their too-strong hands loosening you up. Your eyes closed gently as exhaustion took over.

Your dream was dark, and troubled. You were running down the hallway of the house, chased by armed men. Every door you opened had either Lucrezia behind it, Alphonso, or both.

You snapped awake. In the bed in the nursery, morning light visible against the curtains. A maid was there, she curtseyed and left a tray on the end of your bed. Some toast, butter, jam, and a small cup of strong-smelling coffee. You checked on Sophie. Sleeping like an angel.

Breakfast was simple, but every bit as good as it looked. That was possibly the best coffee you'd ever had.

You picked up Sophie and started to explore your new home. Three floors, the maid told you the top floor was only for Lucrezia and Alphonso, their studies, the private chambers and whatnot, she told you you'd probably be allowed up eventually being family, just not yet.

And so your days passed, at first. Daytime was spent with Sophie in any combination of a dozen rooms between her nursery, the library, the TV room, or walking through the gardens. You looked forward to when she'd be old enough to teach to swim so you could use the swimming pool.

At night, your hosts finally finished whatever work they did all day and came downstairs to spend time with you and their granddaughter. They never seemed to eat with you, every day around nightfall a maid carrying a platter would walk up the staircase to their suites, but never seem to come back down until the following morning. Always a different one, too, which seemed odd.

It was amazing, the way Lucrezia had with Sophie, she could put her to sleep in moments. You'd stay up with them talking about your day, how your daughter was doing, never about them or their business... You let your mind wander as Lucrezia massaged your back again, you didn't know why she liked doing that, but you weren't going to stop her...

Shit. They were mobsters, weren't they? It checked out, armed guards, inexplicably wealthy, a preoccupation with privacy, family, and trust above all.

A roving hand snapped you out of your reverie. Alfonso had just pulled aside your underwear, his hand up your skirt. You yelped, Lucrezia held your shoulders.

You looked up at her, she smiled back "Now, now, we said we'd take care of all of your needs, and we meant it"

Alfonso's hand was rubbing the lips of your pussy. You were already wet, the massage had loosened you up more than you thought. His fingers slipped around your clit, making you whine as Lucrezia's attentions moved to your collarbones and your milk-filled tits, squeezing squirts of milk from you as you whimpered and gasped under their attention

Alfonso's tongue joined his hand, fingering your hole while he licked rings around your clit. You could feel the pressure building in your cunt as it twitched and your back arched. Lucrezia kissed your lips, and you came. You ground your cunt into Alfonso's face, no longer caring that these two are your parents in law, just wanting to prolong the orgasm running through you.

Your spasms subsided, you looked up at Lucrezia as you panted.

"Oh, child, I can't imagine what you think of us... You must think we're criminals?"

You nodded weakly. Alphonso laughed, looking at you from between your legs "Shall we give her the truth?"

Lucrezia manhandled you to the floor, forcing you to your knees, holding your head up as Alphonso stood over you, pulling out his cock as it hardened in his hands. "I'll need a drink after we're done. Hopefully it's as good as it looks"

Your mouth was forced open. Alphonso stuffed his semi-hard cock inside. You could feel it hardening as he thrust it in, invading you again and again as his wife crooned in your ear.

You bit down hard. He didn't stop. His groans got louder as he railed you harder, his cock pushing your throat as he came. It wasn't cum. His cock twitched a d throbbed, pulsing like he should be spraying cum down your throat, but it wasn't. It was blood.

The blood fell out of your mouth, but some trickled down your throat.

The world got sharper. Your head spun as you became hyper-aware of everything around you. Around, and in you. God you're horny. Your hand shot to your cunt, furiously rubbing yourself as you sucked his cock. He pulled out, rubbing the mix of blood and spit on your face. You tried to catch as much as you could before Lucrezia turned your head and licked your face, cleaning you of the mess her husband had made.

She stood before you and lifted the front of her skirt.

You couldn't stop yourself even if you wanted to. Your face was in her cunt, slurping and licking like an animal as she held you to her. You could feel her, already getting closer and closer as you licked and nibbled, her cunt oozing more wetness onto your face as you buried yourself in her folds. All you could taste was blood, all you wanted was more.

Lucrezia came hard, twitching and squirting into your mouth, covering your face.

You opened your eyes. You could see blood pooling below you, staining your top and your skirt. Alphonso was looking at you, so was Lucrezia, predatory eyes taking you in.

Alphonso bit you first. The searing pain of his fangs sinking in to your wrist making you grit your teeth. You screamed when Lucrezia bit the other.

The world became cold, your head spun a little as the vampires released you, licking the wounds to close them. Lucrezia barked a command in Italian, a man ran over and stabbed a needle into your arm. Giacomo. You saw a blood bag held over your head as you closed your eyes, letting sleep take you.

Giacomo was there in the morning when you awoke "Afternoon, ma'am. The bosses have asked I explain everything. Welcome to the beginning of the rest of your life."

######################################

So, fun fact: it's canon that literally every liquid a Kindred produces is vitae, except for in very specific circumstances. So, if you let a Kindred cum down your throat, you become a ghoul.

Honestly, goals.

To reiterate from the start, if you correctly identify which clan Alphonso and Lucrezia belong to you'll get to jump the queue! 2 prizes to claim this time as the clan name changed when Vampire V5 was published, so get to guessing! Promotion ends when the first winning guess is published 😉

On that note, even if you don't want to guess, I want to hear your requests, ideas, fantasies, whatever! This challenge is set to run right through to the end of the year and I intend to go the distance!

[five-rivers]

After months, if not years of missed curfews, failing grades and lies Maddie is done with her son’s behavior and decides to confront him once and for all, waiting in his room since he so rarely uses the door. Imagine her suprise the infamous Danny Phantom, injured and exhausted stumbles through the wall and detransforms into Danny Fenton.

She doesn't turn the light on. She doesn't know how Danny keeps getting past her and Jack, and that is one of things she intends to discover and put a stop to tonight, one way or another.

She'd prefer to talk, but if she has to nail his window shut from the outside, inside, or both, that is what she will do. It isn't safe out there at night. She and Jack did their best, but there are so many ghosts, and they can't do much about the more human dangers.

(The only good thing about this situation is that Danny showed no signs of taking drugs. Or, at least, Maddie hadn't found any of the related paraphernalia in his room.)

Outside the window, the light increased. Maddie frowned. The Fentonworks sign was bright, she knew, but it was also very specific neon colors. This was something paler, whiter, cleaner, and it wasn't bright enough, or coming from the right direction, to be car headlights.

Maddie hadn't brought her weapons with her. She didn't like going around unarmed, but she knew that going to what was almost certainly going to be an emotionally charged argument with a weapon close to hand - even a nonlethal one - wasn't wise. Thinking about herself that way made her nauseated, but no one thought they would do something like that until they did, a fact Maddie was familiar with from unfortunate personal experience.

But she couldn't help but regret this wisdom when the ghost came through the wall. And not just any ghost. Phantom.

She held her breath, trying to stay as still as possible. If she got away before he spotted her, she could activate the defense system, but in the same room, she wouldn't be able to get the words out fast enough.

Phantom hovered over Danny's bed, and for the first time tonight, Maddie was glad that Danny wasn't here. Who knew what Phantom had intended?

Ectoplasm dripped from Phantom's arm and nose, onto Danny's bed. She would have to clean it before he slept on it again. Thoroughly. He'd be annoyed to have to sleep in the guest bedroom, but it was a matter for his health.

Why had Phantom come here when he was this damaged?

Phantom suddenly flared bright, like a camera flash. The room was dark in its wake, and something fell heavily onto Danny's bed.

She blinked the light out of her eyes, furious and terrified. Was this the precursor to an attack? Did he know she was here?

When her eyes adapted again, she saw...

Danny.

Danny, in his pajamas, with the same injuries Phantom had.

Maddie watched and waited while Danny turned over, cocooning himself in his sheets. She would like to say that her hesitance was born from an abundance of caution, but really, she was too stunned to act.

But, finally, what felt like hours later, she walked over to Danny's bed. His chest was rising and falling, slow but steady. She put her hand on his shoulder and felt its warmth.

Her hand, slowly, moved to his throat. There was a pulse, there.

He was alive. Her son was alive.

She just--

She took a step back, away, back to the door, which she opened as quietly as possible.

She needed to understand what was happening, first, what she had seen. Then, she could start to figure out how to fix it.

[gardenwalrus]

Pattie Boyd on herself, George, John and Cynthia being spiked with LSD-laced coffee by their dentist, John Riley

Our dentist, John Riley, had turned us on to acid. He and his girlfriend invited John, Cynthia, George, and me to dinner at his house in Hyde Park Square one evening sometime in 1965. [...] We had a lovely meal, plenty to drink, and at the end George said, “Let’s go.” We were planning to see some friends playing at the Pickwick Club. John Riley’s girlfriend jumped to her feet. “You can’t,” she said. “You haven’t had any coffee yet. It’s ready, I’ve made it - and it’s delicious.” We sat down again and drank the coffee she was insistent we should have. But then we were really keen to get away and John Lennon said, “We must go now. These friends of ours are going to be on soon. It’s their first night, we’ve got to go and see them.” And John Riley said, “You can’t leave.” “What are you talking about?” said John Lennon. “You’ve just had LSD.” “No, we haven’t.” “Yes, you have,” said our host. “It was in the coffee.” John Lennon was absolutely furious. “How dare you fucking do this to us?” he said.

George and I said, “Do what?” We didn’t know what LSD was. John Lennon was the only one of us who knew because he had read about it in Playboy. He said, “It’s a drug,” and as it began to take effect we felt even more strongly that we didn’t want to be there. I wondered if the dentist, who hadn’t had any coffee, had given it to us hoping the evening might end in an orgy. We were desperate to escape. John Riley said he would drive us and we should leave our car with him. “No,” we said. We piled into my Mini, which seemed to be shrinking, and drove to the club where our friends were playing. All the way the car felt smaller and smaller, and by the time we arrived we were completely out of it. People kept recognising George and coming up to him. They were moving in and out of focus, then looked like animals. We clung to each other, feeling surreal. Soon we moved on to the Ad Lib Club - we knew it and thought we might feel better if we were in familiar surroundings. It wasn’t far from the Pickwick so we walked and on the way I remember trying to break a shop window. The Ad Lib was on the top floor, above the Prince Charles Theatre in Leicester Place, and we thought the lift was on fire because there was a little red light inside. As the doors opened, we crawled out and bumped into Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithfull, and Ringo. John told them we’d been spiked. The effect of the drug was getting stronger and stronger, and we were all in hysterics and crazy. When we sat down, the table elongated. Hours later we decided to go home. We climbed into the car again and this time George drove - at no more than ten miles an hour, concentrating hard, all the way to Esher. But it felt as though he was doing a thousand miles an hour [...] it was daylight by the time we got home. We went into Kinfauns and locked the gate so that the cleaner wouldn’t come in and find us, put the cat into a room on her own, and sat down. The drug took about eight hours to wear off, but it was very frightening and we never spoke to the dentist again.

- From Pattie Boyd's autobiography Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me (2007)

[lieslab]

Too close to the sun

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Felix X gn reader

Summary: The janitor isn't supposed to fall in love with the k-pop idol, but fate is funny sometimes.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 3.6K

A/N: Take this as a reminder to please be aware of your surroundings when you're outside. Sometimes people are nothing, but dipshits. I conjured up this one after nearly being pulverized by a car. 10/10 do not recommend.

_ _ _

People pass off judgement too easily. It’s juggled between conversations and slipped into passing by thoughts. Those who do one small thing out of your norm. You can’t help, but give a brief thought and cast judgement. Whether you push that judgement out into the world and prepare to ruin someone’s day with a snide comment or unnecessary remark, that’s up to you and you alone.

You knew what judgement was. You experienced it most of the time when people found out what you did for work. As a janitor, you dedicated most of your time cleaning. Cleaning, sweeping, mopping, dusting. To most, it’s hard labor and not worth it. Coated with dirt, working with cleaning chemicals, and constantly doing the same thing over and over again. 

To some, it sounded like a never-ending nightmare. Filthy. Disgusting. Dirty. Gross. Something only the lowest of the low would do. Cleaning toilets and taking out trash. Who wants to do that? Nobody in their right mind wants to spend their job doing chores, but you did. 

You didn’t mind tidying things up. A strange aura of peace found you when you cleaned at your job. You popped in your headphones and floated throughout the building, going task from task, without much of a hassle. Someone had to keep the JYP building clean and shiny. As the night shift janitor, it turned into your job. 

Sometimes, you ran into idols practicing into the late hours of the night. Occasionally, you had to wait to clean certain dance practice rooms. The mirrors were wiped every night. The floors were treated with a specific floor cleaner, so you didn’t ruin the protective coating on the floor. 

The job paid well. After the first week of training, you were alone. The benefits seemed fair, so you felt secure. You felt settled into your job. Sure, you had moments of annoyance, everyone does at their job. 

Maybe you’d find an overflowing trash can that you wished someone would have taken out to the trash earlier. Mud slicked on the floor from the bottom of someone’s shoes. Now hardened, it took a bit of extra elbow grease to wipe it away. Most of the time, other than a few incidents, you stayed content. 

Working nights meant being awake when everyone else usually slept. The rising sun turned into a natural alarm clock for most. For you, the sight of the sun peeking into the upstairs windows settled exhaustion in your bones. Another night, another job well done, another reason to finish strong, so you could go home, shower, and climb in bed. 

The first time you ran into Felix, it was an accident. You were cleaning a practice room you skipped over. Minutes ago, the walls echoed with the music of a trainee. Evaluations were upcoming soon and they spent hours perfecting the dance, wanting to impress the senior group coming to judge them. 

The more time you spent there, the more you grew to learn about the company. Sometimes you found trainees and other times you spotted debuted idols. You were sure to keep a respectable distance and smile at those who seemed like they needed it. Some bid you hello and others kept their noses buried in their phone, too exhausted to utter the words to the janitor. You didn’t mind, you understood the idol life could be an exhausting cycle. 

You sprayed the mirror and began to wipe down the last of the smudges when the practice door room flew open. Felix stumbled inside with his blonde hair poked in every direction. Half-lidded eyes widened when they saw you. You glanced behind your reflection and smiled in the mirror. “Good morning.” 

“I’m sorry, I must be in the wrong practice room. I came to practice and I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and took a step back. 

“You’re likely in the right room. I should be the one apologizing to you. A trainee was up late dancing. I should have spent more time cleaning and less time giving him a pep talk. I couldn’t help myself. I know I’m just the janitor, but he seemed so nervous.” 

Felix’s face softened immediately. “That’s very kind of you. You definitely made him feel better. Conversations like that reignite the passion for this, you know? He better have remembered his manners and said thank you.” 

You chuckled and wiped down the rest of the mirror. Felix pulled out his phone to set up the sound system and hook the aux cord to his phone. You grabbed your remaining cleaning supplies and began to head to the door. 

“I’ll leave you alone for now. Good luck with your dancing. Don’t forget to take breaks and stay hydrated.” 

He glanced up from his phone. Dimples appeared along his sun-kissed skin. “Go home and get some sleep, you deserve it. Thank you for keeping the JYP building so clean. I’ll try to remind my members to keep the place as we found it.” 

You nodded and disappeared through the wooden door; unaware that a friendship planted itself on the second floor of the building. 

_ _ _ 

After that day, Felix began to pop up more often. Just as the clock crept closer and closer to seven, Felix appeared. The end of your shift, you tried not to, but sometimes you dragged your feet. The growing anxiety of wanting your shift to be over, so you could go home and climb into the warmth of your bed. You enjoyed your job, but you liked sleeping more. 

“I think you could use a pick-me up.” 

“Huh?” You uttered in confusion. 

Felix lifted a croissant wrapped in parchment paper in front of your face. He shrugged and smiled. “You do so much and everyone likes croissants, right? Fresh and still warm. I just purchased it from the canteen downstairs.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I didn’t have to, but you’ve been working so hard lately. Can’t I celebrate your efforts? JYP gets all the credit for keeping this place looking good when really, you’re doing it for him. He gets to take all the credit while you-” 

“It’s his building,” you cut him off. 

“You still deserve recognition and if nobody else will give it to you, I will.” 

_ _ _ 

You began to like Felix more and more. So much, your heart began to burst with butterflies when he appeared. Always bursting at the seams with compliments. Somedays, croissants and other days, banana muffins. On your birthday, he brought you a dish full of seaweed soup. 

The moment you saw the small thermos, you nearly burst into tears. “You made this for me?” 

“Yes and no. Did I make it? Kind of. I had assistance from one of my group members. They don’t leave me in the kitchen alone when I’m cooking. I can bake a variety of different things, but I’m not so good at cooking.” 

He handed it out with both hands. A subtle eagerness in his actions. Between the two of you, everything felt right, but you knew the truth. One day, this would pass. The idol doesn’t fall for the janitor that cleans up messes. No doubt, sooner or later, this would disappear, too. 

Because in real life, the happy endings are few and far between. Society says certain people don’t mix and you weren’t the exception. Status, race, religion, culture. Always a never-ending and gut-wrenching amount of people who view the world on a platter. 

As above and below. They will always strive for their perfect version of greatness. It doesn’t matter who they hurt to get there. Whether it’s your feelings or making you feel like a burden for the skin you wear, they do not care. People aren’t much different than animals, at the end of the day. 

People are selfish. They’re too controlling. Too small-minded and naive. Whether you let them control your life, that’s up to you. You knew Korean standards and you know if a certain member of management found out about this, you were doomed. The k-pop idol should not befriend those below them. 

You were just glad you could experience it while you could. 

_ _ _ 

Some people will do anything for money, even if that means creeping over boundaries and prowling around. If it means breaking the safety of a person and destroying parts of their life, it doesn’t matter. Secrets sell. Society is so hungry for drama and entertainment, it will stab you over and over again to receive it. It will throw you to the ground and abandon you for a sensational news story for one day and abandon you the next. 

You always felt safe in the JYP building. You thought the employees could be trusted. They went through background checks, too. They went through the extensive questioning and prodded into your personal life. They’d do anything to make sure you were a good fit and not a creep. 

So when a photo of Felix handing you a coffee while smiling hit the internet, your biggest fear came to life. Not potentially losing your job, but shattering Felix’s idol image. You knew there was nothing between the two of you. No romance involved, but fans always speculated. Their well-being reached too deep into the personal lives of idols. If you shattered your idol image, the management team would rip you to shreds after the fans gutted your carcass. 

Fear for Felix’s well-being appeared. When you showed up for work the next evening, you wanted to burst into tears. You thought the two of you had a good friendship. Over the past few weeks, you began to learn more and more about each other. You pushed your romantic feelings aside, knowing they’d cause issues. 

You spent the night scrubbing your hands raw. Ignoring your usual gloves and scrubbing the floors. Sweeping until your arms burned and wiping windows so aggressively, smears appeared again. You lost count of how many times you had to wipe down the dance practice mirrors again and again. 

On your hands and knees, down in front of a toilet, you couldn’t stand it. You got up, cleaned up your mess, and put your cleaning supplies up twenty minutes early. You scrubbed your hands, headed downstairs, and waited for Felix to show up. 

He’d be here at any time now. You’d talk and then you’d apologize. You’d willingly quit your job if the company wanted you to. You’d apologize relentlessly and do whatever it took to get the fans off your back. 

They were digging deep now. Searching the deepest parts of the web for anything about you. Your name, your family, your friends. Your social media would be scoured the moment they figured it out. They’d ring the phones of the buildings and refuse to stop until you lay broken and shattered; hanging your head in defeat at their actions, submitting and giving into everything you didn’t want to do. 

Felix never showed up that morning. He didn’t show up the next morning or the next week. By week two, you hadn’t been reprimanded by anyone, but you wish you would have been. That would be better than not seeing Felix at all. 

By the start of week three, you tried not to feel so upset, but it grew more and more difficult. You didn’t know Felix for long, but you missed his cheery mornings. You missed the pearly white smiles and his genuine caring nature. You missed the sunshine that greeted your long nights. You missed all of it. 

_ _ _ 

When you finished that morning, you disappeared out the back door. Straight into the parking lot, you dug your car keys from your pocket and began to trudge to your vehicle. Your shoulders slumped with defeat and a frown fell upon your face. You didn’t want to seem so glum, but you couldn’t help it. 

Left, right, and left again, your head jerked to look for oncoming traffic. Last night, a mixed storm covered the streets with a flurry of icy rain. As the temperatures dipped colder, the wet streets froze and turned into ice. Colder and colder until it hit freezing, the water droplets turned into oversized specs of snow. For hours, the night went silent and fell victim to winter’s quiet assault. 

Once you cleared the way, you put one foot out and began to slowly make your way across the parking lot. Your hands supported you at your sides. You did everything you could, trying to keep your balance. The engine of an oncoming car caused you to glance over. 

To your surprise, a truck quickly headed your way. You quickened your pace, trying to keep your balance, so you didn’t fall on your ass. Half-way across the walkway, dressed in a bright colored coat, you knew the driver saw you. You expected them to stop, but what you didn’t expect was the squealing of tires and roar of the engine as they slammed the gas. 

Your eyes widened. Rubber tires rutted against the ice and launched the truck your way. You moved quicker, nearly losing your footing. Closer and closer the truck came in your peripheral vision. Your brain screamed and you tensed up, waiting for the collusion. 

It never came. 

The driver jerked the steering wheel. At the last moment, the truck narrowly avoided your body and skidded around you. Catching ice, it drifted and the driver didn’t bother stepping on the gas. Instead, they jerked the wheel and aimed for your back. 

Fight or flight kicked in. You looked around desperately, trying to figure out where to go. The large parking lot had cars, but they were all further away. The engine revved and you could feel it. The ground rumbled beneath your feet. 

Adrenaline pumped through your veins. A foot slipped and your hands shot out to catch you, but the ground never came. Your opposite foot kept your balance. You kept trudging along, ignoring the snow soaking your tennis shoes. You managed to make it to the outside of a car and that’s when your brain screamed. 

Your body tensed. Your eyes squeezed shut. You could feel the warmth of the truck against the back of your body. All you could think about was how much the impact would hurt. Would your bones break between the two cars? Would you feel everything as your skin burned against the warm grill of the truck? The scent of diesel filled your nostrils and then- 

The sound of Felix calling your name made your eyes reopen. The person in the truck jerked the wheel. The vehicle spun again, roared, and changed directions. You glanced over your shoulder, just in time to catch them speeding out of the parking lot. 

Felix leaned out of the open back door with furrowed eyebrows. He called your name again and ventured after your outstretched shoe prints. “Hey, are you okay?” 

You didn’t respond. You didn’t move. At your sides, your fingers quivered. Your head spun and your stomach lurched. You spun around in distress. “Did you just see that?” 

“See what?” 

“The truck?” 

“What about it?” He frowned as he approached you. “I thought it was backing up. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Honestly, my focus was more on you.” 

“They just tried to-” Your words cut off. Your arms jerked around your body protectively and you blinked rapidly. The adrenaline cycled through your veins. You couldn’t believe what just happened to you. What did you do to deserve that? 

“They j-just tried to hit me and-”

“He what?” 

“I came out to cross the parking lot to go home and he hit the gas. The truck spun around and from behind he tried to-” Your words kept getting stuck in your throat. The ice-cold realization that you were nearly smashed to death settled in. 

Even if you weren’t killed, the pain would have been immense. Crushed bones and the feeling of your ribs being squeezed by invisible hands as the force from behind shoved your forward. Your eyes squeezed shut and your knees wobbled, unsteadily. “I need to go home.” 

“No way!” He placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “You’re as pale as a ghost and you’re not going anywhere. Come on, let’s get you back inside.” 

“Do you think it’s because of that photo between us? I-I didn’t mean to cause any harm.” Tears blurred your vision. Felix’s hand found your and you gripped it tight, too afraid to let go. “I-I thought we were friends. I didn’t mean to jeopardize your career.” 

“Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about that right now. You just experienced something traumatic. Let’s get you inside and get you some hot chocolate, how about that?”  He jerked an arm beside you, causing you to flinch. He apologized and held the door open. 

You followed along on unsteady legs. Nausea built up in the pit of your stomach. As you followed, you replayed the scene, wondering if you did something wrong to set the person off in a fiery anger, but as you thought back, nothing stuck out. All you were doing was crossing the road. Sure, you were a little slow, but you were almost half-way across the road when they slammed on the gas. 

What kind of person mentally torments another person like that, for fun? 

_ _ _ 

It took nearly twenty minutes before you could speak about the incident to Felix. He pulled you into one of the dance practice rooms and settled you on the couch. You were alone, trying to process things while he went to get hot chocolate. When he came back, you still looked startled. Fear imprinted on your face. 

“Here, try this. I know it’s not the best remedy, but it’s what I have for now. It won’t fix what just happened, but I guarantee it’ll provide you with some much needed warmth.” 

“Thank you,” you whispered. He smiled as you took the cup. “I’m sorry about all of this. I don’t know what I did or what they were thinking.” 

“Are you injured?” 

“Just full of leftover adrenaline and nausea. I wasn’t actually hit, so I’m not physically injured. I just can’t believe someone would try and do that. I caught a brief glimpse, it was a stranger.” 

“Did anyone see it?” 

“Nobody was around. The cars were all empty from what I saw. Did you-” 

“I wish I would have. I would have given that asshole a piece of my mind. What a fucking cunt. What a low-life loser, scaring someone just for the fun of it.” He rolled his eyes and tightened his hands around his own styrofoam cup. “Seriously though, you’re not injured?” 

“No.” 

“Good. That takes care of that. When my manager arrives, I’ll have him pull up the back camera footage. I know that he’ll know what to do. I’m sure we caught it on tape and we can report that loser to the cops.” 

You weakly nodded, trying to come back to reality. You took slow sips of your drink. It warmed you from the inside out. “I haven’t seen you around lately,” you finally uttered. 

“Ah, yeah. I’ve been um…” He sighed and gripped his cup tighter. “I’m a total coward, I have to admit. I was so afraid of screwing up our friendship. I thought when that photo leaked between us, I thought you’d hate me. I didn’t think you wanted to see me. I don’t think I’d be able to bear it if you lashed out and yelled at me.” 

“I’m sorry my fans are a mess,” he continued. “You didn’t ask for any part of this. I wish I could-” 

“Hey,” you reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his knee. “I know. It’s not your fault. We both know there’s downsides to this industry.” 

He chuckled, “you could say that again.” 

“But I’d be lying if I said that your sudden disappearance didn’t hurt my feelings. Of course, I’m not mad at you. I thought we were friends, so your sudden disappearance stung.” 

“I like you!” 

Your eyes widened and your head jerked over. “What?” 

“Like, like, like. I like you. Romantically speaking.” His freckles flushed red. He swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced at you from the corner of his eye, trying to study your reaction. “I-I’ve been trying to-” 

“You’re not joking about this, are you?” 

He shook his head, too embarrassed by his words to admit the truth. 

“I like like you, too.” 

“Wait, really?” Big, sparkling brown eyes met yours. The look of pure admiration and innocence caused your heart to swell. A smile began to tug at your lips as you nodded, but it never had the chance to form. 

“Screw the fans, screw management, and screw that asshole that tried to hit you.” He reached out, gently grabbed your chin, and his soft lips met yours. Wrapped in the artificial sweetness of chocolate, he took your breath away. 

Your eyes shut and you couldn’t breathe. The fight or flight faded. Stars blinded you and you slipped back against the couch. His body mirrored your actions and he pressed forward, chasing your body. Too addicted to your lips, he couldn’t stop. You stepped into his sunlight and let his warmth flood your system. 

When he pulled away, you were filled with something burning brighter than shock. He blinked a few times and grinned. The daze hanging in your eyes and swollen lips caused his heart to swell with pride. Cheekily, he uttered the words he’d been so afraid to say. “I think you’re officially mine now.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Can I kiss you again?” 

“Please.” 

And that’s the story of how your prince charming saved your life. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz

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[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b

chapter one, second nature

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: written from a washingtonian i am tired of the misrepresentation so it is my goal to accurately portray my state… but first chapter a lil nervy havent written in a year but!! had fun writing

series masterlist! next.

The road to Forks is a familiar one, even after two years. Evergreen trees blur past your window, their towering forms casting long shadows over the asphalt as your car hums along the highway. You didn’t realize how much you missed this stretch of Highway 101 till now–how the trees leaned in like close friends, how the air smelled like rain (because of course it does), how the damp air curled in through the cracked window and made everything smell like pine needles and rain. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel following the beat of the radio, restless.

Your phone buzzes in the passenger seat.

Jake: You close yet?

A smile tugs on your lips. You can practically hear the impatience in his text.

You: Like 20 min out. Chill

Jake: Chill?? I’m literally pacing right now

You roll your eyes but a smile tugs on your lips. Jacob Black has always been like this–all energy, no patience. Some things never change.

Jacob Black. Your best friend since before you could spell your own name. You had shared everything with him growing up–scraped knees, projects in his garage, secret forts built from moss and driftwood down by First Beach. And as you drive past The City of Forks Welcomes You sign, your chest warms.

The last time you were here, you were fourteen, saying goodbye with a promise of a visit. Your dad’s job pulled your family to the buzz of Kirkland, where everything was cleaner, faster, and more modern. But life got in the way, as it does–school, your dad’s new job, the four-hour distance between Kirkland and Forks. Still, you and Jake kept in touch. Late-night calls, stupid texts, the occasional letters (because Jake thought it was funny to mail you doodles of his terrible car sketches and self-portraits). Still, Forks was yours in the way it mattered and now, thanks to your parents’ sudden, nostalgic purchase of a cozy summer house on the edge of town, it could be again.

You weren’t the same girl who had left, and from his photos, he wasn’t the same Jacob, either. He’d grown taller, broader. His baby face and chubby cheeks you used to pinch sharpened into somethin old, something you didn’t quite know how to name. And still–he was Jacob. Your best friend.

But now, you’re back.

Your parents arrived yesterday to get the house ready and you had stayed behind to finish packing, insisting on driving yourself. You needed the time to think and to tame your nerves.

Because Jake is… Jake.

When you were kids, it was simple. He was the little boy who taught you how to skip rocks, who let you steal bites of his fry bread at the rez cookouts he would invite you to, who tried to feign annoyance but eventually grin when you called him Jakey just to annoy him.

But now? You’re not sure who he is. What you guys are.

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake: I’m at your house btw

Jake: Tick-tock you better not be bailing on me

You scoff.

You: ?????

Jake: Your mom said I could wait for you so hurry up

Of course he was. You groan, but your pulse kicks up anyway.

You could see your parents were already inside the house by the time you pulled up–a modest, moss-draped place tucked between pines, just off a gravel road. Your parents’ car is parked out front. Right next to it is a black motorcycle.

Your stomach flips.

Slowly, you pull into the driveway right behind the already car park, take a deep breath, and step out. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. The front door is slightly ajar and you push it open.

“Mom? Dad?” No answer. You drop your bags in the foyer and head up the stairs, looking for your room at the end of the hall–

And then you see him.

Jake is leaning against your bedroom door frame, arms crossed, impatiently tapping his foot. He’s taller. A lot taller. His shoulders are broader, his frame more solid than the lanky boy you remember, and his hair was shorter now, shaggier, like he hadn’t bothered with it much. And when you made eye contact, his face looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe and something passed between you in the silence.

“Hey,” you said. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

“Took you long enough,” his face twitches slightly and he snaps out of whatever trance he was in, now grinning like he’s just won something.

“Shut up,” you reply, but you’re smiling.

He pushes off the doorframe and closes the distance between you in two strides. He pulled you into a hug that wrapped around your whole body. His warmth is immediate and almost startling, like standing in front of a bonfire. His hand lingered at your back a moment longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. You missed him. A lot.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

You smile against his chest. “Missed you too, Jakey.”

He exhales sharply and chuckles, like the words punched the air out of him. Then, slowly, his arms tighten around you.

“You still gonna call me that?” his voice is low, but there’s that familiar teasing lilt in it.

You pull away from him and look up to meet his eyes, smirking. “Mhm. Deal with it.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Please,” you say, stepping back with a grin. “You’d cry if I stopped, just like how you always did.”

“Only a little,” he shoots back, and there’s a spark in his eyes now, brighter than you remember. You’re not sure what it is–relief, maybe, or him just being awkward and shy.

Before you can reply, the sound of the front door creaking wider makes both of you glance down the stairs.

“Sweetie?” your mom calls up. “Is Jake still here?”

He winces slightly, already backing toward the stairs. “I should probably–”

“You’re staying for dinner!” she shouts before he can finish.

You blink. “Wow, ambushed.”

“I’ve been here ten minutes, she’s already planning the menu,” Jake mutters under his breath, then louder: “Uh–I mean, I don’t want to intrude–”

“Nonsense! You’re basically family.” your mom responds brightly.

He glances back at you, eyebrows raised, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “You set me up.”

“I did not. She just knows you too well. Besides, you’re the one that came her before I even got to Forks.” Jake just shakes his head and shoots you a glare, muttering something under his breath as he follows you down the stairs. You can feel the energy buzzing off him–slightly nervous, but trying not to show it. He’s still smirking like an idiot, but it’s more to himself now, like he can’t quite believe he’s here again either. With you, in person, not over text or call.

The house smells like Mrs. Meyers lemon cleaner and whatever your mom is preparing in the kitchen. Jake hesitates in the foyer, glancing toward the kitchen like he's debating a quick escape, but your mom appears before he can make a move. She wraps him in a hug like no time has passed and Jake stiffens for just a second before relaxing into it, careful and gentle in a way that makes you smile softly.

“You grew up on us,” she says, pulling back to look him over. “Look at you!”

Jake rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed but smiling. “Still the same guy. Just a bit taller.”

“A bit? You always did shoot up like a weed,” she laughs, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. We’ve got enough to feed a whole pack.”

He blinks at her words and nods. “Yeah. Starving.”

And then your dad strolls in from the backyard, wiping his hands on a rag, the scent of grass and sprinkler water trailing behind him. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the only kid in this town I trust near a sprinkler system. Bet you could fix ours without even looking at it.”

“I’m your guy.” he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck again. It was always a small habit you noticed he did when he felt awkward, shy, or nervous.

Your dad claps him on the shoulders as he passes. “Glad to see you again, kid.”

And just like that, he is. Wrapped into the space like he’s always belonged, fitting in the rhythm of it, even if the walls are different. Even if everything is different.

You watch him as he sinks into the chair next to yours, still buzzing a little like he doesn’t know where to put all the energy. He’s quiet now, but not in a bad way–more like he’s soaking it in, anchoring himself to something familiar. You slide a glass of water toward him and he takes it without looking, but his fingers brush yours for half a second too long.

And while he’s still Jake, it’s not exactly the same. But neither are you.

[sv3t1ana]

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ protectiveness?? themes of depression, mentions of weapons, planning for a heist, cute FLUFF for two criminals, stealing a vehicle, cigarette smoking, scouting, he calls you good girl!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.0k

Chapter 6.

Sukuna shakes you awake, palm pressing into your shoulder, fingers heavy and warm. The weight of his touch lingers, an anchor dragging you back from the depths of sleep.

“Wake up,” he says, voice slow. His sharp face is too close, the burn of his eyes the first thing you see as your eyes flicker open.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Your voice groggy, thick with sleep.

“Got somethin’ lined up. You in, or you need more beauty rest?”

You blink at him, mind tangled in the remnants of sleep. Something feels off. Not wrong, just different. You don’t remember your dreams, but you can usually recall the weightlessness of them, how your body sank into rest so deep it felt like falling into nothing. And yet, here you were awake, feeling clear-headed. The best sleep you’ve had in years, despite the circumstances. Despite the ache in your limbs and the scratch of an old blanket against your skin.

“Fine. What’s the job?” You push at his chest, a futile attempt to get him out of your space. He settles back into his haunches.

“Bank vault. Big payout. But it’s not some dumb smash-and-grab. We do this clean.”

He stretches, body shifting as he sits at the foot of the bedroll, taking up too much space, always too much space. His presence is a silent command against your senses. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

“So why the fuck are you waking me up now?”

He shrugs. “We gotta move. New hideout. And we gotta figure out how the fuck we’re pullin’ this off.”

The drive is long, leaving yet another city. Another desolate stretch of nowhere, just far enough from prying eyes. The motel Sukuna picks is a step above the last, a rare indulgence. Two beds, fresh sheets, bulbs that actually work. Apparently he has connection here, someone on the inside slipping him a room off the books. It’s cleaner, quieter. The kind of place people check into but never talk about.

He moves like a man with a ticking clock beneath his skin. Always on edge, always looking for the next move. You’ve never seen him sleep, not really. Even now, after hauling bags into the room, he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling you back outside.

“Let’s go.”

The car is stolen, rusted, an old sedan sure not to draw attention. It sputters to life as he navigates through empty streets.

The restaurant is one of those places that exists outside of time. A 24-hour diner tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store, the kind of place where the coffee tastes like burnt rubber and regret. The sign outside is sun-bleached, letters peeling at the edges. The door creaks when pushed open, the smell of stale cigarettes filling your nose before you even took a step in.

The floor is sticky, red leather booths cracked and patched with duct tape. A lone jukebox sits in the corner, humming some slow, bluesy song. The waitress behind the counter looks like she’s been working here since the place opened.

Sukuna slides into a booth near the window, stretching an arm along the back of the seat. You settle across from him, glancing at the laminated menu.

“Really? Out of all the places, this is where you bring me?” you ask.

His teeth flash. “What? Too fancy for you?”

You snort. “I think I can feel the FDA violations from here.”

He gives a short chuckle before glancing out the window, expression unreadable. The street outside is slick from last night’s rain, broken blinds casting thin lines of light across his face.

“So,” you prompt, “you gonna tell me more about the heist, or are we here to test our immune systems?”

He flips a sugar packet between his fingers before tearing it open and dumping it into his coffee.

“Bank vault. Big score.”

Your eyes narrow. “Yeah, you mentioned that. But you still haven’t told me how we’re getting in.”

He grins, unbothered. The waitress sets down a plate in front of you, waffles, burnt at the edges, cold in the center. He ordered for you, of course. Asshole.

“That’s where you come in,” he says, pouring way too much syrup over his own food. You never pegged him as the type to have a sweet tooth.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to scout. Go in like a regular customer. Watch the guards. Count cameras, exits, all the good shit.”

“Alright, what else?”

“There’s an alley behind the bank. Check for a back entrance. Some places have emergency exits leading to employee-only areas. We could use that for our escape.”

You nod. “So what’s your lazy ass gonna do?”

He laughs, unbothered. “I’ll handle the fun part. Gettin’ our weapons and gear. Can’t exactly walk in there with no armor and expect to come out alive.”

The morning passes like this, half-eaten food, plans laid out between sips of burnt coffee. Sukuna finishes your waffles without a second thought, barely reacting when you push the plate toward him in disgust. He eats just like he moves and fights, deliberate, all-consuming, like the world owes him everything and he’s here to collect.

After the horrible meal, you both walk over to the pawn shop. It’s dimly lit, air thick with dust, the scent of old metal and desperation. Shelves are stacked with stolen jewelry, forgotten heirlooms pawned for rent money, and cheap firearms locked behind a scuffed glass counter.

The man working behind the counter barely glances up. He’s burly, shoulders hunched forward with exhaustion, the kind that settles into the bones. Bags sag beneath his eyes, beard unkempt and flecked with gray.

“What do you need?” He rasps, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.

“Two phones. Cash deal.” Sukuna’s voice is measured, no room for negotiation.

The pawn shop owner grunts, barely acknowledging you two as he bends to drag out a plastic bin filled with burner phones, cheap, pre-paid models with screens cracked like old porcelain, key letters worn to nothing. He slides it across the counter. “Pick.”

You sift through them, fingers brushing over devices that have passed through too many hands, seen too many secrets before being discarded like spent bullet casings. You pull out two of the least battered models. Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate before throwing a few crisp bills onto the counter, more than enough to cover the cost. An unspoken message, keep the change, keep your mouth shut.

And the owner takes the money without counting, these types of transactions routine, another brick in the foundation of his co-conspirator lifestyle.

When you step outside, Sukuna hands you one of the phones, the weight of it insignificant in your palm, the implications heavy.

“First rule,” he murmurs, sticking his pointer finger in the air. “Take the SIM out.”

He moves without hesitation, sliding the back off his phone, plucking the tiny card out with a flick of his fingers. You follow suit, prying the fragile thing loose, watching as he drops both to the ground and grinds them under his heel. Circuity crunching beneath his shoe like brittle bones. Final, absolute.

No trace.

Never a trace.

Today was like some fucking field trip, because before you knew it, you were hitting up a gas station, buying different pre-paid SIMs with cash, and now you were in some abandoned lot near a scrapyard. The scent of rust and oil clinging to your clothes.

Sukuna gets out first, and you follow suit. His eyes scan the graveyard of dead machines, picking through them like a vulture. He settles on an old black ‘97 Honda Civic, all worn down and paint chipping. No modern security, just a simple lock and ignition begging to be exploited.

He turns toward you, hands on his hips, wearing that menacing look like you’re a student getting scolded. “Lesson time. You ever hotwire a car before?” His voice turns up at the end, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You roll your eyes at him. “You really gotta ask?”

He nods toward the car, a silent command. “Then show me.”

You approach it, eyes flicking around the lot to see no cameras or eye witnesses, nothing but silence. From his bag, you fish out a thin metal tool, sliding it between the window and door frame, fishing for the lock mechanism. Your first attempt is shaky, a slight fumble. But with your second try, the door pops open with a satisfying click.

He leans against the hood, ankles crossed. “Not bad. Now, the fun part.”

You slip into the driver’s seat, ripping off the panel under the steering wheel. A nest of wires stare back at you. Your fingers work at it quickly, stripping the two you need and twisting them together. A few sparks leap into the air, then the engine roars to life, coughing out a growl like some beast being dragged from its slumber.

You glance at Sukuna, grinning for his approval. “That good enough for you?”

He chuckles before sliding into the passenger seat, legs sprawled out like he owns the place. “Drive.”

So you peel out, tires kicking up dust, heading toward the bank to scout it.

You park in a narrow alley, nestled between brick and shadow. It hums faintly, engine cooling. Close enough for escape, out of sight enough to be nothing at all.

Sukuna lingers near a newspaper stand, idly thumbing through a tabloid, its pages whispering beneath his rough fingers. A performance. He doesn’t care about ink-smeared scandals or drying print, his interest is elsewhere, tracking your movements like a silent god surveying the faithful.

The bank stands with an emblem of trust, the downtown of this foreign city thrumming around you. Voices overlapping, horns sharp in the distance, the scent of fresh espresso curling through the air. Life moves forward, blind and oblivious to the shifting current beneath its feet.

Inside, the bank breathes in wealth. Polished marble underfoot, ceiling high enough to inspire confidence. Recessed lighting gleams off the chandelier like a quiet promise to the money moving within the walls.

A glass partition is separating customers and tellers. Beyond it, a hallway stretches into the building’s bones, leading to the secrets.

Security stands at quiet attention, five in total. Two flanking the entrance, their presence seeming more like a formality than a deterrent. One stationed in the lobby, hands clasped while his gaze sweeps with absent authority. Two more are near the back hallway.

You don’t move for the counter, instead lingering in a side alcove stacked with pamphlets that promised home ownership and financial freedom. A glance, a whisper of calculation. There, in the far right corner, a door.

No keypad or reinforced lock, just a push-bar exit meant for employees. It leads somewhere, a maintenance alley? Parking? Either way, it’s a way out.

The burner phone is cool in your grip as you lift it to your ear, expression usual as you murmur low, a quiet thread only Sukuna can hear.

“Five guards. Two at the entrance, one on patrol, two by the back.”

His voice slips through the other line. “Armed?”

“Standard pistols. No rifles, no vests.”

A soft scoff. “Tch. They’re underestimating us.”

“There’s a back exit too, no security lock, just a push-bar.”

Silence, then, “good girl. Then that’s our way out.”

The counter gleams sterile as you approach. The teller, a woman in her late thirties, offers a practiced smile, so professional and polished.

“Welcome. How can I assist you today?”

“Thinking about opening a business account.” You let your tone dip into casual interest, the edge of idle concern. “Just wanting to know how secure you guys are. I had some issues with my last bank.”

She adjusts her glasses. “We take security very seriously. Armed guards during business hours, 24/7 surveillance, timed locks on the vault.”

“Timed locks?” You feign curiosity, tilting your head just enough. “So, like, no one can just walk in and open it?”

“That’s correct. Even employees can’t override the system. It’s a built-in safety measure.”

As she speaks you shift, angling slightly so you get a different view through the glass partition. Past the hallway you can see the vault, a steel monolith, matte black, heavy. Positioned at the end of a short corridor, tucked just out of sight from the main lobby.

You nod, taking a pamphlet at random, flicking your gaze across it without reading. You step away after thanking the teller, slipping between civilians.

Your phone is back at your ear before you reach the door.

“Got everything we need. Meet me back at the car.”

His reply drips with amusement. “Try not to sound so smug about it.”

The alley yawns ahead, Sukuna waiting, a smile carved into his face like a wolf at leisure.

Time to plan the hit.

Later that night the motel room is quiet, save for the distant sounds of traffic outside and the slow, steady burn of your cigarettes. You and Sukuna sit on opposite beds, mirroring each other, the space between you thick with smoke.

He takes a drag, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, watching the ember glow at the tip before exhaling. “You ever think about the past?” His voice is rough, casual, like he’s not about to admit something real. “There used to be a time where I didn’t give a shit about anything. I was in and out of jail for small-time robberies to get by, some real dumb shit.” he laughs, amused at his own recklessness.

You study him through the haze. “Why did you do it?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then his eyes drop to the floor, fingers tapping against the cigarette in thought. “My little brother, Yuji.” His voice quieter now, rough in a different way. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, y’know? I wasn’t trying to be some big-time criminal, just wanted ‘em to be safe.”

He flicks the cigarette into the glass ashtray, watching as the ashes scatter. “It just spiraled. I got in too deep, so I just roll with the tide now. Stay a step ahead.”

There’s a pause, he glances at you. Catching your face, expression dull, something that makes him sigh as he rests his elbows on his knees. “But what’s the point of thinkin’ about it now? Shit’s already been done. No turnin’ back.”

He leans back against the mattress, arms folded beneath his head and exposing the ink on his bare chest. You let your eyes trace the dark lines, the stories etched into his skin before finally speaking. “But don’t you ever think about getting out? Like, retiring? A family? A house? A life that doesn’t involve all… this?” You gesture vaguely to the scattered weapons on the floor, the silent proof of the world you live in.

He tilts his head at you, abs flexing as he shifts to meet your gaze. His lips curl, laughter slipping past them. “Me? A house with a fenced-in backyard? A fuckin’ dog? You got a beautiful imagination, doll.”

But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the smirk on his lips. It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, but you caught the crack in his armor.

So you press. “Yeah, but no, really. There should be more to life than just being on the run always, right? Don’t you want more than this?”

His expression shifts as he weighs your words. Then, he tilts his head, all playfully like a puppy. “What about you, huh? This what keeps you up all night?”

You blink, caught off guard and accidentally answering too honestly. “No. I don’t think about it. I never even thought I’d make it to this age.”

That does something to him, and you see it. It’s subtle, the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch slightly before curling into his palm. His expression softens, just slightly, gone before you can call him on it.

He pushes up from the bed, discarding his cigarette before clapping his hands against his thighs and standing. The floor creaks under his weight as he moves to switch off the light. “Tell you what,” he says, voice lighter. “If we pull this off, if we can make it through, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Without another word, he’s climbing into bed, back to you, leaving you sitting in the dark with a cigarette still curling between your fingers.

So you retreat as well, crushing the cigarette before turning and tugging the sheets up.

Sukuna.

A man of contradictions, cold and calculating, ruthless and strangely human. There’s a darkness in him you can’t grasp, a hunger that keeps him moving forward. And yet, in the flicker of a moment, his guard falters and you catch a glimpse of something softer. Not exactly vulnerability, but the remnants of a past he can’t outrun. A past that continues to shape him in ways he doesn’t even seem to understand.

You can’t figure it out. Shifting under the covers and exhaling into the air.

Part of you wonders if there’s more to him than just bloodshed and violence. Maybe he’s a man trying to make sense of a world that’s constantly breaking him. Or maybe, he’s simply a monster who’s learned how to wear the skin of someone who isn’t.

And then there’s you. Why are you still here? Why do you play this game with him, knowing full well what he’s capable of? Why does the weight of his eyes make you shiver and pull you in simultaneously, tethering you to him in ways that feel inevitable?

It couldn’t just be the thrill of the job. You know that much. If it were, you would’ve walked away after the first heist. Instead, it’s something about the way he moves through the world, something about the way he doesn’t apologize for who he is.

Is that what you want?

He’s the chaos you don’t know how to escape, the question that never stops echoing in your mind.

You don’t trust people. That was something you established long ago, only engraving further in your mind when Hakari turned his back.

Why you? You’re subpar at best, not the smartest nor the most experienced. He could have anyone. But he keeps offering you these jobs, willing to teach you if need be.

You stare at the ceiling, probably for the thousandth time in your life.

You might be starting to want it.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent, @garden0fyves

[whore4mattsturniolo]

A Tripouts Family Funeral

In loving memory of @submattenthusiast Sunrise: August 27, 2024 Sunset: April 16, 2025

The drive to the wake was unusual, the silence deafening. Rylee’s Jeep—once full of life, music, and joy—was now saturated in grief. The air inside the white car was thick, literally and figuratively. There were too many of you crammed into the tight space. Limbs tangle, purses jab into ribs, and someone's dress keeps riding up no matter how much adjusting gets done. Everyone is trying to get comfortable, trying to ignore the grief that’s wedged itself into every crevice.

Despite the vehicle being packed with warm bodies, two were still missing.

“Where the hell are Onna and Chris?” Genesis asks from the passenger seat, their voice slicing through the silence. They glance around, taking count. “They know Jules’ wake is today?”

Genevieve speaks up, her breath shallow from being squished from every direction. “Maybe they crashed,” she says, making you smirk. “You know neither of them can drive.”

In an instant, the Jeep erupts into a fit of familiar laughter. The car practically shook from the chaos. Cackles bounced off the windows and back into your faces, warmth and comfort momentarily returning to the group. If you weren’t all dressed in black—aside from Nick, who just had to be different—it would’ve almost felt like a normal car ride.

Besides Onna and Chris, there was still one more person missing.

Jules.

And unlike the couple, Jules wouldn’t be making a fashionably late entrance. She was gone. Forever.

The laughter dies down fast, swallowed by the hum of the engine. Music plays softly through the speakers, curteousy of Matt. He queues songs with shaky hands, trying to focus while Rory’s silent judgment burns into his neck. As the Role Model song fades, another song clicks into place.

2009 by Mac Miller.

There’s a collective breath. Shoulders stiffen. Heads nod slowly, almost reverently. Matt’s eyes glass over immediately. He tries to sing along, but his voice cracks halfway through the first line. You glance at the others just as he crumbles, burying his face in Rory’s shoulder, clinging for dear life. Rory, with the most affection she can muster, gently pats his back, groaning as her dress get soaked in his tears.

“He’s cried eight times and we haven’t even made it to the funeral,” Ilsa mumbles. You fish yet another tissue from your purse and toss it toward the backseat, not even bothering to see if it makes it to the crying figure.

“Shut up, Ilsa,” Matt snaps, his voice muffled and wet as he dabs at his face with the soft fabric. “You don’t know what this song means to me. To us.”

Everyone groans in unison—half exhausted, half affectionate. He's said this exact sentence at least ten times.

“This was the song we played… the last time we…” His words trail off, broken by a sob that doesn’t quite make it out. Just a soft wheeze. The lump in his throat was too big, the grief too loud.

You’re all halfway through comforting him, yet again, when the car pulls up outside the funeral home. As everyone's gaze turns to face the building, time seems to slow. The building looms ahead like a dream you can’t wake from. Because it wasn't a dream. It was real life.

This is it. The last time you’d see your best friend.

You glance at yourself in the visor mirror, blinking fast to keep the tears from smudging your eyeliner. If you cry now, your whole face will be ruined. Jules would never forgive you for showing up looking busted.

The cold air slaps you as you step outside, raising goosebumps up your arms. Inside, the funeral home smells of fake flowers and lemon cleaner, like the room is trying to disguise itself as welcoming. The overhead lights buzz faintly, as if they were in mourning too.

Everyone looks… off. Dimmer than usual.

Rylee looks the most out of place. She’s always so pink, so delicate, like the human version of a Valentine’s card. But today, she’s a shadow, wearing all black. A silky black bow she’s swapped in for her usual white one rests in her freshly bleached hair, the ends curling neatly around her collarbone.

Matt looks wrecked. His curls are still frizzed at the edges from you half-ass detangling them this morning, your fingers still smelling faintly of conditioner. His blue eyes are dull, buried behind purple bags that no amount of concealer could cover. Still, he’s trying. He’s clean-shaven, dressed in a sharp black suit, wearing his favorite Dior tie. The same one Jules used to tie around his wrists.

Rory is the quietest. She stands like a statue next to Matt, one hand gripping his sleeve like she’s anchoring him to the ground. Her makeup is perfect, liquid eyeliner winged so sharp it could cut, but her eyes were blank, her lips, painted in a berry color, in a subtle pout. She’s been staring at the same corner of the room for ten straight minutes, still trying to come to terms with the whole idea. She blinked a few times, convinced that she would wake up to Jules laying in between her and Matt, and everything would go back normal. But, it doesn't happen.

She keeps staring at that same corner, Matt's rough yet delicate fingers gently, carefully, intertwining with hers.

You file in quietly with the rest of the group, movements small, tight. No one really knows what to say, how to console one another. You all move in sync like a school of fish, with some holding hands and others holding back tears. There's something sacred about the silence, how heavy and intimate it is.

Just as the room settles into that weird hush again—the kind that only happens in funeral homes and waiting rooms—the front doors burst open. Heads turn toward the entrance. A couple of old ladies clutch their purses. Every head in the room jerks toward the entrance. A hush falls like a dropped curtain. Somewhere in the back, Genesis mutters, "Fix it, Jesus."

Here she go. You think to yourself, exhanging glances with the rest of the group. You know who it is before you even look

Onna stumbles in first, stilettos clicking violently against the tile like a Fashion Nova model. She’s wearing a tight, black dress with a slit so high it should be illegal, a pair of oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes. She brushes her hair out of her face, straightened to perfection, as she enters the room. Her calm, almost joyful demeanor starkly contrasts the depressing feeling of the wake.

Behind her, Chris fumbles in with a wrinked button-up shirt, obviously ironed out with his hands right before he left. His socks were mismatched, one gray and the other navy blue, while the belt on his pants holds on for dear life. He’s juggling Onna's purse, his keys, and a phone with 3% battery. He's chewing gum like its oxygen as Onna holds onto his arm, the pair approaching the group, surrounding the soft, gray couch near the entrance.

“We made it,” Onna announces, like this is a family reunion and not your best friend’s funeral. “Y’all didn’t start without us, right?”

Genesis looks at her, unblinking. "You're an hour late," they say, holding back the smirk that always managed to creep across their face whenever Onna was near.

“Chris' dumbass missed the exit.” Onna gestures toward Chris like she’s giving a courtroom testimony. "You know they be handing out driver's licenses like Halloween candy," she mutters.

Chris shrugs, still chewing on his gum. “I was emotionally distracted.”

“You were listening to Future.”

“Grief hits different for everyone, damn.”

Onna and Chris make their rounds, greeting and everyone they saw with hugs and words of sympathy, before reaching you. Chris reeks of weed, barely covered by the heavy Dior Sauvage he always drenched himself in.

"S'good to see you," you hum, wrapping your arms over Onna's shoulders. Despite their lateness, you were still happy to see her. She always lit up every room she entered, always cracking her jokes with a booming, infectious laugh.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Matt lets out a choked laugh that turns into a hiccup-sob. Ilsa covers her face, giggling through her fingers. The moment breaks the tension like glass, and weirdly, it helps. Like their ridiculous entrance was the only thing that could crack open the emotional pressure in the room.

After some more minutes of small talk, exchanging stories, and repeating inside jokes, you each make your way into the main room. Rylee goes in first, then Rory, then Matt, who immediately fumbles for a tissue and dabs under his eyes. You slide in next to them. Nick follows, still managing to look like he doesn’t care even though you know better. Ilsa and Genevive linger a moment, before sitting beside Nick. Genesis is the last to enter, before Onna shimmies close next to them, the two murmuring to one another, holding back their combined laughter that always reminded you of two hyenas. Chris follows and plops down beside Onna.

The group settles again, now complete. Almost. Jules’ absence is still loud, but for a second, the ache softens. The pew creaks beneath the weight of your grief. Everyone sits shoulder to shoulder, knees knocking, heads bowed. A quiet settles over the group—quiet, but not peaceful. It's the kind of quiet that screams. No one looks at the casket. Not yet. But it's there, just barely in your peripheral. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Slowly, anxiously, you look up, seeing pictures of Jules surrounded in flowers. Her friends, her life, her family. Everything about her was now confined to stills. Pictures that could hardly illustrate the light that Jules was.

"Now why they got Jules in that big ass casket?" You hear Genesis whisper to Onna, barely stifling giggles as the rest of the guests fill out the room.

Onna lets out a hum, breathing hard and trying not to bust out laughing during her best friend's wake. "You know I woulda been pissed. Got her lookin' big as a house." The pair shares a silent fit of laughter, holding onto each other for dear life. The sounds of nostalgia warm your heart just enough for a smile to creep across your face as you're reminded of simplier times.

The rest of the wake goes by painfully slow. Someone sings All for Me by John Legend as an opener, sending your entire row into hushed cackles, each of you begging the others to quit before you were formally excused. Family members share stories from Jules' childhood, up until her untimely death.

Out of all your friends, Matt decides to speak first. Well. He tries.

You all walk up together, you're shielding him from the weight of the moment. Matt's clutching Rylee and Rory like human crutches, his legs already jelly, his breathing shallow. He’s trying to be brave, but you can feel the unraveling.

Then he sees her.

Jules. Lying there in that form fighting, bubblegum-pink Juicy Couture tracksuits. Her hair is laid, her lashes curled, and her lip gloss still fire. She looks like she’s asleep. Like any minute she’ll sit up and start laughing at everyone in the room.

And that’s what breaks him.

Matt lets out a guttural, animal-like sob, collapsing to his knees with a loud, wet thud. His arms fling over the casket like he’s about to climb in with her. “JULES! NO! PLEASE!” he wails, shaking so hard Rylee stumbles in her heels, trying to keep her balance.

Everyone gasps. The entire room stills. A baby starts crying in the back.

“Oh, my God,” Ilsa mutters under her breath, hiding behind her program.

“Get him up,” Genesis hisses. “Before Jules’ mama get us out.”

But it’s too late. Matt’s thrashing now, clinging to the edge of the casket, shoulders heaving like he's been shot in the chest. “Take me with you!” he sobs. “She was my everything—”

"Matt, get the FUCK UP," Rory snaps, yanking at his arms, trying to save the little dignity they still had left. "You're embarrassing yourself—"

But then she looks at Jules.

And she freezes.

Her hand drops from Matt's sleeve, her bottom lip quivering. “Fuck—Jules...” she chokes, and suddenly she’s crying too, stumbling backward like she’s been slapped.

“Not you too,” Rylee mumbles, catching Rory before she hits the floor. "Get up, girl. Have some class."

Matt is still screaming into the casket like he’s auditioning for a Tubi movie. Rory’s gasping for air, fanning herself dramatically with the program that’s now crumpled in her fist.

Genesis pulls out a vape, and Genieveve slaps it out of their hand. “I thought you were quitting?"

"Funerals stress me out."

The rest of you are left standing there—stiff and horrified—trying so hard to be respectful, while your friends are fighting the casket like it personally offended them. Nick is rubbing his temples like he’s got a migraine. Onna takes off her sunglasses and just stares at the ceiling like she's begging God for patience, holding back a laugh as she watches Chris desperately attempt to get his brother under control. A joint rolls out of his pocket amongst all the chaos, and she subtly slides it under her foot, stuffing it in her purse.

The funeral director clears her throat gently, obviously trying to move things along. A distant cousin clutches their pearls. A woman in the second pew says, “Who invited them?”

"JULES DID!" You say in unison.

You all try to lift Matt up again, but goes limp like a toddler having a meltdown. “I can't! I CAN’T! She was the love of my life!” he shrieks, snot flying.

“She was gay, Matt,” Rory sobs through her own tears, barely standing now.

“SHE LOVED ME!” he cries.

Someone behind you audibly gasps. Genesis lets out a choked laugh and immediately covers their mouth.

"Jules played with everybody's butt. Don't feel so special."

Eventually, it takes three of you to pull Matt off the floor. Rylee smooths down her dress and wipes his face with a napkin from her purse. Rory composes herself with deep, shaky breaths, her makeup miraculously surviving through the chaos. And somehow, the group gathers in front of Jules’ casket, trying to remember what the hell you even came up to say in the first place.

The silence is heavy. Snotty. Emotional.

Then Onna steps forward, her voice calm, controlled, and just a little too loud. “Um. So. Jules always said she wanted a dramatic funeral.”

Genesis continues their friend's statement. "Guess she kinda manifested that one," they let out a soft laugh, straightening out their dress and glaring at the mess that was Matthew Sturniolo, now being pushed to the back as he tried to pull himself together.

There's an awkward, hushed laughter as you all stand in front of the casket, crowding the podium that was clearly meant for only one person. But here y'all were, ten of you packed tight, each of you with unique memories of the girl in the casket. You were a mess, but above all, you were Jules' mess.

rest in peace to the baddest, the realest, the freakiest, @submattenthusiast </3 gone but never forgotten. guest starring: @sosasturns @snoopychris @mattscoquette @cvnntagious @chrattho1

[fruvittea]

late night jams

💌﹒→﹒roommate!vernon x reader ﹒ ﹒ ♪

— genre: slice of life, romance, fluff

— word count: 2.3k

— warnings? none

— synopsis: Vernon becomes your roommate after responding to an ad you posted. You quickly bond over your shared love of music, and late-night jam sessions turn into something more.

1:00 PM – Move-In Day

The apartment smells faintly of fresh paint and pine-scented cleaner when you unlock the door. Two suitcases rest by your side, and a backpack hangs off your shoulder, weighing you down as you step inside. The place is small but cozy—a combination of warm wooden floors and beige walls that will look less generic once you’ve hung up some posters. Your stomach flips with a mix of excitement and nerves. This is your first time living away from home, and though you’re ready for independence, the idea of sharing the space with a complete stranger makes your palms sweat.

You’ve only exchanged a few texts with Vernon, your new roommate. His messages were polite but sparse, like he wasn’t too keen on chatting beyond the basics. He mentioned he’d arrive a bit later, so you’ve got the apartment to yourself for now. You drag your suitcases into the room on the right, claiming it as your own. The window overlooks the street below, where cars hum by and people walk briskly, the late afternoon sun glinting off storefront windows.

By the time you’ve unpacked a few essentials and stacked your books on the desk, a knock sounds at the door. Heart thudding, you head to the living room and open it. There stands Vernon, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a guitar case in his other hand. His dark brown hair falls slightly over his eyes, and he gives you a small, lopsided smile.

“Hey, you must be…” he starts, trailing off as he glances down at the paper taped to the doorframe with your names on it. “Yeah, you. I’m Vernon.”

“And you must be Vernon,” you reply with a grin, stepping aside to let him in.

“Nice place,” he says, setting his things down and looking around. “Smells like a pine forest, though.”

You laugh, feeling some of the tension ease. “Yeah, I think they overdid it with the cleaning spray. It’ll wear off.”

He nods and gives you another small smile before heading to the room on the left. You’re not sure what to expect from him, but his quiet demeanor makes you think he’ll be easy to live with.

-

9:00 PM – The First Jam

Later that night, the apartment is quiet except for the low hum of your laptop. You’ve spent the evening settling in and scrolling through social media, and you’re just about to call it a night when a soft melody drifts through the walls. At first, you think it’s coming from outside, but then you realize it’s Vernon.

You press your ear to the door, curiosity getting the better of you. He’s playing the guitar, the notes soft and smooth, accompanied by a low voice humming a melody. It’s unpolished but soothing, like he’s just idly strumming to unwind.

Unable to resist, you knock on his door. The music stops abruptly. “Yeah?” comes his muffled voice.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “But that sounded… really nice. Are you working on something?”

The door opens slightly, and Vernon’s face appears. He looks a bit sheepish, his guitar still in his hands. “Oh, uh, thanks. Just messing around.”

“Do you… mind if I listen?” you ask, surprising yourself.

He hesitates for a moment but then steps back, letting you in. His room is sparse, with only a few belongings scattered around—a stack of notebooks on the desk, a small speaker by the window, and a record player in the corner. He sits back on the edge of his bed, cradling the guitar.

“It’s nothing special,” he says, but when he starts playing again, the soft chords fill the room with warmth. You sit cross-legged on the floor, watching as his fingers move effortlessly over the strings.

“Do you write your own stuff?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah, sometimes. It’s more of a hobby, though. Helps me clear my head.”

You find yourself mesmerized, not just by the music but by the way he seems completely at ease when he plays. It’s like the quiet, reserved Vernon you met earlier fades away, replaced by someone more open and free.

-

12:00 AM – Late-Night Confessions

What starts as one song turns into an impromptu jam session. Vernon hands you a notebook filled with lyrics, asking for your opinion. You’re surprised by how raw and honest his words are, a glimpse into a side of him you didn’t expect.

“These are really good,” you tell him, looking up from the page. “Why don’t you share them with anyone?”

He shrugs, fiddling with the tuning pegs on his guitar. “I don’t know. It’s personal, I guess. And, I mean, who’d want to hear this stuff anyway?”

“Are you kidding?” you say, incredulous. “People would love this. You’re really talented.”

His cheeks flush slightly, and he gives a small, embarrassed laugh. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”

The two of you end up talking well into the night, sharing stories and bits of your lives that you wouldn’t normally share with someone you’d just met. There’s something about the quiet intimacy of the moment that makes it easy to open up. By the time you finally head to bed, you’re struck by how comfortable you feel around him already.

-

Two Weeks Later

Living with Vernon quickly becomes easier than you’d imagined. He’s tidy, respects your space, and, most importantly, he’s just… good company. You find yourself looking forward to the evenings when the two of you sit in the living room, him with his guitar and you with whatever book or project you’re working on.

One night, you’re in the middle of cooking dinner when you hear Vernon humming in the kitchen. He’s scrolling through his phone, absently tapping a rhythm against the counter.

“That’s catchy,” you say, stirring the pot on the stove. “What is it?”

He looks up, startled. “Oh, just something I’ve been working on. It’s not done yet.”

“Can I hear it?”

He hesitates but then nods. Grabbing his guitar from the corner of the room, he plays the melody he’d been humming, adding a few lyrics. It’s rough, but you can hear the potential in it.

“You’ve got to do something with this,” you say. “Seriously, Vernon, this is too good to keep to yourself.”

He laughs softly. “Maybe someday.”

-

Late Night Breakthrough

Weeks turn into months, and your late-night jam sessions become a ritual. One night, Vernon asks you to help him come up with a chorus for a song he’s stuck on. You’re hesitant at first, but he insists, handing you the notebook and encouraging you to try.

“Just write whatever comes to mind,” he says, strumming a few chords. “There’s no wrong answer.”

You take a deep breath and scribble down a few lines, then hand it back to him. He reads them over, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “This is great,” he says, his tone sincere. “Really. Let’s try it.”

As he sings the lyrics you wrote, you can’t help but feel a swell of pride. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he values your input means more than you expected.

-

8:00 PM – The Apartment’s Atmosphere

The apartment feels alive tonight. Vernon’s guitar case leans against the couch, and the coffee table is strewn with lyric-filled notebooks and empty cups of tea. The faint scent of vanilla candles mingles with the cool breeze slipping through the slightly ajar window. It’s a typical scene for you and Vernon, but tonight, there’s a new energy.

After weeks of brainstorming, tweaking melodies, and scribbling down lyric ideas at odd hours, one of Vernon’s songs finally feels complete. It’s a quiet victory, marked by his satisfied grin as he strums the last chord. You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug, your fingers resting on a notebook, feeling like you’ve been part of something bigger than yourself.

“It’s done,” Vernon announces, his voice light with relief. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’ve been working on it for so long,” you say, your grin mirroring his. “It’s amazing, Vernon. Seriously.”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, his expression softening. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All those late nights and random ideas you threw out? They made a difference.”

Your heart swells at the compliment. “I just threw out words. You’re the one who turned them into something magical.”

He shakes his head. “It’s a team effort.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence as the final chord lingers in the air. You both sit there for a moment, basking in the shared accomplishment.

-

9:30 PM – The Idea

“You should share it,” you blurt out, breaking the silence.

Vernon’s eyebrows lift slightly, and he sets his guitar down. “Share it? Like, online?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward. “Or perform it. You’ve got talent, Vernon. People need to hear this.”

He hesitates, a shadow of doubt flickering across his face. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s personal. What if people don’t get it? Or worse, what if they hate it?”

“They won’t hate it,” you insist, your voice firm. “And even if some people don’t get it, so what? You wrote this for yourself, right? That’s what matters.”

He stares at you for a moment, his gaze searching. Then he nods slowly, a small smile playing at his lips. “Maybe you’re right.”

-

10:15 PM – Planning the Debut

You and Vernon brainstorm how to share his music with the world. He’s not one for grand gestures, so you settle on something intimate: a live stream. It’s low-pressure, just him and his guitar in the cozy apartment, playing for whoever stumbles upon the video.

“We could set up here,” you suggest, gesturing to the corner of the living room by the window. “The lighting’s nice, and it’ll feel authentic.”

Vernon nods, his confidence growing as the plan takes shape. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You spend the next hour setting up. The coffee table gets cleared, fairy lights are strung along the windowsill, and Vernon’s guitar is tuned to perfection. You even dig out an old tripod for his phone, ensuring the angle captures him and the warm glow of the room.

As the clock ticks closer to showtime, Vernon’s nervous energy becomes palpable. He paces the room, muttering lyrics under his breath and shaking out his hands.

“You’re going to be great,” you reassure him, placing a hand on his arm. “Just play like it’s one of our late-night jams. No pressure.”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

-

11:30 PM - The Performance

The live stream starts, and for the first few moments, it’s just Vernon sitting in front of the camera, his guitar resting on his lap. The viewer count is low at first, just a handful of usernames popping up in the corner of the screen. But as he begins to play, his voice steady and rich, more people join.

You watch from behind the camera, your heart swelling with pride. He’s in his element, completely absorbed in the music. The chat fills with comments, all variations of “Wow,” “This is amazing,” and “I needed this tonight.”

When he finishes the song, he looks up at the screen, his lips curving into a shy smile. “Thanks for listening, everyone,” he says, his voice soft. “This one’s been a long time coming.”

He plays a few more songs, the energy in the room shifting from nerves to something more celebratory. By the time he wraps up, the viewer count has climbed into the hundreds, and the chat is overflowing with messages of encouragement.

-

11:55 PM – Post-Show Glow

After the stream ends, Vernon leans back on the couch, letting out a long exhale. “That was… intense,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“You killed it,” you reply, plopping down beside him. “Seriously, Vernon, you were amazing. Did you see how many people tuned in?”

He grins, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, that was wild. I didn’t expect so many people to care.”

“Well, they do,” you say, nudging his shoulder. “And now they’re all going to be waiting for your next song.”

He laughs, the sound light and carefree. “No pressure, right?”

-

12:15 AM – Reflection

The apartment has settled into a comfortable quiet again, the adrenaline of the live stream fading into a warm afterglow. Vernon sits cross-legged on the floor, strumming his guitar idly, while you stretch out on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“Thanks for pushing me to do this,” he says after a while, his voice breaking the silence. “I don’t think I would’ve done it without you.”

You turn your head to look at him, a soft smile on your lips. “You would’ve done it eventually. I just sped up the process.”

He shakes his head. “No, really. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. That means more than you know.”

His words settle over you, warm and genuine, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the soft strumming of his guitar and the distant hum of the city outside.

Vernon looks up from his guitar, his gaze meeting yours. His voice is soft but steady when he adds, “…And I don’t want to lose what we have.”

His words hang in the air, and you suddenly realize just how much these late-night moments have come to mean to both of you.

As the clock strikes midnight, you feel a quiet sense of contentment. This is what home feels like—a place where late-night jams turn into something magical, where shared dreams and quiet moments become the foundation of something bigger.

And as Vernon starts to hum a new melody, you can’t help but wonder what’s next for the two of you—as roommates, as friends, and maybe, just maybe, as something more.

✴︎🪷𓈒͏ུུ̑̑. ཉ — by @fruvittea

[echantedtoon]

Compassion

Sometimes all someone needs is some compassion in this chaotic world.

The day was bright and beautiful as the mid-day light fell through the window and grazed over the few patrons still in the small cafe you worked at. The murmuring hums of light talk, generic elevator like music, and the occasional care passing by outside. It combined with the sounds from the kitchen. Clinking dishes, utilities, and the occasional shout of an order ready to be served. Relatively peaceful and normal day for those whom worked the cafe life.

It was a demanding job sometimes if you had to handle multiple orders by yourself especially if you were by yourself or happened to be short-staffed that day or if there just so happened to be a large crowd. But it wasn't a bad job. The Patrons were mostly friendly aside from the occasional Karen or grumpy person in the morning who demanded their caffeine high for the morning. It always smelt nice with the lingering scents of coffee, chocolate, and various hand made baked goods in the glass display nearby.

After a while one would even start to recognize the frequent customers visiting the shoppe's doors. The old couple that always stop by on their Sunday strolls for tea and macaroons. The man in the suit with consistent eye bags always tiredly asking for coffee in the mornings. The soccer mom that brings her children in for doughnuts every Tuesday night. Not every patron ordered something though. There was the frequent college students or bookworms that just liked to sit in the cafe and do their own things. Sometimes they'd order snacks sometimes they didn't but that was life.

It was a slow day this morning in particular.

The smells of glass cleaner mixed in with the scents of coffee and sweet vanilla as a cloth ran across the shiny glass of the display case. Inside it beheld the delicious sights within it's hold. A few cupcakes and cakes ready to be bought and eaten. Tempted to take one himself. But it'd have to come out of her pockets if she did so. Not many people had come in today either. A few in the morning for a quick coffee run before work but for now it was just her alone here. She didn't mind, it was Peaceful and quiet other than the distant sounds of the cars passing by on the streets outside.

So perhaps that's why she was caught off guard when someone did come by.

Sort of.

She saw a man around her age. But VERY strange looking. he didn't come inside but sat outside at one of the tables just stationed in front of the giant window. He had a frown set on his blue face as he sat down somberly. Maybe he felt eyes on him because pure white eyes turned to her.. And he gave her a friendly wave. She just gave a polite nod back before going back to cleaning the display case. She'd best get back to cleaning up the place while there was a lapse in crowds.

Now she wasn't sure how long time had passed between the few times she glanced up again, A second time an hour later as she was sweeping the floors, he seemed to still be looking in somberly to looking at his hands. Strange he hadn't ordered anything yet. And again a third time a little bit after that and was surprised at how hunched over he was.

Slowly he slumped forward until hid forehead pressed against the table, effectively deflating like a balloon. You'd think he was hit with the saddest news in the world. You supposed he was. The man wasn't just an ordinary man, but a mutant. It was pretty obvious by his blue skin and his unusual white eyes. As the years went by they became more and more common nowadays as with the rise of heroes but the unfortunate social stigma associated with them was unfortunately still bad. That fact hitting home as regular people on the streets have his weird or disgusted looks as they passed him by. Poor man. Perhaps that's why he was so upset today?

F/c orbs partially glanced to the display case of cakes by the register...

"Excuse me, Sur." The man didn't look up from where he was splayed out across the table and honestly she was half expecting this. "I couldn't help but notice you looked upset. Is everything ok?"

He still didn't respond for a few seconds before his face slowly looked up and your eyes widened at his face. It was unlike anything you'd ever seen. Completely.. inhuman but this man was a human even if he looked different . He seemed to be inspecting you for something as she looked around.

Her bows rose higher as she scanned his body and the table for a moment curiously. "Were you.. expecting someone?"

He slowly sat up now looking both confused and weary but accepted she was speaking to him. "Ya. Though I don' think they'll be coming from how it's been going."

Oh. She got it now. A wave of irritation washed over her as the unspoken puzzle was finished. "Ah. I see. Sounds like a doged bullet then."

The hand paused in the rubbing of his face. White eyes blinking widely up to her. "W-What?"

"Listen. I don't know much about your situation but usually if a bad thing avoids you then it's a sign you have incredible luck.

Those eyes blinked wider. "Luck? Hm. I certainly have heard nein thing before." His hands lifted upwards in a shrug motion. "There's only so many times that this happens to me before it's obvious that I'm the only one who's stuck in the middle."

"You might be in the middle but that doesn't mean you're at the bottom of the barrel..." SHe sighed and his head tilted in surprise as something was placed in front of him. A pink plastic cup of..boba tea? And..a small plate of strawberry shortcake? They pushed towards him face so he was forced to sit back up to stare at the goods-"I thought you might've been hungry from just sitting out here for so long." His face turned to him mouth opening- "It's on me so don't worry about it." She offered a smile finally. "You needed it more than we did anyways."

Those eyes blinked. "But..why?"

"Because you're the luckiest girl in the world. If someone is only surface level looking then they aren't worth the gold that buried beneath the surface they miss. And just because you look different from others that doesn't make you less of a human no matter what someone says Mister-.."

"I-.." He blinked unsure looking from the food to her again. "K-Kurt?"

 She smiled brightly at him. "Well then it's nice to meet you Mr. Kurt. Enjoy your food."

White eyes blinked widely as she turned and left him there, the shoppe door sending off a cute little bell chime as the door opened and closed behind her. He lingered a little longer as he blinked before looking back to his small plate.. Slowly a hand clasped around the fork before lifting the small piece of cake to his mouth and taking a bite.

"Hm. Not bad."

He didn't notice the smile he had gotten from inside the cafe. A sign of better things to come surely-

"A cup of coffee please, Fralin."

A pair of eyes looked up from where they were currently studying a stack of styrofoam coffee cups his hands hand been restocking nearby. F/c eyes met familiar White eyes they hadn't seen for a little over four months. A large smile on blue features that had her smiling widely back in response.

"Sure." The cups were slowly placed down and she turned to the man standing there. "Will that be everything for you then?"

"Yes. ..And perhaps something else just as sweet as last time."

The smile upon her face widened. "You got it."