#It's not the same. He's not the same. Call them by the same name and people will know what you mean...

[celiababy]

Ain't Right

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You have a major (borderline obsessive) crush on Joel, and you're on a mission to fuck him.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, age gap (56/20), swearing, fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, cum eating, name calling, kinda mean Joel, alcohol, vomiting, an extremely brief mention of suicide

Disclaimer: I lowkey don't know the logistics of the show so if some things are wrong please look over it I'm just trying to write smut about Joel Miller godbless.

Ain't Right part 2

Ever since that tortured old man showed up in Jackson, your life hasn't been the same.

Tommy's older brother, and your absolute undoing.

When Joel Miller rode into town, it was like everything suddenly made sense. The skies got clearer, the air smelled better, and the birds even chirped their love songs louder.

Everything about him drew you in; his cold demeanor, stoic face, tired eyes—but gentle around those he cared about, which was only a few select people.

And you certainly were not one of those select people.

Joel didn't know what to think about you.

To him, you were odd. Yes, you were undoubtedly the most beautiful girl in Jackson, but he felt distance between the two of you was essential.

He felt this way because he knew.

Joel wasn't oblivious to your stares; he might've been an old man, but he remembered the laws of attraction fairly well.

He didn't like the thought of you liking him.

You were young, attractive, and had plenty of age-appropriate prospects just begging for your attention. Every boy in Jackson wanted a piece of you—but you only had eyes for Joel.

He was getting old and tired, ain't no reason why you should be so fond over him.

He also didn't like that you made your attraction so obvious. It made people whisper, and Joel about had enough teasing from Tommy.

"You gonna let that young thing jump your bones or what, Joel?" Is an example of the few things his brother would chirp at him whenever you were around and had eyes on him like he was a target.

So, all things considered, it's no surprise when Joel is reluctant to make a supply run with you.

You had begged Tommy to let you go out and finally start pulling your weight, carefully adding that Joel would be a great teacher for a first timer like yourself.

You stand near the truck, squeezing the straps of your backpack while watching Joel and Tommy whisper to themselves a couple feet away.

"You can't find anyone else?" Joel growls lowly, narrowing his eyes at his insufferable brother who he’d really like to strangle right now.

"Are you seriously scared of a twenty year old girl, Joel?" Tommy asked exasperatedly, throwing his arm out in disbelief. "It'll take two hours tops, what the hell are you so scared of?" Joel is exhaling through his nose, dragging a hand down his jaw in complete disgruntlement.

"You know what the hell I'm scared of Tommy—goddammit," He gets in his brother’s face before realizing you’re still watching them.

He takes a moment to back up and calm down, breathing out through his nose.

"I do not need this town thinkin' I am encouraging this girls...feelin's." He murmurs lowly.

Tommy rolls his eyes before shoving Joel's backpack into his chest.

"Just don't fuck her, Joel. How hard could it be?"

Joel watches as Tommy turns his back and walks away, leaving just you and him.

Joel had spent a lot of time making sure he was never in a situation alone with you—now he was about to be your unsupervised mentor.

He feels a groan try and crawl its way out his throat, but he pushes it down.

He starts walking to the truck, not even looking at you as he passes and yanks the driver side door open with more force than necessary.

"Let's make this quick." He grunts out, climbing inside.

You do the same, only with a little bit more enthusiasm. ***

The trip is a complete bust.

Joel barely paid you any attention, no matter how many flirty gestures you made at him.

You'd say something remotely suggestive and he'd either glare at you, or just flat out ignore you.

But you were relentless. Giving up on him wasn't in the cards for you, no matter how many judgmental looks he casted your way.

You guys had been driving back to town for around five minutes; Joel has kept his eyes firmly on the road in fear of you sparking a conversation with him.

But you do anyways.

You turn your body to face him in the bench seat, your eyes cascading down his breath-taking side profile.

You zoned in on the gray patches of his beard, and how his face had the remnants of a long, unforgiving life weaved into his wrinkles and scars.

You're momentarily rendered speechless by his looks before he side-eyes you.

"What?" He huffs out, not being able to handle your intense stare any longer.

"Why not?"

A beat.

"What?" He asks again, his brows furrowing together, an annoyed and confused expression painting his features.

"Why won't you fuck me?"

Joel physically winces at your language, scoffing in what looks to be disgust as he starts shaking his head.

"We're not starting this." He snaps firmly, a tone in his voice that you haven't heard before.

Completely disregarding his words, you start.

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough?" Joel groans out, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Is it because there's someone else?" He's close to snapping. "Is it because you can't get it up? I heard thats a problem with guys your age-"

Joel slams on the brakes, sending you lurching forward. He shoves the truck into park before turning to face you, a scary look on his face.

"I am not going to fuck you--Christ almighty," Joel raises his voice at you.

You're staring at him, wide eyes and lips parted in surprise. You weren't really expecting this.

"you're bustin' my fuckin' balls, Look kid," He starts up again, this time with a softer tone. "M'about 40 years too old for you-"

You cut him off with a murmur. "36, I did the math."

"Same damn thing," he snaps, shaking his head. "Point is—you don't needa be wastin' your time with me; there are plenty boys your age that will satisfy your...you."

You scoff in his face but try to disguise it by clearing your throat.

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Joel," You start, a sad smile spreading across your lips. "S'just sex." You say with a shrug, blush coating your cheeks because now your mind is imagining sex with him.

He stays silent and looks away from you, closing his eyes like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

That urges you to say more.

"I won't tell anyone," You're practically whispering, looking down at your fidgeting hands in your lap. "I'd let you do anything you wanted to me."

Joel's heart cinches in his chest at your words, mostly because he can tell you're being so genuine.

Why the hell did you like him so much? He just couldn’t understand it.

But he can't entertain this any longer because he knows if he did, he'd give into you.

"I don't wanna hear another goddamn word outta your mouth." Joel says in a strikingly even and calm tone, putting the truck into drive and continuing back.

He's eerily silent, and so is the rest of the trip because you're too dejected to speak.

Eventually, you both arrive home and you're fast to get out of the truck.

You slam the door and keep your head down as you walk away, snow crunching beneath your boots.

Joel takes his time, watching you storm off with tired eyes.

He feels bad for being so rough on you, but he figured it was the only way to get you to stop liking him.

Tommy walks up, a concerned look on his face as he looks back between you and Joel.

"Guessin' you didn't fuck her."

***

Nobody had seen you in days.

The pain of rejection had you in a mental place that you had never experienced before.

No one has ever denied you—ever.

The situation was 100x worse considering you actually liked Joel, and he wasn't just another toy to play with.

Joel figured his life would get easier with you not around, and it kinda did in some aspects.

But he couldn't stop the gnawing feeling of guilt slowly eating at him like a parasite.

He'd been cruel to you in the way he went about things, and he felt bad.

Had he really broken your heart? He didn't know you liked him that much.

He sits in his living room, contemplating how to go about this entirely fucked up situation.

He debates making amends with you, apologizing and rejecting you again but in a gentler way.

He deliberates on his plan of action while nursing a glass of whiskey before he's interrupted by three bangs on his front door, followed by a screeching: "JOEL"

He mutters a 'what the fuck' under his breath, walking to the door and picking his 9mil up on the way.

His eyes widen when he sees you-standing there in all your glory.

It's the middle of winter and snowing like hell, yet you're wearing shorts and a tank top with a beer bottle in your hand.

"Jesus, kid-what the fuck," Joel ushers you inside quickly, taking his big jacket off the coatrack and draping it over you.

He also tosses his gun to the side, obviously you were no threat.

"You tryin' to get frostbit? Christ," he's swearing and muttering profanities as he guides you over to the couch, now basically swaddling you in blankets.

You've never been inside his house before, only ever walked passed it a few times. It smells like him.

You, however, smell like alcohol and bad decisions.

Joel picked up on how drunk you were the minute you stumbled through the door. He takes the bottle from your hand and sets it aside somewhere, glaring at you like how a mad parent would.

"The hell are you doin' out in the snow like that? Fuckin' death wish or somethin'?"

His words are kinda fuzzy in your ears, you're so drunk that you barely even register them.

An unprompted giggle spills from your lips as you shake your head at him.

"It's not snowing silly," You chide, making him out to be an idiot when, in actuality, it's a damn blizzard outside.

He knows from that statement alone that you are way off your rocker tonight.

"How much have ya had to drink, kid?" Joel asks, raking a hand through his graying hair.

"Don't call me kid," You snap, a quick flash of anger in your expression. "M'not a kid."

Joel rolls his eyes so hard that he probably caused a tsunami on the other side of the world.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. What are you doin’ here?” He asks exasperatedly, dragging a hand down his jaw while looking at your trembling figure.

There’s a long pause before you answer. You just got distracted by his big brown eyes.

“Jus’ wanted to say hi.” You murmur, unable to tear your gaze away from his face.

“Say hi?” He reiterates, looking at you like you’ve actually lost your mind.

You probably have.

After a moment, Joel can’t help but chuckle in disbelief, letting his body lean back against the couch.

The absurdity of it all turned humorous to him.

Here you are, sitting in his living room, practically nude with only his coat and blankets protecting your modesty, having just trekked through the snow all for what? To say hey?

You’re still sitting there, motionless and trying to remember how to breathe because his laughing face has your heart lighting off fireworks.

“Fuckin’ hell—hi.” Is all he says, turning his head to the side to look at you as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You smile like a dope at him, so extremely happy to be there in his company.

But the alcohol in your system is fighting you, and you’re finding it hard to keep your eyes open.

“S’it cool if I say the nigh?” You slur, falling vertically on the couch, your head crashing onto Joel’s thigh.

You nuzzle your cheek against the fabric of his jeans and Joel is just about to gently push you off, but he stops himself.

You look so comfortable and so at peace that Joel can’t do anything except stare at you.

Your cheek is slightly smushed, your lips are parted, your eyes are shut and don’t plan on opening—it’s insane to him how at home you looked.

Like you belonged here, head rested on his lap.

Fuck.

He was fucked this time.

He doesn’t move you. Instead, he fixes the blankets on top of you so you’re fully covered, and sits there with you the entire night.

He’s really gone soft.

***

When morning comes, you’re first to wake up, accompanied by a splitting headache.

You don’t even notice how Joel’s hand had fallen onto your waist some time during the night because you’re too busy making a b-line for the bathroom.

You chuck your guts up into the toliet, clutching the porcelain and groaning out in pain.

Joel wakes up to the sound of your hurling, momentarily disoriented before he remembers last nights events.

He’s quick to come to your aid in the bathroom, wasting no time gathering your hair in his fist to get it out of your face.

"S'right, get it all out," He murmurs out encouragingly, seemingly unfazed by the disheveled sight of you.

You’re too sick to be embarrassed, that’ll come later surely.

He sits on the wall of the tub as he continues holding your hair back, yawning every now and then like this was just a regular Tuesday morning.

Eventually, by the mercy of God, you get it all out of your system and slump up against the wall.

“M’sorry,” You immediately apologize, figuring that is the only right move in this situation.

“Don’t be. Been through plenty'a that in my day.”

His words are uncharacteristically reassuring and you find yourself taken back by them.

You soon realize this is probably just the hazy morning Joel, the Joel where he isn't worried about anything except coffee and breakfast—like everything wrong in his life is put on the back burner for this short minute in time.

“I’ll get you some water and Advil, sit tight.” He grunts before standing up on his feet, knees popping as he walks out.

You watch as he leaves, wiping the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Aside from the vomit part, you could get used to this.

You've never seen him so...domestic. His hair was all messy, his voice was raspy, he had that morning haze over his features that you felt so honored to witness.

You suddenly felt compelled to look at your own appearance, hopping to your feet and looking in the dirty mirror.

You resist the urge to audibly gasp at your reflection, opting for a disgusted look instead.

Your hair is a rats nest, your clothes are a mess, and your mascara has rubbed off in black smudge all over the skin around your eyes.

In a desperate attempt to look at least semi-presentable, you wash your face with water and comb through your hair with your fingers.

The idea that Joel had seen you looking like that was making your stomach churn again.

Before you can grovel about it any longer, he rounds the corner with a glass of water and little brown pills in his hand.

“Here,” He says softly, handing you the water and tilting the pills into your open palm. “Take these ‘n drink all that water and ya should get to feelin’ better.”

You do as he says, swallowing the Advil in one go before taking a big sip to wash it down.

His eyes drift down to your shoulder, where your tank top strap has fallen. No doubt from all that vigorous throwing up you were doing moments ago.

Without thinking, his fingers graze your forearm before bringing the strap back up to its correct position, clearing his throat in the process.

A beat of silence falls over the both of you.

You’re gobsmacked by the complete nonchalance of his touch, staring at him with your mouth slightly open in shock.

“What?” He asks defensively, his tone pointed.

You look between him and your shoulder strap, then slowly move to set your water down.

“Are you sure we can’t fuck?”

“Goddammit—” Joels cursing before you can even finish saying the last word in your sentence.

He turns away from you, probably the fastest you’ve seen anyone turn in their life, and walks towards his room with an accelerating pace.

He shakes his head in disbelief all the way down the hall, pivoting on his heel to duck into his bedroom.

You follow him, not really fazed by how he completely refused to answer your question, though you didn’t think he would anyway.

Before you can step foot into the threshold of his room, Joel walks out, causing you to back up.

He shoves a stack of clothes in your direction, looking down at you with a frustrated face. “Put these clothes on and go home.”

You look down, realizing he was letting you borrow a sweater and jeans of his so you didn’t die walking back to your house from the cold.

Your heart warms at this thoughtfulness.

Without wasting any time, you take the clothes from his hands, smiling happily. “Can I keep them?”

“Why the hell would you wanna keep my clothes?” He’s got that confused/angry look on his face as he asks, and you have to suppress a giggle at the sight of it.

You bring the pieces of fabric up to your nose and inhale, humming as you breathe out again. “They smell like you.”

“Christ,” Joel beings his hands up to rub at his eyes. “Fine, do whatever. Just hurry up and change, jesus,"

Ever the tease, you set down his clothes and begin to lift your tank top like you planned to change right in front of him.

Joel's hands shoot out to stop you, a 'don't try me,' look on his face.

"Put them on over your clothes," Joel says sternly, watching the way you sigh because you weren't fast enough in lifting your tank top off.

However, you sieze the opportunity in front of you.

Joel's hands are holding yours down, so you work to intertwine your fingers, invading his space by stepping forward.

"Or, you could take my clothes off," You purr, your chest now flush with his torso.

Joel exhales through his nose, his jaw clenching as he tried deciding how he was going to get out of this situation.

But then he paused.

Looking down at you now, so eager and wide eyed, made him wonder.

If he fucked you, and made you realize it wasn't what you were probably imagining in your head, maybe then you'd finally leave him alone.

He would just...pretend to be awful at sex.

(Even though it had been so long and he wasn't sure if he'd actually need to 'pretend' anymore.)

There's a long silence that drags out between the both of you.

Your stomach is doing flips because it's looking like he's finally going to agree.

His resolve cracks and Joel can't do anything but sigh in defeat.

Slowly, Joel pulls you back into his room, closing the door behind you both.

Time is moving in slow motion.

You can't believe it's finally happening.

He guides you back until the back of your knees hit his bed, prompting you to sit down on it.

"I'm only going to do this once," Joel's voice is uncharacteristically low and calm, and it has your core tightening.

You nod in acknowledgement, waiting to see what he's going to do next.

With care, he pushes your shoulder down so you're laying on your back. "Are you sure you want this?" He asks, brown eyes searching yours.

"Have I not made it obvious?" You quip, a giggle following shortly after.

Joel only shakes his head before his fingers latch around the fabric of your shorts, pulling them down and off your legs.

"S'pose you have." He murmurs, scratching the back of his neck.

You're vibrating with excitement and you repeat what you tried earlier, only this time succeeding with taking your top off.

Of course, you're not wearing a bra.

Joel realizes in that moment that he bit off way more than he could chew.

He hasn't seen breast that weren't on a soggy piece of paper in at least a few years, and yours--well, his cock stood no chance.

You hear him swallow, watching as he can't seem to stop staring at your chest.

Realizing that he might need a little encouragement to start speeding things along, you smile up at him and whisper, "touch me Joel".

Yeah, screw this. His plan of pretending to be bad was now entirely forgotten—he was going to do what he wanted, so help him god.

He huffs out a curse before sliding a hand up your torso, stopping once he's fully cupped one of your breasts in one hand. He kneads it like dough while using his other hand to disappear under your panties.

A choked moan erupts from your lips once you feel his fingers brush along your clit, rubbing around and spreading your slick around all too slowly.

"haven't even done anythin' yet and you're already fuckin' soaked..." He murmurs really to just himself, his eyes casting down to watch as he rips your underwear off impatiently.

"M'always like this whenever you're around," you mewl to spur him on, spreading your legs wider.

"Oh you are, huh?" Joel repeats back, the tiniest bit of cruelty in his tone that makes you shiver.

You nod, bucking your hips into his hand desperately.

"don't get why you like an old man like me, s'gross." His tone is flat but it's clear he's teasing by the way he curls his fingers inside of you. He's not really expecting a response, but you feel compelled.

You lurch forward, gasping at the feeling. "I really like you," You rush out breathlessly. "I'd do anything you wanted me to." You say earnestly as you stare into his eyes, loving what you're seeing.

Joel remembers when you told him that the first time, his heart cinching the same way it did then.

Joel is at war with himself. One side of him is screaming that this whole situation is fucked up and he is better off without you.

Another part of him thinks that this is the most he’s ever felt in a long time. And he doesn't want to lose it.

You can see the gears turning in his head. His fingers have slipped from you and you wince at the loss.

Slowly, you sit up. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, your nipples pressing into his shirt.

He's confused and momentarily panicked when your faces get so close together, his hands seeking purchase on your hips.

In an unexpected move, you rake your hands through the side of his hair, looking lovingly at his face.

"I just wanna be someone for you," You murmur, your face breaking a little as Joel's resolve also cracks. "Doesn't matter what. I'm very versatile." You mumble the last part to try and lighten the mood.

Joel just stares at you—something swimming behind his eyes that you can't quite place.

Eventually, he crashes his forehead against yours, sighing out.

"You're makin' this fuckin' impossible." He rasps before kissing you with a passion you've never felt before.

You feel victorious.

He's finally given in to you.

Eagerly, you kiss back, wrapping your legs around his torso and grinding your bare cunt against the bulge in his jeans.

"Then stop trying so hard to get rid of me," You sigh out, chasing his lips even as you're trying to speak.

He groans and you catch it in your mouth, the pressure on his clothed cock making him dizzy.

“Fuck,” He’s quick to unbuckle his belt, sliding it out of the loops and tossing it somewhere on the floor. “Lay back.” He demands and you immediately follow suit.

He's never been that...assertive with you before. It makes you tingle all over.

He looks starved as he peers down at you, specifically your cunt.

He literally can’t tear his eyes off your sex—he only looks up to your gaze when you let out an impatient whine.

He rips down his pants, letting his cock spring free and slap against his stomach.

Now you can’t tear your eyes away from his sex.

You’ve only dreamt it so many times, but now that it’s finally in front of you—it all just feels surreal.

It’s better than you imagined, perfect.

“I don’t have a—”

You know what he’s about to say so you cut him off immediately. “S’okay, like it raw. Closer to you that way.” You murmur.

Joel looks physically pained that he’s not inside you right now. For some reason, you just know all the right things to say.

“Closer to me?” He huffs out, hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you down to the edge of the bed where he stood.

Now your cunt is flush with the base of his member and the sensation drives you both insane. “You’re fuckin’ insane.”

Joel rasps, but the way he says it reveals just how far he’s fallen. He knows you’re crazy, and yet here he is, balancing you out.

He glides his member back and forth against your folds, gathering up your wetness with a clenched jaw and furrowed brows.

He looks so concentrated—meanwhile you’re writhing with pleasure and impatience. Your cunt is clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs to himself, eyes tracing all over you.

You freeze.

Joel had complimented you for the first time, and it was genuine.

He notices you stiffen and takes a moment to pause.

Your entire body erupts with goosebumps, your heart beating at exceptionally fast speeds.

He's worried for a second that something is horribly wrong.

“What?” He asks, confused at what’s got you so wound up.

Your face is flushed red as you bashfully giggle. “You called me pretty.”

Ah fuck.

Joel finds you so charming it hurts.

After he remembers how to breathe again, he rolls his eyes and clears his throat.

“I have my cock to your cunt, of course I find you pretty.”

You smile and shrug. “Still. Nice to hear.” You’re all smiles until his tip prods at your entrance, causing a gasp to leave your throat.

He continues to apply pressure with his tip and it’s driving you crazy.

“Fuck Joel—are you trying to kill me?” You whine, hips wiggling to get him in.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Relax, m’almost there.”

Slowly, he begins pushing his way inside. His mushroom head breaches you entirely and it feels like you can hear the angels singing.

He continues forward, the stretch being mainly around the middle of his thick cock.

But you’re taking it like a champ.

Joel braces himself with hands on both sides of your torso as he bottoms out, a groan crawling its way out of his throat.

The sensation is absolutely delicious.

A little bit of pain from the stretch, but so much pleasure from the fullness.

“Joel, ohmygod you feel so good inside me.” You moan, throwing your head back.

Your hips start moving on their own, but he immediately stops you with two large hands.

“D-Don’t move—fuck.” Joel grumbles out, his face pinched together in what looked like pain.

You’re confused for a moment, thinking maybe that he might just be really into cockwarming.

But then it hits you.

“Were you gonna come?” The tone in your voice makes it seem like you’d be elated if that was the case—like the most flattering thing in the world.

Joel looks pissed that you caught on so quick.

In truth, the moment he put his tip in, he was holding back his orgasm.

Can you blame him? He’s only fucked his hand for the last couple years.

“S’been a while.” Is all he can say, his chest heaving up and down in concentration. You know he’s embarrassed, but you can’t help but smile like a dope at him.

“If you come, please do it inside, please,” you beg, reaching out for his arms that caged you in.

Joel's rational mind feels like it just touched down in looney town after hearing your begging.

He feels crazy because he liked the thought of the idea you proposed. You even see him hesitate. But then he scoffs and shakes his head.

Joel drops down closer to your face, slowly starting to rock his hips into you. "Tryin' to baby trap me, girl?" He grunts in your ear, making you moan out.

Your walls are clenching down on him, and it’s making it that much harder to hold back. “No-no, promise, just wanna be full of you." You manage to blubber out...unconvincingly.

You probably didn't really want a baby with Joel, but your lust-driven brain was working on fumes and you just wanted to do what felt good.

Joel's grunting in your ear was not helping things. His fingers were gripping your hip so hard, you figured it would probably bruise tomorrow

Good. You wanted whatever he would give you.

"Christ--m'not gonna last much longer," Joel groans, picking his head up a little to meet your gaze. He wanted to kick himself for not being able to last, but when he saw your face, all those feelings disappeared.

You looked so--perfect. Soaking up the moment in case it was the last, god you hoped it wasn't the last time. Now that you've finally had a tase of him, you weren't sure you could live without it.

Your legs tighten around his waist, keeping him firmly in your cunt. Joel notices this and also your pleading eyes, a growl leaving his throat.

"Please, please, please, please," you beg, never breaking eye contact with him as his thrusts pick up speed.

He ruins your long string with pleas with a needy kiss, shoving his tongue down your throat like a starving man.

You accept it happily, moaning out into the kiss while Joel manhandles your hips to take his cock.

The feeling is damn near euphoric for both you and him. It gets even better when Joel's hand comes down to rub at your clit again.

Your back arches off the bed as you gasp and moan out, wrapping your arms back around his shoulders. "F-Fuck!" You moan into his ear, probably drooling on his shoulder in the process. "thankyouthankyouthankyou-" you sputter out in choked sobs. He was really good at working on your clit, you couldn't do anything else but thank him for it.

Joel feels a surge of something when he hears you. He's never had a woman thank him in bed before.

It's enough to push him over the edge. And apparently you too.

"I'm gonna come Joel, please don't stop," There are pools of tears in your eyes that Joel is just now noticing. He's about to reply to you, but he finds himself speechless when he feels your cunt start constricting and fluttering around him like a vice.

"Fuck!" He groans out loudly, his hips starting to falter in their rhythm. But then he picks up speed again, and in no time he's like a madman jackhammering into you.

You're a mess of screams and cries and moans underneath him, happily taking everything he was giving you.

When Joel feels himself about to come, he notices how your legs are still tightly wrapped around him, keeping him inside, and he manages to scoff out.

"Gotta let me go baby," You've never heard that pet name from him before, and it makes you crumble. His hands move to grab at your thighs, kneading the flesh there.

You whine out but reluctantly release the grip your legs had on him. Joel doesn't waste time before hugging both your legs on his chest, keeping them firmly placed while your feet squirmed by his ear.

"Atta girl," he murmurs before picking up speed again, his cock head pressing into your cervix.

It's all too much for you. Joel looks so amazing pounding into you from above, his concentrated face, his sweat, the way his salt and pepper hair is all disheveled, you're losing your mind.

Your core is on fire and you can't stop yourself.

In a staggering turn of events, you come first.

Your walls come down like bricks on his dick, you cry out, throwing your head back in complete bliss and ecstasy.

Seeing and feeling this, Joel is quick to follow in your steps. He rips himself from that warm hole of yours and pumps himself dry onto your stomach.

You watch it all with wide eyes, you wouldn't have missed Joel's orgasm face for the world!

Of course, his eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth was open as he was breathing heavily, and his eyebrows turned down like he was mad.

God he was so beautiful.

His thick ropes of cum shoot all over your stomach and even your breasts as he jerks himself off to completion.

When he finishes, he takes a moment to catch his breath, finally opening his eyes to see you scoop up his cum from your breast with your finger and shove it in your mouth.

Your tongue swirls around his seed and you swallow eagerly, humming out in satisfaction at the taste of him.

Joel's watching in complete fascination, though his expression looks a little angry. When does it not?

"taste so good," you mumble with your finger still in your mouth, looking up at him with your big eyes.

He moves before he can think about it--ripping your hand away from your lips and caging you in a slow but deep kiss.

He soon falls down beside you and soon rolls over onto his back, his chest rising and falling from the excursion.

You curl into his side, watching his side profile so intently. You had just fucked Joel Miller.

And it was everything you had dreamed of. Extreme happiness doesn't even begin to describe your feelings right now.

There's a long stretch of silence that drapes over the both of you. Eventually, Joel breaks it with something extremely off topic.

"Last night...you didn't just come here to say 'hi', did you?"

You're momentarily speechless, not expecting that question from him at all. But you can't stop a giggle from coming through your lips.

"Actually, I came to confront you." Your voice is soft as you begin speaking, thinking back to last night's ordeal.

Joel doesn't expect this answer, his head turns to look at you while you speak. His arm comes down to drape over your shoulder.

"I was really upset cus you rejected me n'all. I just couldn't accept the whole, 'age gap' excuse. I wanted to know if you just really didn't like me or not." You're murmuring, drawing soft lines with your finger on the skin of Joel's chest.

He huffs out a breath at the explanation, shaking his head. "Guess you got your answer, huh." He grumbles out, somewhat ashamed of himself that he couldn't hold back.

You smile and lean up to kiss his cheek. "I did," you chirp happily, admiring his face again. "You know you're gonna have to fuck me, like, everyday now, right?"

You're kidding. But you're also not at all.

Joel scoffs and sits up, moving to pick up both his and your shirts. "Fat chance. Barely had enough stamina for one round." He grunts out, finding the neck hole in your tank top and putting it over your head for you.

You don't bother to pull it down over your breasts so Joel does it for you.

"It's okay, we can build up your tolerance over time." You quip with a teasing smile, loving the way Joel turned to glare a you.

He couldn't believe the youth these days.

[xinganhao]

🍨 svt spoiling their partner.

★ prompt: how ot13 spoils their partner? 🥹🥹🥹 i am just a girl give me treats c/o @shinwonderful

ⓘ established relationship, pet names, fluff. headcanons under the cut. special thanks to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping! ♡

🍨 read more?

seungcheol 𖹭 planning dates. he will refuse to let you lift a finger for your day out. everything will be meticulously laid out, finetuned to be something that you'll enjoy. his goal is to lessen the mental load of decision-making and planning; he wants you to be able to focus solely on enjoying the surprise, and he'll break his back to make sure that happens.

jeonghan 𖹭 'parallel play'. even if the two of you might not be interested in the same things, that's okay. he's happiest to spend quality time with you at home, where the two of you are free to do your own thing within eachother's presence. just being in your vicinity already makes him content, and so he plans everything around the two of you getting to explore and share your respective hobbies.

shua 𖹭 acts of service. need help with your taxes? need someone to fill up your tank? he's already on it. he'll say that these are all 'little things', call it the bare minimum, when it's apparent that he makes it a conscious effort to make your day-to-day easier. his brand of spoiling you comes in the form of quietly doing things that will improve your quality of life.

junhui 𖹭 buying clothes you'll like. he can't help it, really. when he sees an article of clothing that he thinks suits your style? when he finds a local brand that shares your advoacy? he's already pulling out his wallet. he likes the idea of dressing you up. nothing makes him happier than knowing you're wearing an outfit that he entirely picked out for you.

soonyoung 𖹭 daily reasons why he loves you. people always joke that he has a bit of a motormouth, so why shouldn't he use it on talking about you, you, you? he's big on words of affirmation, on making sure you never doubt how he feels for you. he'll point out the little and big things that make him adore you, and it's never the same reason twice.

wonwoo 𖹭 indulging your interests. he may not always understand these trends— blind boxes, must-have fashion pieces, et cetera— but he'll never make you feel bad about it. if there's anything that you want, he's already doing everything within his power to get it. his greatest joy is seeing your face light up once he's gotten you your 'priority' item; it's why he keeps doing it in the first place.

jihoon 𖹭 trying new things for you. there's a long list of things that jihoon never thought he'd do, but then he started dating you. time and time again, he willingly goes out of his comfort zone to accompany you on the little adventures and experiences that you ask to go on. he does these things scared, does them anxious, does them begrudgingly,— does them all for you.

seokmin 𖹭 meals he thinks you'll like. he's the type to have dozens of tabs open for homemade recipes dot com. he knows he's an amateur at this, but he's undeterred in trying. whether it's a trending pastry on tiktok or the comfort meal that your mother makes you, he's determined to learn it so you're always eating well.

mingyu 𖹭 getting-to-know card games. he gives as good as he takes, which means mingyu's way is to listen and remember. a night where the two of you can just have deep conversations with no interruptions is his ideal evening. he will know he succeeded if the two of you end up talking until the sun rises, feeling like the hours haven't passed at all.

minghao 𖹭 postcards from tour stops. he loves art and he loves you. his postcards are pocket-sized reminders of those facts, always packaged with a few choice words that are sweet and sincere. his trinkets are very "i-got-you-this-because-it-reminded-me-of-you" in nature, and you know each one was purchased with you at the front of mind.

seungkwan 𖹭 getting you your favorites. he figures he should put his industry connections to use somehow. he's always amused by how happy you get over a rare photocard, signed album, or concert tickets, and so he keeps it up. buying dozens of albums, contacting other labels, bearing the arduous ticketing. your excitement at the end of it makes it all worth it.

vernon 𖹭 producing songs. he hadn't really pegged himself as the making-music-for-the-sake-of-it type until he met you. now, he revels in getting to send you a track that's for your ears only. all the lyrics just seems to flow naturally when it's you inspiring him, and so he sends you works-in-progress with reminders that you're the only intended audience.

chan 𖹭 at-home massages. he's all too familiar with the aches of an ailing body, so he knows exactly how and where to work on you. he always does what he calls 'the works'— a good bath, scented candles, essential oils. he lets you take your time, and he takes his time with you in helping you unwind.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[theverycoolfish]

1. Usually Times new Roman.

2. Probably. I did that in my first years. BUT MY EDITING WILL BE HARD

Okay there is a LOT of questions I’ll choose some of them

9. Last time I thought I saw a ghost was like 3 days ago. Apparently it was my reflection. I am no longer going into the bathroom in the middle of the night.

17. This WIP is something I work on like 2 days a year and then forget about for ages BUT I always return to it after like a year. And it has my heart. SOOOOO ITS ABOUT THIS GIRL CALLED ZINA AND HER BROTHER ZHIN (10 year old or something thought it was the best names) WHO KIND OF HAS MAGIC POWERS. Very weak powers tho BECAUSE HERE WE HAVE THE LORE. The powers are stolen from gods in complicated ritual (not complicated at all I just felt like saying it) but slowly get returned to the gods in a complicated way (this time I mean it). SOOO THE POWER GET PASSED DOWN THROUGH THE GENERATIONS BUT LETS SAY PARENT HAS 10 POWER (I just mad that up) and kid get 9 power then parent only has 1 power (well it works like that but it’s not measurable in number power). Then ops parent DIES then the 1 power is returned to gods. Well it works like that but hundreds of years ago they had like 104683937280917263636648292792037473739 8263738928193736 power or something

Soooo now most is returned to gods and it’s very weak because siblings share and all that so the power is weak.

Zhin wants to get MORE powers so he figures out the old ritual and comes up with a secret plan with Josef (but has a top secret plan himself) neither of the secret plans is revealed until the end when everyone dies.

Well back to how tje reader will experience it.

Josef has returned from a quest, which he had failed. He was not the first but Zina doesn’t think he will face the same punishment as everyone else who had failed since Zhin and Jacob always had been friends (spoiler): 🏳️‍🌈. But then again she didn’t know wtf it was about.

Okay I am tired so I’ll summarize the rest quick. Betrayal in all ways. Josef DEAD. Zhin DEAD. Zina NOT DEAD

Oh my god Sherlock vibe

So yeah I need to do something else now so bye

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you’ve always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice…what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[sanguineterrain]

hello! are requests open? 😅 i’d like to request for a drabble with a newlywed jason and yn if so!

sure thing! short and sweet <3 jason todd x gn!reader. newlywed fluff.

****

"Okay, toaster from Wade and Logan. Keep or give away?"

"Who the fuck are Wade and Logan?" Jason asks, upside down on the couch. His tie and suit jacket are gone, two buttons on his shirt undone.

"Dunno. I think Roy invited them."

Jason sighs. "Give away. Why did people give us so many toasters?"

You both look at the four toaster boxes in front of you.

"Maybe it's the fashionable thing to have toasters in every room," you say.

You put the fifth toaster in the pile. You didn't even have a toaster on the registry.

"We should give them their toasters back when they get married," Jason says.

"That would be extremely funny, and I'm always ready to commit to the bit."

"I know. 'S why I married you."

That makes you giddy. You look at the ring on your left hand.

"Dude, I can't believe you actually married me," you say.

"I can't believe you're calling me 'dude.' Did I marry a frat boy?"

You grin at Jason. "I love you, man."

"Ridiculous. Gimme my ring back."

"Nope!" You slide to the floor and sit criss-crossed in front of Jason. He folds his arms. You kiss him, mouths slotting oddly due to him being upside down.

You pull away. "No take-backsies."

"Curses!" Jason shakes his fist. "Beaten by the take-backsies rule once again."

You shrug. "I guess you're stuck with me for the foreseeable future."

"Guess so."

He rolls onto his side, so he's lying on the couch properly. He leans in for another kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss with all your might. Jason tugs you up onto the couch so you're atop him. You sit up on your knees, straddling his stomach. You take his left hand.

"Dude, you look really hot in this wedding ring," you say.

"Not as hot as you, babe."

"Way hotter," you say and suck his neck. Jason holds you steady with a hand on the small of your back.

"Tryin' t'maul me? Thank God pictures are done." He doesn't push you away, not even a little.

"Marriage turns me on, broski. I love a man who'll enter a legal contract with me."

"You're a freak," Jason says. "I love you."

You sit up and grin. "I love you too, J.T. Morgan."

He pulls a face. "That's worse than broski."

"Is it, though?"

"It's actually the worst thing I've ever been called," Jason says, deadpan. "My first day as your husband and I'm already being bullied."

"I was bullying you way before you became my husband, J-dog."

"Now you're just saying anything."

"Fine." You lean in so close that your perception warps, and Jason's face looks like it's in a fish-eye camera. "How 'bout I call you pretty boy?"

"Hm." He shifts the way he does when he's getting flustered. "I'll allow it."

"Sweet boy? Angel? Honey bunches? Handsome? Love of my life?"

He clears his throat. "Any of those will do fine, yeah."

You grin and kiss his cheek, watching as Jason pulls that soft, shy smile. The same smile he gave you when you said "I do." You'll never forget it.

You snuggle into his chest. Jason wraps his arms around you, throwing a leg over yours.

"What about the gifts?" he asks.

You shrug. "They can wait. Right now, I'm spending quality time with my husband."

His arms tighten around you. "Now that's a name I'll definitely never get tired of being called."

[rmadridcore]

When You’re Here

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader

Requested

Summary: Jude, missing you deeply, is overwhelmed with joy and love when you surprise him by showing up at the Bernabéu to watch him play.

Word Count: 3.1K

Author’s note: I had this in my requests for a while, sorry for the delay, hope you love it anon! 🤍

Jude’s typical training day demeanor was straightforward: laser-focused. On any other day, he’d immerse himself fully in the drills and exercises, cracking a joke here and there during breaks but tuning everything else out when it came time to work. Today, though? Today was different. Yesterday was the same. In fact, he hadn’t been himself for weeks — ever since you left for that work trip.

Normally, Jude could handle brief separations. He was no stranger to them, away games you couldn’t attend or your quick business trips that lasted a week, tops. But this time was different. You had been gone for almost a month, and Jude was on the verge of losing it.

Sure, you two FaceTimed every night before bed. You called whenever you had a spare moment. You texted back and forth throughout the day, as much as your schedules allowed. But none of it felt like enough for Jude. He wanted you there with him — not just virtually, but physically. He needed to feel the warmth of your presence, to hold you, to have you by his side. The emptiness of your absence seemed to grow louder with every passing day.

“This is probably the 20th time you’ve checked your phone, bro,” Camavinga teased, breaking Jude out of his spiraling thoughts. Jude wiped the sweat from his face with a towel, phone in hand for what felt like the millionth time today, scanning for a reply that still hadn’t come.

Jude sighed, tossing the towel aside. “I texted her, and she hasn’t responded,” he muttered, his frustration slipping out in his tone.

Camavinga chuckled. “She’s probably busy, man.”

Jude nodded half-heartedly, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, maybe,” he admitted, though the crease in his brow remained.

“How long’s it been since you texted her?” Vini chimed in.

Jude blinked, glancing back at his phone to check. His teammates knew you well. They’d met you often at team dinners and events, where you were always effortlessly charming, seamlessly blending into their lively banter. They also knew how hopelessly smitten Jude was with you — and, admittedly, they’d been enduring his constant moping and wistful sighs for weeks now.

“Fifteen minutes,” Jude declared, as if that was an eternity, his voice tinged with irritation. He tossed his phone onto the bench with a thud.

The boys exchanged amused glances before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

Jude shook his head, his lips twitching in reluctant amusement. “You lot are useless,” he muttered, though a soft chuckle escaped him.

He sat down next to them, stretching his legs and trying, and failing, to shift his focus back to training. He knew logically that you weren’t ignoring him. You had a demanding job that kept you busy, and the rational part of him understood that you’d reply the moment you had a free moment. But logic wasn’t winning against the ache of missing you.

The truth was, Jude wasn’t just annoyed or impatient, he felt incomplete without you. Over time, he’d come to realize how deeply you’d become woven into his life. You weren’t just his partner; you were his peace in the chaos, his constant in the mess of fame and football. You made him laugh when nothing else could, listened when he needed to vent, and brought a light into his life that felt irreplaceable.

And now, without you here, that light felt dimmer. He was counting the hours, the minutes, until he could have you back in his arms.

After working out for a while, Jude decided to take a break. He grabbed his phone again, and this time, relief washed over him as he saw your name lighting up his screen with a new message. His face lit up instantly, the weight of his frustration and sadness dissolving in an instant. A humongous smile spread across his face as he eagerly opened the message and began typing a reply.

For those few minutes, he felt like himself again. Chatting with you, even briefly, was enough to lift his spirits and give him the boost he desperately needed. But all too soon, he had to return to training. Reluctantly, he said goodbye, promising to talk later.

As Jude put his phone back and glanced up, he caught a reflection in the mirror that made him pause. Rodrygo was mimicking him with an exaggerated, love-struck grin, pretending to text on an invisible phone. Vini, standing beside him, was silently cracking up, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

Jude grabbed his towel and tossed it at the pair, hitting Rodrygo square in the chest. “Idiots,” he muttered with a half-smile, shaking his head. Their laughter only grew louder, echoing through the training area.

The rest of the session passed uneventfully, but Jude’s mood was noticeably lighter after talking to you. Once training wrapped up, he showered and headed back to his room at Valdebebas. The exhaustion from the day caught up with him, and he longed to be home in his own bed. But more than that, he wished you were there beside him.

Lying in bed, Jude grabbed his phone to FaceTime you, a nightly ritual whenever the two of you were apart. Truthfully, he missed home more when you weren’t there, mainly because when you weren’t around, he found himself hugging your pillow as he slept. It was a habit he wouldn’t dare admit to anyone, not even you.

When your face appeared on his screen, it was as if the entire world shifted back into focus. “Hi, baby,” you greeted him with your sweet voice, and the stress that had been weighing on his chest dissipated instantly.

“Hey, my love. How was your day?” he asked, propping himself up against the pillows.

You started talking about your day, how busy and tiring it had been, but also how much you missed him. Jude sighed as he listened, nodding along with a soft smile, though the longing in his heart grew with every word.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow’s game?” you asked, noticing the subtle tension in his expression as he rubbed his face, clearly trying to shake off his frustration.

“Fine, I guess,” he replied, his voice low and filled with fatigue. “We should do well. I just wish you were here.”

Your heart ached at the way his voice softened when he said that. “Aww, Jude. I miss you so much. I wish I could be there too,” you admitted, your voice laden with emotion. You missed everything about him — his scent, his warm hugs, the way he’d kiss your forehead, the silly songs he’d hum, even the soft snoring you used to tease him about.

“I always play better when you’re here supporting me,” he said, his words carrying the weight of truth. It was something he’d told you many times before, and he meant every word. When you were in the stands, cheering him on, he felt like he could conquer anything.

“You will be watching, though, right?” he asked, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. He knew you never missed his games, even when you were busy, and the thought of you not being there, even virtually, dampened his spirits.

You hesitated, biting your lip. You didn’t want to lie to him, but you had to for the sake of the surprise. “I’ll try my best to watch, baby. I have a meeting at the same time as the match, but I’ll do everything I can to catch some of it,” you said apologetically.

Jude’s face fell slightly, and the sight of his disappointment tugged at your heartstrings. “Okay,” he said quietly, trying to mask his sadness.

“I’ll be supporting you from afar, love. You know I love you so much,” you said, hoping to cheer him up.

“I love you too. More than anything,” he replied, his voice firm despite his obvious exhaustion.

“Get some rest now, okay? You need to be ready for tomorrow,” you reminded him gently. You could see the sleepiness in his eyes, but you knew he’d never be the one to end the call first. Jude loved hearing your voice so much that he’d rather fall asleep mid-conversation than hang up.

“Goodnight, my love,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavier.

“Goodnight, Jude. Sweet dreams,” you whispered, watching as he slowly drifted off, still clutching the phone.

Match days for Jude had always been a rollercoaster of emotions, but not in the way most people might think. While he naturally felt a bit of anxiety before stepping onto the pitch, the dominant emotions coursing through him were always motivation and determination. Jude was fiercely dedicated, a player who thrived on focus and precision, never allowing his nerves to get the better of him.

As part of his pre-match ritual, Jude strolled onto the pitch long before the stadium filled with roaring fans. With his headphones on, he stepped onto the pristine grass, taking a slow walk around the grounds. It was his way of grounding himself, visualizing the game ahead, and soaking in the calm before the storm. The music in his ears created a protective bubble, letting him zone in on the task at hand.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the vibration of his phone in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the screen and saw your name flashing with an incoming FaceTime call. A small frown formed on his face as he answered — it wasn’t like you to call so close to your big meeting.

“Hey, gorgeous,” your voice greeted him, warm and teasing, immediately cutting through the hum of pre-match nerves.

“Hey,” he replied, slipping one hand into his pocket as he cradled the phone in the other. “How’s it going halfway across the world?”

You smirked, tilting the camera just enough to give him a better view of your face. “Work’s been good, but I wouldn’t say I’m quite halfway across the world anymore.”

Jude squinted at the screen, his brows furrowing. Something about the background behind you seemed… familiar. He also noticed the collar of the shirt you were wearing, it looked suspiciously like a Real Madrid jersey.

“Wait… where are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“What do you mean?” you replied with an innocent tone, though the twitch of your lips betrayed your amusement.

“That—” He leaned closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes. “That looks like a stadium behind you.”

Feigning confusion, you turned the camera slightly, revealing a glimpse of the unmistakable seats of the Bernabéu. “Oh, this place? Yeah, it’s kinda cool. Thought I’d check it out.”

Jude froze, his jaw going slack as the realization hit him. “No way. Are you—? You’re here?!”

“Surprise!” you exclaimed, flipping the camera to fully reveal yourself standing by the edge of the pitch, already decked out in his jersey.

He ran a hand on his face, his heart skipping a beat. Quickly, he glanced around the stadium, which was still mostly empty since the game was hours away. When his eyes found you, waving at him from the sidelines and blowing him a kiss, his entire face lit up. If it weren’t for the cameras and a few teammates milling around, he might have jumped up and down like an overexcited kid. Instead, he settled for a wide, uncontrollable grin.

“Are you serious? You didn’t tell me? When did you get here?” His gaze flicked back to his phone, needing to see your face up close.

“This morning,” you replied with a playful shrug. “I wanted to see that priceless look on your face.”

Jude shook his head, his grin so wide it almost hurt. His chest felt impossibly full, his heart pounding in a way no pre-match ritual could replicate. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice brimming with disbelief and affection.

“You’re welcome,” you teased, leaning casually against the railing. “Now go out there and show me why I flew all this way.”

He chuckled, shaking his head again. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You scored a few goals, I guess,” you replied with a wink, making him laugh.

“I’ll score ten tonight if it means you’ll keep surprising me like this.” His tone softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “Thank you for being here. It means everything.”

“Always,” you said, your voice tender and sincere. “Now go win us that game.”

With one last look, he ended the call, his chest swelling with newfound energy. He felt unstoppable.

The game began with Real Madrid dominating right from the first whistle. The team controlled the pace effortlessly, holding possession, creating chances, and putting pressure on the opposition. Jude was a maestro on the pitch, gliding with the ball as if it were an extension of himself. His mind occasionally flickered to you, sitting somewhere in the stands, watching him. The thought of you there, cheering for him, filled him with an unmatched drive.

The match was electric. Vinícius scored the opening goal with a stunning strike, followed by Rodrygo slotting one in with finesse. Jude orchestrated the midfield, dictating the flow of the game, and his every move seemed to hum with purpose. Victory felt inevitable, and the energy in the stadium was palpable.

In moments of brief stillness on the pitch, Jude would glance toward the stands, knowing you were there, proud and beaming. It pushed him to play harder, better, with every passing minute.

The atmosphere at the Bernabéu was electric, as always. The fans roared with passion, their energy pulsating through the stadium. The game had been going spectacularly well, but Jude had one thing on his mind — a goal. His performance had been stellar, commanding the midfield with his usual elegance and precision. But scoring in front of you after so long felt essential. You hadn’t watched him play in person in what felt like forever, and he wanted this goal to be just for you.

As the minutes ticked down, Jude's focus sharpened. While directing the game from midfield, he kept scanning for spaces to exploit, calculating every opportunity to find the net. And then, as if fate had aligned perfectly, the ball came flying toward him off a cross. He surged forward, meeting it with a powerful header that sailed past the keeper and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted. The cheers were deafening, a symphony of celebration as his teammates rushed to embrace him. Jude stood there, soaking it all in, arms wide open in his iconic celebration. Yet, despite the roaring applause and the love from tens of thousands of fans, all he could think about was you. He imagined your radiant smile, your eyes shining with pride. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

He kissed the badge on his chest, but as he waved to the crowd, his gaze flickered up toward the VIP section. He knew you were watching, and the thought filled him with an unmatched sense of accomplishment. Taking a deep breath, he let the adrenaline rush through him, knowing the game, and his night, couldn’t have gone any better.

The final whistle blew, sealing the victory. The Bernabéu buzzed with excitement, the fans still chanting his name long after the match ended. But Jude’s thoughts weren’t on the post-match celebrations or the cameras following his every move. His focus was singular: you.

In the tunnel, his teammates teased him mercilessly. “In a rush, mate?” one of them quipped. “Someone special waiting for you?”

Jude only laughed, brushing off the comments as he hurried through his post-match routine. A quick change, a few celebratory high fives with his teammates, and a rapid cleanup later, he was finally free. Emerging near the VIP area, his eyes scanned the space eagerly until they landed on you.

You stood by the railing, his jersey hanging slightly oversized on your frame, a grin lighting up your face as your eyes met his. Jude didn’t think — he moved. Jogging straight toward you, he ignored the curious glances from onlookers, his entire world narrowing down to the sight of you.

“You,” he murmured as he reached you, pulling you into his arms without hesitation. His hands slid around your waist, lifting you off the ground slightly as he buried his face in your neck. The familiar scent of your perfume washed over him, and in that moment, it felt like coming home. Holding you after so long filled the emptiness that had grown inside him.

“You were incredible,” you whispered, your arms tightening around his shoulders. “Man of the match, Mr. Bellingham.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his cheeks flushed from the game and the overwhelming joy of having you there. “You don’t know how much it meant to see you up there tonight,” he said, his voice soft. His eyes held that familiar twinkle you adored, a warmth that only appeared when he looked at you.

“Seeing you score was worth every minute of the flight,” you teased, your fingers brushing gently against his cheek. “Not bad for someone who’s been pouting over FaceTime all month.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “I wasn’t pouting.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” you replied with a grin, your fingers playing with the hem of his jersey.

Jude leaned closer, his voice dropping low so only you could hear. “You know, I was planning to dedicate that goal to you. But I figured kissing the badge was slightly less obvious than blowing a kiss to the VIP box.”

“Smooth,” you quipped, your eyes sparkling. “Guess I’ll take it.”

“Take this too,” he said, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. Though quick, it was impossibly tender, a moment that conveyed everything he felt for you. Jude had a way of making even the simplest gestures feel like declarations of love, and this was no exception.

The world around you blurred. Despite the residual chaos of the stadium, the two of you stood in a little bubble of intimacy, your connection shutting out everything else.

“You’re coming home with me, right?” he asked, his voice tinged with hope.

“Where else would I go?” you replied, taking his hand in yours.

“Good,” he said, intertwining your fingers with his. “Because after tonight, you’re not allowed to leave again.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, though the smile on your lips betrayed your amusement. “We’ll see about that, superstar.”

“Oh, it’s not up for debate,” Jude replied confidently, squeezing your hand as he led you toward the exit.

And with that, the night belonged to the two of you — a perfect ending to a perfect day.

[f0ofishies]

Don't look back

Being apart of the itoshi family, others might seem you've got lucky being blessed by two superstars of footballers. Now you're not as good as them, but you did used to have the same passion as them. You remembered when you were little— straining your ankle crying like a baby. You remembered vividly on how Sae's arms held you up as Rin was already running up to your parents. "Mama..! she's hurt..!"

"Rin, that hurts..!" Your little whined echoed through out your own bedroom. He was tending to your foot, with some cream to soothe your injured ankle. "But its supposed to be—" Sae couldn't help but sigh, "Let me do it." His voice caught the both of you off guard. "I thought you had school?" Your voice interrupting the silence.

"I skipped." Both you and Rin had widened eyes. "No fair!" Rin taunted as you agreed with him. "Yeah, no fair..!" It wasn't until you both stopped complaining that Sae had bribed you both to play on his Nintendo DS. So the whole day, the three of you were just sucked into the game— both claiming it'll help with the recovery of a sprained ankle... it really wasn't.

Now that was a distant memory, another one you also remembered was when you were waiting for your family in the airport. Before Sae could even board the plane to go to spain— you've unexpectedly ran towards him.. puffed up cheeks, tears streaming down. You crashed into his chest as you sobbed. "Don't leave—!"

A plea came out of your mouth as Sae couldn't help but hug you as tightly as you did to him. Even Rin joined in on the hug, his arms wrapped around the both of you. "I'll come back.." You whined once more, burying your face into his shirt soaking the fabric. "You gotta promise—" You remembered the silly little pinky promise he did to you before he left.

Watching Sae come home from Spain— broke your heart. "Sae..?" You called out to him, he looked cold and that scared the teenager you. "What do you want?" You froze in your place, "Rin is still out late.. can you fetch him?" Your voice low as you watched your oldest brother leave. And that was when Rin came back home, but Sae didn't. "Rin where's—" "I don't want to talk, sis."

It was even worse when Rin got accepted to bluelock. You huffed going out to see Rin practicing near your house, "Rin..! You haven't eaten!" You watched as he ignored your pleas— he was kicking the many footballs aligned to the goals.

"It's getting late, come back inside, please!" One thing led to another, and that was when Rin kicked the ball to your direction as you narrowly dodged it. "What the hell, Rin—"

"Shut up! I don't need your concerns. And I dont need a little sister."

That statement broke you, you've just locked yourself in your own bedroom. Both parents didn't know how to handle the both of you, so when Rin left— their little ray of sunshine daughter was gone. Highschool started, you couldn't balance them at all. Grades failing faster than you could even count the number of days that passed.

You've had it— you couldn't care less what happened to your brothers. The news displaying their names, your parents joyous for their sons while you shut off the news rolling your own eyes. You were going to change, and that was when you saw a college worth going, it even had its own foundation. And now we're back at the present, of where your true life started.

You've fallen in love, made friends, got broken up with, and even moved to another country far from Japan without the support of your own brothers. Rin and Sae weren't on your mind anymore, nor did you even care on checking up on them. It wasn't until someone had said two young men were looking for her.

Opening the dormitory door to see both Rin and Sae, covered in their big puffy jackets. You froze, looking up at them. Before one of them could speak, "Don't." They both were here— why? Did your parents tell them? You wanted to slam the door in front of their faces. "We were worried... how come you didn't ask us to go to your high school graduation?"

You scoffed, "I never had one—" They both froze now, but Rin came forward. "How?" You bit your lip, "I went into foundation before I could graduate, but of course, how could you know? Football was more important." Sae sighed. "You know that's not—" "But it is the truth..! Or are you blind?" Your words echoed in the hallways. Both Itoshi brothers froze at the harsh words.

"You know Blue lock changed my career.." Rin whispered, approaching you, you backed away. "Yeah, and completely wrecked our connection as siblings." Sae interrupted, "And I was busy with the—" "Don't even talk, you have no right.. when you left out of nowhere!" Your voice echoed, it mightve made people heard the commotion going in the dormitory.

"What I want both of you is to leave and never come back because I'm not your little sister anymore." They both looked shocked— how could you say that to them? "But you are our.." You had to push Sae away from you, it was clear they didn't thought things through. They just wanted to see you, their little sister on where she's been.. even going as far to approach her.

"No, she died when you both left and never looked back. Now leave."

[lyricwritesprose]

So I've known Winter since she was a weird little goth egg who borrowed my jewelry, but she's never asked for my expertise as a large animal veterinarian before. Winter doesn't have large animals. Winter has three cats, brothers, named Sauce, High Fructose Corn Syrup, and Bobby. (Bobby is the ginger one.)

So I wasn't sure what was up when she told me to bring my "hoof stuff" and not to tell anyone, but you know, she's my friend. An hour's drive and a little secrecy is nothing.

She met me at the door and escorted me upstairs and into her bedroom, and there was a demon lying on the bed. Red. Horns. Tail. Winter's grandma's quilt over him. Very confused expression.

"He says he hasn't had hoof care for a long time," Winter explained. "Apparently conditions in Pandemonium kind of suck."

Well, that, at least, was straightforward. "Yeah, I'll take a look at them. You owe me an explanation or five."

"Not really much to explain," Winter said apologetically. "I needed help with biochem."

"There are about ten thousand ways that statement does not lead to this situation."

"Oh, come on, like you've never tried to summon a demon to do your homework."

"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't, because that's academic cheating and as a vet, it could be a life or death matter for me to actually know stuff. Also demons aren't—" You can't exactly say demons aren't real with one watching you. "Necessarily any better at biochem than I am. So you tried some spell and—oh. Ouch. Yeah, that's a gnarly looking hoof, you're going to need some treatment on that. Looks like maybe you haven't been walking around much?" That was to the demon. "Because the edges should wear down if you have proper room to move."

"I don't." His voice was softer than I expected. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Hoof trim," I said, "first of all. Have you had anything to eat? Do you need anything to eat?"

"I ordered door dash from the Indian place half an hour ago," Winter said. "Should be any minute. It's the only decent vegetarian place around here and I really don't want to deal with the whole question of which critters are acceptable to eat across cultural differences, so—yeah. See, the problem is, Asgrvanisaghl has been through a lot since some asshole 'higher demon' put his name in a grimoire, which means that we've got to find a way to block summonings as necessary or at least keep him from getting controlled when they happen."

"I don't do magic," I said, laying out my bag of tools, "I do comfortable hooves. Although, you know, you could call in Shawn. He's got that mythology special interest going on."

"I texted him. He can come by tomorrow but he's doing a thing."

I nodded. "You are probably," I told the demon, "going to have to repeat the name you want me to use for you several times before I get it. I'm not great with pronunciation. Right, so hoof trimming tools probably look different where you're from, but the principles should be the same. This is—"

"Why are you doing this?"

I shrugged. "I mean. We're humans."

"But—no. Humans want great wealth, or they want their rivals removed, or they want the love of the most beautiful woman in the land, or they want—other things—"

"Humans are bastards sometimes and they should not have treated you like that."

He didn't seem to know what to do with that statement.

"But the main thing about humans is that we clump up in groups. You wanna guess what group me and Winter were in, in high school?"

He shook his head wordlessly.

"The group of kids that didn't fit in. Queer, autistic, whatever. And believe me I'm going to call in all of us until we can make sure you're safe."

"But. I'm not one of you."

I shrugged again. "You are now."

The demon collapsed onto your bed. A vacant stare in his eye as he uttered “this is the 10,000th time I’ve been summoned. can we make it easy? Please?”

[ylangelegy]

unknown / nth ⭐ minghao x reader.

your boyfriend gives you a language lesson before bed.

★ minghao x translator/interpreter!reader a.k.a the lost in translation couple ★ word count: 1.9k ★ genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, conversation about mandarin (my reference). takes place post-lost in translation! not entirely necessary to have read the fic prior to this. title is from hozier's song of the same name. not proofread. ★ footnotes: minghao did a brief weibo live and i've been missing lost in translation for quite some time now, so i jammed this out really quick 🚬🦆 may write more for/about this couple in the near future, so take this as the first of many! ♡

“I think Cold Love really represents me well. It’s probably because I’m an INFJ.”

You press your palm to your mouth to stifle your laugh. Minghao doesn’t react visibly, but his hand waves at you off-camera. A wordless reminder of Be nice. 

The two of you are across the room from each other— him, perched on the couch of his hotel room, while you’re already tucked in bed. Minghao had promised his fans a quick Weibo live to discuss his most recent EP, leaving you to your own devices for the next hour or so. 

You didn’t mind. It was one of life’s simple joys, listening to your boyfriend talk. 

He spends the next thirty minutes or so discussing his creative process and answering fans’ questions. You don’t bother him, knowing you’ll have all the time in the world later to tease him for some of his remarks. Like his indignance at growing taller or his jabs at his age. 

As you busy yourself with mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you relish in the familiar sound of Minghao’s Mandarin. It’s probably your favorite version of white noise, really. The mellow tone of his voice contrasts the rapid, sharp way that he speaks. Despite being well-acquainted with the language, there are still some words that elude you. You make a mental note to ask Minghao about them later. 

Less than an hour has passed before you hear Minghao beginning to wind down. “Good luck on all of your exams. To the people working, keep working hard! Make lots of money,” he says hurriedly. “And good luck with love, too. I hope you all find someone who loves you back so you can experience all sorts of feelings.” 

He’s never been the type to drag out his goodbyes, so you’re not surprised when— after a final heart sign and wave to the camera— Minghao is finally clocking out of his live. 

Immediately, he slumps back onto the couch like the whole thing had drained him. Sure, lives weren’t necessarily one-sided, but he did have to hard carry when it came to the talking part of the affair. You flash him a sympathetic smile as you sit up in bed. 

“Done, xīngān?” you call out. 

Minghao doesn’t respond right away. You don’t hold it against him. He sometimes needed a moment, needed a minute or two to pull himself together. 

After staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, Minghao lets out a shuddering exhale. “Done,” he responds, and he’s moving before you can register it. 

He gets to his feet and crosses the room in a few, quick strides. Once he gets to the bed, he wastes no time in reaching for you. His knees sink in the mattress; his hands dart out. 

You let out a slight squeal when Minghao tugs you into him. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. This had been a premeditated act. You can tell in the way his arms immediately snake around your waist. 

You let out a defeated sigh against his chest, but make no move to pull away. “Tired?” you ask, your hands resting on the small of his back as you return his embrace. 

He hums a quiet ‘mhm’. “I’m not built for this anymore, xīngān,” he whines. 

The two of you know that’s a bold-faced lie. Still, you indulge your sulking boyfriend lest he begin to pout even harder. “My poor baby,” you coo, running your hands up and down Minghao’s back in a show of comforting him. “Gonna blame it on being an introvert?” 

“Shut up.” 

You let out a small laugh. You can’t see it, but you swear you can feel the curve of Minghao’s smile as he presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head. 

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. “It means a lot.” 

A part of you wants to insist that it’s nothing. It’s not every day that you can steal away to his hotel room, though. In between your own work of interpreting for the boys and working on subtitles for videos, there’s also the added layer of keeping your relationship on the down low. 

Tonight, Minghao had just tried to asked. Texted a couple of hours ago that he wanted to see you. And you could never really deny him anything, not even on your best days. 

“Anything for you,” you respond as you stroke the short hair at his nape. 

Minghao buries his face in the crook of your neck, his smiling mouth warm as he mumbles against your skin. “Don’t give me that much power,” he warns. “I’ll abuse it.” 

You chuckle. “I don’t doubt that.” 

The two of you lapse into another bout of quiet. This had always been your way, even back when the two of you were friends: Comfortable silences, unspoken agreements. Your new relationship had only given you two the carte blanche to be a little more touchy during your shared moments of peace. 

You’re fairly sure that Minghao has fallen asleep when he speaks up again. “How do you think I did?”

“With the live?” 

“No, with cuddling. Yes, with the live.” 

“Ask nicely.”

“Please?” 

You put Minghao out of his misery by returning his earlier gesture— leaving a quick kiss, this time to the line of his jaw. “Stellar as usual,” you reassure him. “I didn’t pick up on everything, though.” 

“That’s new.” Minghao shifts around on the bed until he can prop himself up on one elbow. He rests his chin in his hand but doesn’t stray too far. He stays hovering over you, his free arm remaining around your waist. 

He goes on to goad, “Your Mandarin must be getting rusty.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “How can it be rusty,” you retort, slipping into the language as if to prove a point. “When you’re always insisting that we use it?” 

No matter how many times that you speak to him in his mother tongue, Minghao always seems momentarily startled. The surprise always fades into affection, evident in the fond way that he gazes down at you. 

He matches your code switch without missing a beat. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? I love it when you speak Mandarin,” he says, punctuating his words with a quick pinch to your side. 

You swat his hand; he giggles down at you.

“Which parts did you miss out on?” he asks. 

It takes you a moment to recall the terms and phrases you’d wanted to question him about. “撒娇?” you ask, the unfamiliar word sounding almost hesitant on your tongue. Sājiāo.

A thoughtful ‘ahhh’ escapes Minghao. “Think of it like aegyo,” he offers delicately. “It’s— often in the setting of a relationship. Acting cute to be endearing.” 

“Like when you gripe about me not responding fast enough.” 

“Examples aren’t necessary,” he says wryly. “But, yes. Like that.” 

You flash Minghao a grin before snuggling a little closer to him, entangling your legs. The added touch makes his expression softens in the way it only ever does when it’s you. 

“Anything else?” he prompts. 

It’s not everyday that Minghao gets to play the ‘teacher’ role in your relationship. In the beginning, you had been his Korean tutor. In the longer run, you had helped him translate and transpose words that he couldn’t reach. Every so often, you would run to him for some Mandarin help, and you could tell that he relished in the shift in dynamic. 

The thought pushes you to keep asking, even though the words are inconsequential. “You used the term 暖男,” you note. “What was that one?” 

“Nuǎnnán,” he echoes, correcting your intonation. You repeat the word as he said it, and he gives a small smile of approval.

“It’s our version of ‘nice guy’,” he explains. “But it’s rooted a lot in culture. A nuǎnnán is a man who can be considered inherently warm-hearted in an otherwise patriarchal society. And no—” Minghao’s tone takes on a more chiding quality when he sees you about to interrupt. “Do not try to call me a nuǎnnán.” 

You jut out your lower lip slightly. “Why not?” 

The arm that Minghao had around your waist rises, just enough so he can tap the tip of your scrunched nose. “Don’t pull out sājiāo on me,” he scolds. 

It’s not necessary for you to act cute. Your boyfriend would be endeared by you either way. 

You chuckle at being caught, and Minghao’s sternness mellows. “One last.” You hold up a finger as you try to nail the phrase that had first caught your attention. “裸婚?” 

There’s a flicker of surprise on Minghao’s expression. “That was from a fan making a joke,” he warns before repeating the word himself. “Luǒhūn translates to— hear me out, okay?— ‘naked marriage’.” 

The sight of your raised eyebrow draws a sharp laugh from Minghao. “It’s another one of those cultural things,” he says. 

When he doesn’t add onto his words, you shoot him an incredulous look. 

“What?” he asks with feigned innocence.

“That’s it?” you prod. “You’re not going to explain what ‘naked marriage’ means?” 

“You have access to the internet, don’t you?” 

“Xīngān.” 

“That’s me.” 

At Minghao’s continued evasion, you merely huff and give up. It’s getting late, anyway, and he has to be up early in the morning for sound check. Come tomorrow, you’ll have to slip away before anyone can come looking for either of you. The boys aren’t privy to your relationship yet, and God forbid any of the other staff find out.

“Fine,” you say, unable to resist the urge to just be a little haughty. “Let’s go to sleep.” 

Minghao is undeterred by your contempt. If anything, it only makes him smile a little wider, gives him an excuse to pull you into his chest. He goes to cradle the back of your head, his fingers playing with the strands of your hair. 

You lean into his touch, burying your face into the front of his shirt. There it is again. Those few, precious moments where the two of you can just bask in each other’s presence. 

The silence stretches on this time. You’re properly drowsy by the time Minghao speaks up, his words quiet as he mumbles them against your shoulder. 

“No house, no car, no fancy ring,” he murmurs, his tone contemplative and sleepy. “Luǒhūn.” 

“A naked marriage,” you respond mid-yawn. 

“Mhm.”

“Nothing but love.” 

“You got it.” 

The conversation feels like it’s teetering on the verge of something consequential, something of value. But with the two of you already halfway asleep in each other's arms, there’s not much you can do besides exchange some light pecks and mumbled words.

“I think I’d want at least a house before getting married,” you say. “Or, like, an apartment.”

“What, you wouldn’t live out on the streets with me?” he teases lowly. 

Your eyes flutter close. “You would have to convince me,” you shoot back. 

Minghao responds with a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“How long will it take to convince you?” 

It’s a little too early in your relationship for the topic of marriage to be seriously brought up. It’s fun to dream about, though. To talk about in hushed tones, to toy with in Minghao’s mother tongue. 

To imagine a time where this might be your every night— falling asleep in each other’s arms. 

“Might take you years and years,” you answer, a giggle rising from the back of your throat. 

Minghao’s arms shake as he laughs. His lips stay on your head, almost like he can’t bear to peel away from you for a minute too long. 

“I don’t mind,” he says as the two of you begin to succumb to sleep. 

The last thing you hear is his affectionate, soft promise of, “I’ll start working on convincing you, xīngān.” 

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bread from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted? 

[cevansbrat0007]

Bold Moves

Summary: You decide to slip Ari your panties during an innocent encounter at the public library...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Brief Discussions of Body Image, Bird Being Brave, Going Commando, Light Roleplaying, Frisking, Manhandling, Spanking, Ass Slapping, P in V Sex, Implied Overstimulation, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Decided to finish this when I came across it in my drafts. Takes place earlier in Ari and Bird's romantic relationship. Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

“I’m so glad you pitched me this idea, Marisol.” You beam as you finish writing in your notebook. “I know it’s still early yet, but I would love to collaborate with you for Halloween.”

“Yes!” The younger woman cheers, throwing her arms up in the air. “I knew I picked the right woman.”

“Just I knew they picked the right woman to run the town library.” You throw her a wink before tucking your pad and pen back into your purse. “Now, I hate to cut this meeting short…” Out of habit you press a hand against your belly, silently wishing you’d opted to throw on a pair of spanx this morning instead of a flimsy pair of panties. 

Frankly, you were tired of sucking it in. But every time you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror you looked pretty damn good. Perhaps your confidence was growing after all. 

“But I need to get home and change so I can run by the shop before it gets too late.” You finish, feeling grateful when the sweet librarian sees fit to lead you out of her office.

“Sooo…” The dark-haired woman drags out the word, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you both come around the corner. “Word on the street is that you’ve been seeing a lot of Detective Levinson lately. Everything good, I hope?”

 “What do you mean?” You respond, willing your pulse to remain steady. “Everything’s fine. He just…likes for me to call him whenever something new pops up about Martin. That’s all.”

And whenever you lock up in the evening. And when you make it home. And then again to decide if he’s coming to your place for the night. Or, if you’re already on the back roads heading to his. 

It was all so fun and exciting. But at the same time, it was just sex. Amazing sex, mind you. But just sex all the same.    

Instead of responding immediately, Marisol simply chooses to link her arm through yours. “Mm. While I haven’t lived here long, I’ve already learned how much this town loves gossip.” She muses. “Which is why I try to fly under the radar at all times.”

“Uh huh.” You give her a gentle nudge. “Even when it comes to a certain Officer Milton?”

“Shh! We do no not speak that man’s name in this house!”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel like he always goes out of his way to just…be around. He’s like a puppy. I do not have time for puppies, chica. I’m too busy building a career amongst the books.”

“Well sugar, I suppose you might wanna tell him that.”

“Ay, but that would involve making conversation. Something I also do not have time for because–”

“Because he’s standing over there by the door, talking to our favorite resident detective.” You interrupt with a giggle, prompting the other woman to drop your arm in a flourish before racing off back in the direction of her office before squeaking out “you never saw me” - leaving you alone. 

You allow yourself to stand there for another moment, content with watching the two men talk. While both were easy on the eyes, you were only interested in one of them. Glancing down at your outfit, you once again reassure yourself that you’re looking pretty damned good. 

And then – just that fast – an idea strikes you.

Refusing to overthink what it was you were about to do, you discreetly make your way into the ladies room. After checking to make sure you were alone, you slip into a stall. Reaching underneath your skirt, you slide your lacy black panties down your thighs before stepping out of them. 

Biting your lip, you tuck the small scrap of fabric into your pocket. Once you’re finished, you go to leave. But not before stopping long enough to refresh your lip gloss and fluff your curls. And then you’re out the door.

Hopefully you’d be able to catch the handsome bounty hunter before he left.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to find him. He’s right where you saw him last – near the front of the library still talking to Milton. As you near the two, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll be able to pull this off without making an absolute fool of yourself. 

But first you’d have to find a way to get rid of Officer Milton without making your intentions obvious. And then it hits you. While it might be wrong, it was officially time to pawn him off on your favorite new friend.

Marisol.

“Good afternoon, Officer Milton.” You chirp as you sidle forward, politely interrupting their conversation. “Detective Levinson.” Of course you’re immediately met with smiles from both men. 

“Well get a load a’ you.” Milton gives a playful whistle once he gets a good look at your business attire. “Lookin’ sharp, darlin. Goin’ somewhere special?”

“Actually, I just came from a meeting down at the bank.” You tell them, smoothing your hands along your gray pencil skirt. 

“Ahh.” The officer nods. “Fingers crossed all went well.”

“It did. Thank you.” Delicately clearing your throat, you make a show of glancing around before directing your complete attention to the young officer in front of you. “While I hate to interrupt you two when you’re hard at work, I think Marisol might need you.”

“She does?” The man immediately perks up, vaguely reminding you of your neighbor’s golden retriever. 

“Yep.” You wince inwardly, hating yourself for lying. “Not sure what it’s about, but I think she’s somewhere in the back.” 

Just like that, a switch has been flipped and Officer Milton is off on the hunt for a sweet little librarian who most certainly did not need him. Fingers crossed she would catch the hint and just go with it. 

And now you’re alone with the one man with the power to leave you breathless. You were constantly left tied up in knots around this man. But today it was finally time you turned the tables on this guy. 

“How’s the manhunt going, Detective? Any new leads?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss this part of my investigation with you, Miss.” He says, flashing you a rather charming smile. “But if you hear from our guy Martin anytime soon, be sure to give me a call.”

“Of course.” You nod, feeling your cheeks heat. “Well, I’d best be goin’ now.”

“Be safe gettin’ home.” 

“Same to you. Detective.”

And then, without sparing him so much as a warning glance, you discreetly remove your panties from their hiding spot and slip them into the back pocket of his jeans. To his credit, Ari doesn’t move a muscle. Instead he continues to stare straight ahead, his gaze never wavering.  

Head held high, you manage to make it all the way to your car before collapsing in a fit of nervous laughter. While you wished you could’ve seen his face, you know deep down that you were better off running off the way you had.  

Maybe he’d call you tonight and maybe he wouldn’t. But all that mattered is that you’d mustered up enough confidence to make some bold moves this afternoon, which by all accounts made you a bad bitch.

Later That Same Evening…

It’s been hours since you pulled that stunt with Ari, but as luck would have it, you still had yet to hear from him. Not that you were worried or anything. In fact, if you had to choose an emotion, you were more disappointed than anything else.

While you’d long since abandoned your high heels by your front door, you were still wearing the outfit you’d worn to the bank. You’d simply been too excited to go by the shop so you’d decided to remain closed for the day.

Heaving a sigh as you rise from the couch, you’re in the middle of debating whether or not it’s worth trying to cobble together something for dinner when you hear the sound of your doorbell. Confused, you go to reach for your phone, only to frown when you see there’s nothing from the one man you wanted to hear from most.

The bell chimes again, prompting you to get a move on. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” You mumble, stretching your arms above your head. Opening the door, you’re treated to the sight of a large man standing on your porch with his hands in his pocket, his official badge prominently displayed on his hip. 

Hello, Detective Ari Levinson. 

“Evening, Miss. Apologies for bothering you so late.” 

“Why hello, Detective. Somethin’ I can help you with?” You do your best to keep your tone light while you wait for him to explain himself.

“Sure hope so. Got a report about someone engaging in some inappropriate behavior.” He informs you, barely concealing his smirk as he leans his big body against the porch railing.

“Is that right?”

“Fraid so.” He nods solemnly. “In fact, I actually found a trail of evidence that led me right here to your front door.”

“I…well, there has to be some mistake.” You protest, your hand flying to your chest. 

“Huh.” Ari sucks on his teeth as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a small scrap of lacy black fabric. “Then you wouldn’t happen to know who these belong to, would you?”

Your eyes go wide at the sight of your panties dangling from one thick index finger. 

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but they’re certainly not mine.” You sniff haughtily. “I’ve never seen those before in my life.”

“Now, Miss.” He gently chastises, taking another step towards you, invading your space. “Perhaps I should warn you that it’s a crime to lie to a member of law enforcement.” Instead of responding you simply fold your arms across your heaving bosom. 

The nerve of this man, thinking he had the right to question you like this right out in the open. Honestly, what would your neighbors think? The scandal!

“You know what? I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna need to search the premises.” The bounty hunter moves to enter your home, only to growl when your hand stops him short. “It’s also a felony to impede an official investigation.” Ari grunts, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

“And I'm thinkin’ I'm gonna need to see a warrant first, Detective.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his eyes darken - his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. 

“I’m sure a good girl like you ain’t got nothin’ to hide.” Ari rasps, leaning in so that his mouth now hovers a mere inch above your ear. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” You respond, sounding a little more breathless than you’d like.

“Unless there’s something in there you don’t want me to find?”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” Blowing out a breath you decide to give the man what he wants, if only to see what comes next

“Not sure I believe you, sweetheart.”

“Fine.” You concede. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you come in for a quick look. But you’ve gotta be fast.” You tell him, poking him in the shoulder before turning to lead him into your home. “Because I’m expecting company any minute and we don’t need an audience.”

“We’ll see.”

Your pulse kicks up when you hear Ari shut the door behind you, followed by the quiet snick of the lock. Guess that meant he thought he was staying awhile. Just as you open your mouth to protest, you’re caught off guard when he brushes by you, allowing you to catch a hint of his cologne. 

“I’m not sure what you’re on, Detective.” You say, shooting him your fiercest glare. Meanwhile, this man responds with his most lethal grin. “But I’m giving you five minutes to figure it out before I–” 

“You know, Miss, I didn’t wanna ask you this outside. Especially given the already delicate nature of this investigation. But do you happen to be wearing any panties?”

“Excuse me?!” His question has your mouth falling open, your cheeks burning hot with outrage.

“Answer the question.” His eyes track your every movement as you slowly back away in the direction of the stairs. “Because every good girl I know puts on a pair of panties before leaving the house for the day.”

“Goodnight, Detective Levinson.” You hiss before turning and taking the stairs two by two. “Please see yourself out before I’m forced to call your supervisor.”

Your words are met with silence. And it’s not until you reach the edge of your bedroom that you hear him moving – up the same stairs you’d just scaled only seconds before. You can hardly suppress a shiver as the heady thrum of anticipation courses through you. 

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart.” Ari growls softly as his impressive form fills your doorway, effectively blocking your only exit. “But I’m not through with my investigation.” It’s a struggle to ignore just how good he looks taking up space in your bedroom like this. 

“I want you to leave.”

“Oh, I will. As soon as I’m finished.” He takes a step towards you, rolling up his sleeves as he does. “But first, I’m gonna need you to turn and place your hands on the wall.”

“I–I will do no such thing!” Comes your almost breathless reply. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Hm.” Ari cocks his head, his magnetic blue eyes leering at your much smaller, curvier frame. “But you are a suspect.” In less than a fraction of a second, this man is now standing in front of you. “And it would be rather reckless of me if I didn’t pat you down.” One large hand curls itself around your bicep before gently leading to a nearby wall. “You should know that I’m a bit of a stickler when it comes to following protocol.” 

Blood roaring in your ears, you place both of your hands on the cool surface. Taking a deep breath, you can’t help but jump when he kicks your feet apart, forcing you to spread your legs even wider, granting him better access.

“I’m gonna report you.” Unfortunately for you, your flimsy threat does nothing to deter him.

Your eyes fall shut when you feel two large, warm hands glide their way up and down your arms. It feels as tempting as it does comforting. He repeats the action twice more, almost as if he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security. 

Next, those wandering hands are stroking along your sides, greedily following the path of your curves. And then you feel him bury his nose in the crook of your neck. It’s impossible to miss his soft groan as he inhales your sweet scent.

“Now I’ve gotta ask you, little Bird.” He hums, his sharp teeth nipping at your ear. “Do you have anything on you that could stab, stick, or poke me?” 

“N-no.” 

God, you were so fucking wet right now it’s embarrassing. And you can’t stop the moan that catches in your throat when his sensual ministrations move to your breasts – cupping, massaging, and kneading. He lewdly palms them through your blouse, this thumps paying extra attention to your hardened nipples. Your back arches of its own accord as he continues to play with your body.

And there’s a part of you that hates yourself for the way he makes you respond.  

“Hm. So far so good, baby. Proud of you for keeping your hands where I can see ‘em.” Now his hands are skimming down your hips to toy with the hem of your skirt. His warm breath dances along your sensitive skin, making you shiver. “But now it’s time for the big question.” Ari begins inching your skirt higher and higher. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Are you–”

“This ain’t right, Detective!” You protest, protectively clenching your thighs together. However, your words only make him chuckle. “Pretty sure this is an illegal search and seizure.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I would have to respectfully disagree with you.” He says at the same time as he grinds himself against you, his massive erection pressing into your lower back. “It’s my job to keep the community safe. And to deal with naughty girls who go around handing out their unmentionables to strangers.” Your skirt inches even higher now, stopping just short of revealing your dripping cunt. 

“And what do you know?” He purrs, holding you still as his hand dips between your thighs, cupping your most intimate flesh. “Looks like we’ve got a little liar on our hands. Don’t we?”

“Don’t. We.” The renewed authority in his tone makes your pussy quiver.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And how should we handle liars, sweetheart? Hm?” Your knees go weak when you feel two thick fingers spear their way through your messy folds, lightly strumming over your clit. “What should we do with you?”

“....I…don’t know….”

His deep chuckle has you squirming in his hold, your hips bucking as he continues to grind the heel of his palm against your sensitive nub.  

“Tell you what. You and I are about to have a serious conversation about what happens to pretty young ladies who can’t seem to tell the truth. Even when it’s in their best interest. What do ya say?”

“Y–yes, Sir.” You moan as your eyes threaten to roll back in your head, sparks of pleasure dancing behind your eyes. “Whatever you want – I’ll be so, sooo good!”

Thirty Minutes Later…

“Why the fuck you keep runnin’, baby?” Ari growls, smacking your bottom hard. “Yeah, get that juicy ass back here. Love watchin’ those cheeks bounce.”

The rhythmic sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, spilling out into the hall as Ari drives into you over and over again with his impressive cock. 

He’d been hard for hours before he ever showed up on your doorstep. Frankly, he’d lost count of how many times he’d paused throughout the day to bring your panties to his nose. It was like he couldn’t seem to get enough of how good you smelled. But he also knew that wouldn’t be enough.

He needed to taste you. Needed your unique, earthy flavor on his tongue. 

Thankfully, he had no doubt that he’d have time to eat the fuck out of your sweet pussy later. After he was finished fucking you into oblivion for being such bad girl. Who would’ve guessed his little Bird had it in her to be so deliciously naughty?

Meanwhile, you’re too busy sobbing into a pillow to be proud of yourself right now, your hands fisting the sheets while your man exacts his revenge on your body. At this rate, you’d already cum twice. And here you were already roaring along to orgasm number three. 

Fuck, this man was a goddamned menace!

Your desperate cries grow louder as Ari picks up his pace, forcing you to clench around him as you finally resort to begging.

“Please, Ari!” You wail when he lifts your hips higher before adjusting the angle of his strokes. “I–ooh God–M’so close!”

“Oh yeah?” He snarls, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. “Then let me see you work for it.” A sharp hiss escapes when his heavy palm comes down on your ass again, this time smacking both cheeks without so much as missing a beat. “This is how bad girls get punished.” You tense when he delivers yet another blow. “They’ve gotta work for their pleasure.”

“I’m sorry–wooh God!” Your voice comes out raw, bordering on hoarse.       

“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there we go.” He gifts you with another slap, earning a sharp yelp from you. “Yeah, throw it back like you love it.”

After an afternoon of being bad, there’s nothing you want more than to be good for this man. You wanted to please him. Make him happy. If only so he never stopped touching you. And you were trying – honest to God, you were.

But it was all too good. Too much. 

“Just know, everytime you run, I’m gonna drag that sweet ass right back.” Ari renews his punishing grip on your hips, holding you up even as your sweat slicked body starts to give out. “Now cum for me one more time so I can finally stop takin’ it easy on you, pretty Bird.”

END

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[asherthehimbo]

Fluffy

notes: idk guys I was bored, uhm mature themse ig? its just an intense make out so people under 15 DNI

pairing: Yunho x implied Chubby! fem! reader

You hated Yunho, absolutely hated him. You hated his handsome face, his god given smile, his hands that looked like they came straight out of your wet dreams. You hated the way he'd drape his jersey over you before a game in hopes you'd wear it, hated the way he'd follow after you like a lost puppy. You hated that you didn't truly hate him. It wasn't his fault, the whispers that followed him, the looks you were given for gaining his attention and despite how much you tried to stop him, your mind couldn't deny the fact that you desperately wanted him.

It's how you found yourself in this predicament in the first place, pushed up against the lockerroom door. Turns out being captain of the team has its perks, like the locked door behind you and the keys that were tossed to the floor along with his shirt a long time ago. Your mouth is bruised by now, your lips red and swollen and breathing labored and you know you need to stop but god you didn't want to. You tug at his hair, trying to remove his lips from yours and he whines, refusing at first but giving in when he eventually needed to breathe.

"Yunho you should- you should really go. We need to-" you try and breathe out, chest heavy as his hands hold your thighs, how he was strong enough to hold you this long you don't know but god it turns you on even more. "Go where?" he asks, his voice that low, breathless timbre that makes your thighs clench around his waist. "here?" his breath fans your neck as he bends his head down, lips tracing the line of your pulse, you let out a shudder as his teeth graze your skin. "or here?" he moves down, teeth nipping at your collarbone before placing a soft kiss over the small indent he left, his action causes you to let out a whimper and you can feel him smirk against your skin, "yeah? you wanted me here? why didn't you say it sooner fluffy?" you hated that nickname too, it would sound demeaning from anybody else but the way he says it makes you feel euphoric.

"stop-you need to stop calling me that" you're pleading at this point, you don't really want him to stop and he knows it, but you need to perserve atleast a little bit of your dignity. "why hm? you're so soft baby, like cream" his lips trail down your collarbone to the deep neckline of your skintight shirt, the one that you were insecure about and the same one that got you in this position in the first place. Your insecurities are the exact things that drive him mad and the knowledge of that makes your thighs tighten their grip around him because you can feel yourself getting weak and you don't want to fall, despite his large hands holding onto them. "Fuck Fluffy with your thighs around me like that you're gonna make me forget my own name" he breathes, removing his lips from your chest as he looks you in the eyes, one hand leaving your legs to hold your cheek, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. "You gonna help me remember it? can you say my name fluffy? can you scream it?"

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[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 4

it's finally here!!! she's a long one pookies i apologise so grab your popcorn!! also warnings !! no explicit smut, but contains very sexually implicit context so 18+ only!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

All my work here :)

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

Since your fight with Joel—though calling it that didn’t feel right, not with all the unspoken weight hanging between you—it seemed like an uneasy truce had settled. It wasn’t something you talked about, and it wasn’t something either of you dared name. But there was something different now, something that felt like slow, careful mending, like stitching a torn seam with hands that weren’t sure they could hold steady. The mess with Tiffany and Toby felt distant now, like a shadow cast by someone else’s life.

But even still—today was different. You felt it in your bones, a tension that twisted sharp and restless in your chest as you stood in the stables, readying Winnie. Your hands moved out of habit—tightening straps, adjusting saddlebags—but your mind was somewhere else, stuck on the way Joel had stood silently beside you, checking his rifle with that same quiet intensity.

This patrol wasn’t routine. You weren’t headed to the outskirts of town or to some half-cleared route. This was farther—farther than you’d ever gone. The task was simple enough on paper: sweep a remote lodge and its surrounding area, catalog supplies, bring back anything Jackson could use. Tools, medicine, ammo. It didn’t matter. If it could help, you took it.

But nothing about today felt simple.

You could handle the infected—there was something almost methodical about their terror. A pattern to their madness. A predictability to their hunger. You’d learned how to read them, how to anticipate the movement of their broken bodies like reading the lines on a map. That small sliver of control made it easier to push through the fear.

But men? Men were different. Men could be quiet in their cruelty, their malice deliberate and personal. There was no pattern to their violence. No way to predict what they might do or who they might become when the world showed them it no longer held consequences. You’d seen it before—too many times to count—and the thought of it made something curl tight in your stomach.

The water crisis was worsening, stretching everyone dangerously thin. Resources were depleted, manpower spread too far, and urgency growing like a storm cloud on the horizon. Normally, a task like this would demand at least four, maybe five people—more hands, more eyes, more safety in numbers. But now, it was just you two.. Joel hadn’t said it outright, but you knew—he wouldn’t be taking you out this far unless there was no other choice.

Now, he stood across from you, his presence filling the quiet of the stable like a shadow that had always been there, steady and immovable. The faint light leaking through the wooden slats fell unevenly across him, catching on the lines of his face and the tousled disarray of his hair—soft in a way that clashed with the sharp edge of his gaze.

His arms were crossed tight over his chest, a tension in his posture that told you everything you needed to know: this wasn’t routine. This mattered.

“Alright,” Joel started, his voice low, the rough timbre of it carrying the weight of every unspoken warning. “This ain’t a normal sweep. It’s an overnight run—further out than we’ve gone. We can’t afford to mess around.”

His words landed heavy, final, cutting through the stale air of the stable. The rhythmic rasp of the brush in your hand was the only answer at first, the quiet sweep against Winnie’s coat grounding you more than you cared to admit. You paused mid-stroke, the bristles hovering just above her flank as your gaze drifted back to Joel, lingering longer than it should have.

“I understand,” you said finally, breaking the silence. You gestured toward the modest bag slung over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound even. “I packed light. Just extra clothes, some rations. Not much else.”

Joel’s gaze flickered down to the bag, his brow furrowing slightly as though he were running calculations in his head—weight, distance, the chances you’d both make it back in one piece. He nodded, short and curt, but didn’t look away, his eyes lingering like he was searching for something he hadn’t quite found.

“Good,” he said at last, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “You don’t want more than you can run with.”

It sounded practical enough on the surface—just another piece of advice, one of the many Joel had given you over the years. But something about the way he said it made the words land differently, like they carried more than just instruction. No more than you can run with.

Joel took the brush from your hand with a movement that was firm but not rough, his calloused fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment before he set it aside. There was no room for softness now, not with what lay ahead. He stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt tight, close enough that the faint scent of him—leather, woodsmoke, something unmistakably Joel—crowded your senses. His voice cut through the quiet, low and clipped, each word carved out with purpose. “Say it back.” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his stance unyielding.

The demand hung in the air, sharp and immovable.

You exhaled sharply, the weight of his voice pressing down like a hand on your chest. The words were bitter on your tongue, a promise he’d drilled into you too many times this morning. Your gaze flicked to Winnie, as if the horse might somehow pull you out of this moment, but her dark eyes watched you, unbothered and unmoved, a silent witness to the tension that hung between you.

Still, Joel waited. His stare was relentless, pinning you in place like a blade to a board.

“I listen to what you say,” you murmured finally, the words quiet but clear. You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “If we’re in danger, I…” The rest of it caught, refusing to come. Your chest ached with the effort of holding onto it, of refusing to let the final piece fall, but Joel didn’t waver.

“Go on.”

His voice was gentler now, but that only made it worse—like it cost him something to say it, too.

You forced yourself to look at him, meeting those dark, unrelenting eyes. The words slipped out like splinters, each one sharper than the last. “I leave you and go get help.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the soft sound of Joel’s boots shifting against the straw. He stepped even closer, the crunch of it grounding and disorienting all at once. When he stopped, there wasn’t much space left between you, and the line of his jaw was tight, like he was holding back more than he wanted to say.

“And?”

It was one word, soft but unyielding, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

Your shoulders stiffened, rebellion sparking somewhere deep inside you. You hated this—you hated him for making you say it, for forcing you to promise something you weren’t sure you could give. But Joel was staring at you with that steady intensity of his, like he could see right through you to the parts you tried to bury.

“And I don’t argue,” you bit out, the resistance lacing your voice clear despite your best efforts to hide it. The words tasted bitter, your jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might snap.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the air coiling tighter and tighter. “That last part’s not negotiable,” he said, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Out there, you listen. You don’t think twice. You don’t second-guess. Not if it’s between your life and mine.”

“I know, Joel,” you murmured, your voice small and subdued.

“Do you?” he pressed, his voice rough and edged with something that wasn’t just frustration. It was sharper, heavier, laced with the kind of urgency that came from experience—from loss.

“Do you really get it? Because this ain’t just somethin’ I’m sayin’ to piss you off.” He stopped, just shy of touching you, his eyes burning into yours as though the sheer force of his stare could make you understand. “If somethin’ happens out there, you don’t get to argue. You don’t get to waste time thinkin’ you know better.” His voice dipped lower, softer, but no less intense. “You leave. You get help. You survive. That’s the deal.”

The bluntness of it hit like a blow, scraping against every fragile edge you’d been trying to hold together. Your throat tightened, your pulse stuttering beneath the weight of his words. You looked away, the floor suddenly far more interesting than Joel’s face, his eyes too sharp, too knowing. “I get it,” you whispered, the words barely audible, the tremor in your voice betraying you.

Joel’s silence was heavy, stretching like a thin wire between you, so taut it felt ready to snap. You braced yourself for more, for another sharp command or a biting remark, but when he spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler.

“I’m not sayin’ it to be mean,” he murmured, his voice steady now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I’m sayin’ it because I need to know you’ll make it back. That’s all.”

The quiet plea in his words was enough to make you look up, your gaze meeting his again despite yourself. Joel didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Hell, he barely asked for anything. But here he was, asking—with words, with that rawness he rarely allowed to show.

Your chest ached with something unnameable as you swallowed hard, steadying your voice. “I’ll make it back,” you said, stronger this time, every word laced with quiet resolve. “I promise.”

For a long, tense moment, Joel held your gaze. His eyes searched yours, looking for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that might betray you.

Finally, he nodded, slow and gruff, the tension in his shoulders easing—just enough to make you breathe a little easier. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping back and motioning toward Winnie. “Let’s get movin’.”

The spell broke, but something lingered in the space between you as you climbed into the saddle. Joel mounted his own horse without another word, and the two of you rode out into the chill of the early morning, the sky painted pale with dawn.

The cold bit at your skin, sharp and merciless, but it wasn’t the wind that made your hands tremble around the reins. It was the fear that burrowed deep and refused to let go.

Fear of what might happen out there.

Fear of what it would mean to live in a world where Joel didn’t come back.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The hours stretched endlessly as you and Joel rode through the dense, untamed woods. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried a certain gravity—a weight that seemed to echo in the hushed whispers of the forest. No one from Jackson had ventured this far in years, and the wildness of the terrain felt as much a challenge as it did a threat.

He rode ahead, his shoulders broad and sturdy beneath the leather of his jacket, his frame bent slightly forward with the kind of quiet focus that only came from years of surviving. His sharp eyes never stopped moving—darting between the overgrown trail and the treeline, watching, waiting, always searching for something he’d never let take him by surprise.

Occasionally, his voice broke the stillness—gravelly and low, delivering a curt instruction or muttering an observation. Each word, clipped and measured, was so distinctly Joel that it filled the silence in a way that steadied you, though you couldn’t explain why.

“We’ll stop here,” Joel said abruptly, reining in his horse. “They’re tired.”

You glanced down at Winnie, her steps sluggish and uneven, her breaths heavier now, her coat dark with sweat. Concern flickered through you, and you leaned forward to press a soft kiss against the side of her neck. “Good job girl,” you whispered gently, your voice low and soothing.

When you looked up, Joel was watching. His gaze lingered, flickering with something that disappeared too quickly for you to catch, before he dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the dirt with a thud that seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness, and he reached for his pack, already untying supplies from the saddle.

Sliding off your horse, your legs hit the ground stiff and aching from hours in the saddle. You stretched briefly, then sank down against the nearest tree, your back pressing into its rough bark. As you settled, a soft groan slipped free, the ache in your muscles easing just slightly. The earth beneath your boots felt unfamiliar, solid and strange after so long riding, but the air here—cooler, gentler beneath the shade of towering oaks—was a quiet relief. You closed your eyes, leaning fully into the tree, letting the hush of the woods settle over you.

When you opened them, Joel was close by as he sorted through supplies.

“Water.” His voice broke the quiet, low and rough as he held a canteen out toward you without looking up. The canteen was cool against your fingers as you took it, your throat burning with relief as you drank. “Thanks,” you murmured, handing it back. You had your own water in your pack—he knew that—but still, he offered you his, as if yours were somehow too precious to waste, as if the effort to keep you going outweighed his own needs.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He capped the canteen and stood, his gaze moving over the clearing with that practiced vigilance you’d come to rely on. And then, just for a moment, his eyes landed on you.

“You cold?” he asked suddenly, his tone flat but edged with something softer. “Too hot?”

You shook your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine,” you replied softly, though your chest felt tight at the way he was watching you, like he needed to see the answer, not just hear it.

He’s sweet, you thought, the words catching on something tender and fragile inside you, something you couldn’t quite name. It was the way his care came without flourish, without asking for anything in return, that made it linger—made it ache. It wasn’t fair, the way he did this, leaving pieces of himself in small gestures that stayed with you long after.

Joel’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The woods were quieter here, almost serene. You stood, brushing the dirt and stray leaves from your pants, and let your gaze wander. The afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and green. It was breathtaking in a way that made your chest ache—a fleeting moment of untouched wilderness, fragile and rare. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen something so still, so utterly removed from the chaos of survival.

Joel was nearby, crouched low, fussing with his rifle. His brow was furrowed in that familiar look of concentration, the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fall away. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his attention entirely consumed by the task at hand, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him—drawn to the way his hands moved, precise and practiced, the lines of his face set in a look of quiet determination that you knew well.

Your attention drifted, though, drawn to something else—a cluster of dark, plump berries growing just a few feet away. They stood out against the underbrush, rich and inviting. Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer. You wandered over, crouching down and plucking a small handful, the berries cool and smooth as you rolled them between your fingers.

“Hmm,” you murmured, holding them up to the light. A smile tugged at your lips, you raised one halfway to your mouth, your tone light as you added, “Yummy.”

“Stop.”

Joel’s voice cut through the stillness like a gunshot—sharp, commanding.

You froze, the berry hovering inches from your lips. His head snapped toward you, his rifle abandoned as he stood, moving toward you with a purposeful stride that made the leaves crunch like brittle glass beneath his boots.

“What?” you asked, blinking up at him, startled by the intensity etched into his features.

“Show me.” His tone left no room for argument.

You sighed, shooting him an exasperated look before opening your palm, the berries resting innocently there. Joel crouched slightly, his shadow falling over you as he inspected them, his sharp gaze narrowing like they were a threat to be neutralized.

“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You pulled back slightly, incredulous. “Seriously?”

His glare flicked to yours, and you realized he was serious.

“Fine,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out in a dramatic show of obedience. “Ahh,” you said, exaggerating it, hoping it might earn you some amusement.

It didn’t. Joel just stared at you, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking as though he was fighting to keep a lid on something darker, something far less restrained. His gaze lingered a beat too long on your tongue, the way you’d held it out for him without hesitation, obedient to his command. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that left his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t—where they couldn’t—imagining that same mouth, soft and ready, offering him something far more intimate. His hand twitched at his side, as if warring with the urge to reach for you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.

“Good. Now throw ’em out,” he said, the gruffness in his voice doing little to disguise the way he avoided looking at you as he turned away.

“What?” You gawked at him, utterly indignant. “Joel, they’re blueberries. They’re not gonna kill me.”

His arms crossed over his chest, his stare harder than stone. “Could be poison berries. They look the same. You don’t know the difference, so don’t pretend you do. Toss ’em.”

You held his glare for a moment, your fingers curling defensively around the berries, but there was no arguing with Joel when he looked at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you dropped the berries, watching them tumble unceremoniously to the ground.

“Happy?” you muttered, brushing your hands off against your pants.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly to the trees before landing back on you. “Stay close,” he said, his voice gruff, tinged with that familiar note of exasperation. Then, quieter, muttering more to himself than you, “Do I gotta put a leash on ya or somethin’ to keep you outta trouble?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you snorted, the laughter escaping before you could stop it. A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned against a nearby tree, playful mischief alight in your eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice dipping low, your tone laced with challenge. The insinuation hung there, bold and undeniable, a spark igniting the air between you.

Joel froze, his body going rigid. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and frustration. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding faintly as he glanced at you, then away, then back again—like he was trying to find words that refused to come.

And then, it happened. The faintest flush crept up his neck, blooming at the collar of his shirt and spreading up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like the answer might be buried there.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl.

You watched him turn sharply, shoulders squared as he moved back to his things, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. The corners of your mouth curled up as you pushed off the tree, following after him with a bounce in your step that hadn’t been there before.

Joel didn’t look back, but his ears were still red.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed steadily beneath you, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heartbeat. The trail had narrowed as the hours dragged on, with Joel riding ahead of you, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dimming light. The trees on either side stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching longer and darker as the sun dipped lower. The sunlight, once warm and golden, now barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting everything in muted shades of green and gray.

Every rustle of leaves or sudden snap of a branch had your hand twitching instinctively toward your weapon, your gaze darting into the underbrush as if the trees might shift and reveal something waiting there. Unease clung to you, winding tight in your chest and mingling with the steady rhythm of the ride.

“You’re quiet,” Joel’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, low and rough, like gravel against steel.

The sound startled you, yanking you sharply out of your thoughts. You blinked, your grip on the reins tightening for just a moment before your gaze lifted to his back. He sat tall in the saddle, his movements steady and sure as he guided his horse down the narrow path.

“So are you,” you shot back, your tone light but edged with something defensive. It was easier to focus on the banter than to acknowledge the gnawing knot of anxiety that had been building in your chest.

Joel huffed out a sound that was almost a chuckle, low and dry, the faintest tug of a smirk visible as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the bite, “I’m not the chatterbox.”

Any other day, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed a sharp quip back at him—something to tease out that rare flicker of dry humor.

But today, the woods felt heavier.

The isolation pressed too close, the silence too vast. Laughter felt out of place. Even the air seemed thinner, harder to pull into your lungs. You didn’t smile. Didn’t even try.

Joel noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Without a word, he tugged gently on his reins, slowing his horse until it fell into step beside yours. The sound of their hooves merged into one rhythm, steady and constant, but the quiet between you was anything but still.

He looked over at you then—really looked—his gaze dark and probing. Joel had a way of watching people that made it feel like he was peeling them apart, pulling back layers you’d much rather keep to yourself. His eyes flicked to your face, studying every shadow, every line of tension, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

His voice broke through the suffocating quiet, softer now, gentler in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the reins until your knuckles turned white, the leather biting into your palms. You didn’t want to look. Didn’t want him to see whatever it was clawing at the edges of your composure, threatening to spill over. But Joel’s voice—steady, unrelenting—left no room for refusal.

“Look at me.”

So you did.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

His eyes weren’t just steady—they were heavy with something raw, something stripped bare and unguarded that settled deep in your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. There was no mask this time, no shadow of distance in his expression. It was just Joel—staring at you, open and unhidden, and for once, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. Worry. Frustration. Something deeper, sharper, that you couldn’t name.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that wrapped around you like armor. “You hear me? We’re fine. You’re fine.”

You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to—but the creeping shadows in the trees, the silence that stretched too long, whispered otherwise. They sank their claws into your chest, cold and unshakable. “You don’t know that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze hardening, though not at you. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he looked past you, scanning the treeline like he might fight off the invisible threat himself.

“I promise,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less steady, each word deliberate, like he was forcing them out against his better judgment. His eyes met yours, unrelenting in their certainty, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that look—like nothing else mattered but the weight of what he was saying.

Joel Miller didn’t make promises. Not like this. He knew better than anyone that the world didn’t care about promises, that it didn’t hesitate to tear them apart, leaving nothing but regret in their place. He’d learned that lesson too many times, carried the scars of it. Promises were dangerous—they were traps, liabilities in a world where survival demanded detachment.

But this wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about the world’s cruelty. It was about you. About the way fear clung to you, raw and unspoken, written in the tightness of your shoulders and the way your hands trembled just enough to make him notice. He couldn’t bear to let you sit in that fear alone, to let it eat away at you when he could say something—do something—to make it stop, even for a moment.

So he broke his rule. For you. Because you needed to hear it, even if he couldn’t control what came next. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he said again, the quiet steel in his voice daring the world to prove him wrong, daring himself to make it true.

Your head shook instinctively, the words a hollow comfort, because the truth—the real, aching truth—had already slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

“I’m not worried about myself, Joel.”

His expression shifted, like you’d reached inside and knocked the breath out of him. The words sat heavy between you, tangled with everything you hadn’t said before now. Joel stilled, his fingers flexing against the reins as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

And for a moment, the silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick—with fear, with understanding, with something else.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice softened, a quiet plea that pulled your eyes back to his. He leaned forward just slightly, his presence grounding you as he held your gaze like it was the only thing keeping you both steady. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me either. You hear me?” He let the words settle, his brow furrowing like he was daring you to disagree. “Neither of us.”

The quiet stretched again, but it felt different this time.

Safer.

Joel watched you, his eyes searching, patient, waiting until you gave him even the smallest nod, until the tension in your grip loosened just enough for him to see the edges of your fear start to soften.

“I’ll make you dinner when we’re back,” he said suddenly, his tone quieter now, almost teasing, the rough edges smoothed by something gentler. He leaned back slightly in his saddle, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—small, but real. “How’s that sound? I’ll even let you pick what I make. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, the movement small but feeling monumental, like handing over a piece of yourself. Joel didn’t look away, his gaze holding yours, dark and steady. It wasn’t just a look—it was a promise, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft it was almost lost to the stillness.

The words hit you like a spark catching fire, sudden and uncontainable. Your breath faltered, catching in your throat as heat flooded your cheeks, spreading like a slow, uncontrollable burn.

You felt it down to your bones, something raw and visceral that left you stunned, reeling. Joel must’ve noticed—how could he not?—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered for one beat longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he nudged his horse forward.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, rough in that familiar way that grounded you, even now. His horse moved ahead, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth filling the quiet he left behind.

You nudged Winnie forward, falling in line just behind him, your gaze lingering on the back of his broad shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his frame as he rode. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, the shadows still thick, the danger still lurking unseen—but for the first time, it didn’t feel so close.

You couldn’t explain it, not even to yourself, but it was there. The safety. The trust.

The quiet understanding that as long as Joel was there—this close—you would be ok.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The dense forest finally opened into a clearing, the trees pulling back to reveal a lodge at the edge of the horizon. The last rays of daylight stretched thin and golden across the landscape, pooling in the long shadows that crept toward the building. The lodge loomed, weathered and tired, its sagging wooden frame darkened by years of rain and neglect. It stood like a forgotten relic, its emptiness heavy, as if waiting for something—or someone—to disturb its silence.

Joel pulled his horse to a halt first. The shift in him was subtle but clear—the way his shoulders squared, his spine went ramrod straight, his jaw set in that way you’d come to know so well. He said nothing at first, his sharp eyes sweeping the clearing in a calculated rhythm, scanning for threats like he could feel something lurking just beyond the edge of sight. The air around you seemed to thicken, every rustling branch and distant creak amplified by the stillness.

“We’ll walk the rest,” Joel said finally, his voice low, the gruff edge leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for your response, he swung off his horse, landing in a crouch with a practiced grace that belied his size.

You followed suit, sliding down from Winnie’s saddle. Your legs wobbled slightly, stiff and sore from the hours of riding, but you steadied yourself quickly, reaching for the straps of your pack. Before you slung it over your shoulder, your hand lingered on Winnie’s mane, your fingers brushing through the rough strands in slow, absent motions. There was something soothing about it—the rhythm, the warmth, the small bit of comfort she offered without knowing it.

“Bye, girl,” you whispered, the words hushed and raw, like you were leaving more behind than just your horse. Winnie let out a soft whinny, her dark eyes meeting yours with a quiet patience that settled somewhere deep in your chest, even as it made your throat tighten.

When you turned back, Joel was watching you. He stood a few steps ahead, the rifle slung across his back, his pack heavy over one shoulder. But it wasn’t the readiness of him that stopped you. It wasn’t the rifle or the sharp lines of his posture or even the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his side. It was his eyes.

There was something in them—something unspoken, unreadable, but unmistakably there. Worry, maybe. Or caution. Or something deeper. The amber light caught in their depths, softening the edges, but his gaze remained locked on you, unmoving.

Joel stepped closer, closing the space between you in an instant. The shift was so deliberate, so him, it made your breath catch. His hands came up to settle on your shoulders, grounding you with a steadiness that you didn’t know you needed until it was there. His grip was firm but not harsh, his palms rough against the fabric of your jacket, calloused from years of work and survival.

But it was the way his thumbs brushed the material—soft, fleeting, almost unconscious—that sent a shiver through you. A gesture so small, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him.

“Yes, Joel,” you said quickly, the frustration already seeping into your voice before he could even open his mouth. “I’ll do what you say.”

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His lips pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studied you. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you became heavy, dense. His shoulders shifted just slightly, like he was bracing himself, and his eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something closer to disbelief.

Like he didn’t trust you to listen. Like he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

He shook his head, the smallest motion, full of resignation. “Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, a steady edge that made it clear he wasn’t giving you room to argue. “You follow me. You stay quiet. If I say run, you run. You take Winnie, and you leave. You don’t look back. Got it?”

You blinked, unable to speak, the weight of them clawing tight at your chest. Run. Leave.

The very thought of it felt like ice splintering through your veins. You couldn’t picture it—couldn’t imagine a world where you turned your back on him, where you left Joel behind in the dark while you ran ahead.

Your throat tightened painfully, and you shook your head, your voice cracking as you whispered, “Joel, I—”

“Got it?” he pressed, his voice soft but edged with steel. He stepped closer, close enough that the fire in his eyes became undeniable, that the space between you disappeared entirely. Joel had always been unyielding, but this? This was something more. A desperation failing to hide beneath the surface.

You swallowed hard, the words scraping against your throat like they didn’t belong there. “I’ll run,” you said finally, though it felt like a betrayal to even admit it aloud. “I’ll take Winnie. I’ll… leave.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, his eyes locked on yours with a searing intensity that made it hard to breathe. His gaze wasn’t just searching—it was prying, deliberate and unrelenting, peeling back the walls you’d built to keep yourself steady. And under it, you felt seen—exposed in a way you didn’t quite know how to protect yourself from.

Because he wasn’t looking at the stubborn mask you wore, the one you threw on when the world demanded you be strong. No, Joel was looking deeper, into that part of you that screamed a truth you refused to say aloud: You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Not ever.

“Promise me,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but quiet, threaded with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Something that cracked at the edges, barely holding together.

“Joel…” you started, your voice faltering, thin and soft like you might shatter right there.

“Promise me,” he said again, firmer this time, though it trembled just faintly at the edges. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

The ache in your chest deepened, spreading through every inch of you like a poison. He was breaking his own rules, showing too much, and it was undoing you piece by piece. Joel didn’t let his guard down. He didn’t falter. But here he was, standing in front of you like this—raw, exposed, and asking for something he needed.

Joel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled his hands from your shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his eyes—steady and unrelenting—gave him away. He didn’t believe you, not fully. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to etch your promise into something solid, something he could hold onto when the time came.

You stayed rooted in place, frozen as you watched him move toward the lodge. Every step he took was deliberate, every turn of his head precise as he scanned the tree line, his hand hovering near his rifle. Ready for anything. Always ready.

And that’s what gutted you—truly gutted you—because you knew, with a clarity that scraped against your ribs like glass, that Joel wouldn’t hesitate. If it came down to you or him, he’d throw himself into the fire, step in front of the bullet, let his body be torn apart before he’d ever let harm come to you. And he’d do it without question. Without pause.

As you began following him, the words echoed in your head, unspoken but deafening. Don’t ask me to run, Joel. Don’t ask me to leave you behind. Each step felt heavier, the thought pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. Because I won’t. I can’t.

You knew he felt it, even if neither of you said it aloud. He felt it in the way your pace never strayed, your steps falling in line just behind his, close enough that he could hear the faint crunch of leaves beneath your boots. He felt it in the way your breaths synced with his, steady but strained, like you were holding something back. He felt it in the moments you lingered too long when his gaze flicked over his shoulder to check on you, your eyes locking with his for a beat too long before darting away.

He felt it in the way your fingers clenched the strap of your pack, white-knuckled and trembling, as if anchoring yourself to the promise you hadn’t meant to make. In the way you hovered just behind his shadow, always there, always ready, like you were silently daring the world to try and take him from you.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t look back to meet your gaze.

Because he knew. Knew what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Knew the truth that tore at you with every step closer to the lodge—that no promise, no command, no amount of pleading would ever change it.

You’d rather die than leave him.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The lodge emerged from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette jagged against the fading sky. Joel crouched low, signaling for you to do the same, his movements fluid and deliberate as he wove through the underbrush with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You mirrored him without question, your weapon clutched tightly in your hands, though the prickling sensation crawling up your spine refused to settle.

The building was a monument to ruin—ivy clawed greedily at its sides, creeping through splintered boards and shattered windowpanes. The roof sagged under the weight of neglect, and its walls seemed to lean in on themselves, like they couldn’t bear the burden of holding anything upright anymore. Every creak of the structure, every shift of the wind, sent your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Joel moved closer, crouching low to inspect the ground near the lodge’s entrance. His fingers brushed over the dirt, scanning for prints or disturbances, but there was nothing—just layers of leaves and twigs undisturbed by anything more threatening than the wind. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable but wary, before tilting his head toward the lodge.

You both edged forward, your eyes darting to the windows for movement, though the shattered panes reflected only the fading light. Joel stopped by a section of the wall, brushing aside ivy to check for signs of tampering or recent use, but the wood was damp and untouched.

He raised a hand, the gesture sharp and commanding, and you froze mid-step, holding your breath as his gaze swept the clearing with hawk-like precision.

Nothing stirred—not in the shadows, not in the lodge, not in the quiet woods that stretched around you like a living trap. Still, Joel’s hand hovered near his weapon, his muscles taut as he nodded for you to follow.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, your breath shallow as you fell into step behind him.

The front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, groaning in protest as Joel nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. The sound scraped through the silence like a knife, too loud, too exposed, and you couldn’t stop the way your fingers tightened around your weapon.

Joel stepped inside first, his silhouette a wall of quiet strength against the dim light leaking through the cracks in the boards. You followed, forcing yourself to move with the same care, though your heart thundered loud enough that you swore he could hear it.

Inside, the lodge was a shell of its former self. Dust blanketed the warped floorboards, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot. Furniture lay upturned and broken, a chair leg splintered like a bone. The stillness was oppressive, a silence so deep it felt wrong.

Joel stopped, raising his hand again—split up, the flick of his fingers said. Be careful.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as your eyes locked with his. You didn’t want to split up—he could see it, clear as day, in the way your gaze lingered, pleading silently even as your jaw set with determination. But you were a big girl. That’s why you were here. You were his partner, and partners pulled their weight, even if the fear inside you threatened to tear you apart.

Joel’s expression shifted, his own hesitation flickering just beneath the surface. For a moment, it looked like he might say it—that you could stick together, that he’d shoulder this for both of you. But before he could, you forced yourself to speak.

Joel held your stare for a second longer, his eyes sharp and searching, as if making sure you were ok. Finally, he gave a short nod and disappeared down the far hallway, his boots making the faintest creak against the wood.

Then he was gone, and you were alone.

You turned toward what looked like the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. Every movement felt amplified, the sound of your boots on the floorboards bouncing off the walls like a warning. The cabinets hung open, their hinges rusted and warped, shelves stripped bare save for a few unidentifiable cans buried under layers of dust. Drawers yawned empty, their contents long since ransacked, and the grime clinging to the countertops filled the air with a damp, sour tang that made your nose wrinkle.

You pressed on, your breathing shallow as you opened door after door, each creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a threat. Each room you entered felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce the moment you let your guard down. But all you found were shadows and decay.

When you stepped back into the main room, your heart thudded as Joel appeared from the opposite hallway, his rifle still raised, his shoulders squared and tense. His sharp gaze swept the room first, scanning every corner, lingering a second too long as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Finally, his eyes found yours.

“Clear,” you whispered, your voice tight but steady, the tension in your chest easing just slightly under the weight of his presence.

Joel nodded once, his reply a low murmur. “Same here. No signs of infected or raiders.”

The stiffness in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but it was enough for you to catch. He lowered his rifle, the grip of his hand softening, though his gaze stayed sharp, cutting through the dim light as he glanced toward the darker corners of the lodge. The faint furrow in his brow lingered, betraying the quiet calculations still turning behind his eyes.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “Grab what you can. Then we move.”

You didn’t argue. There was no room for debate, just the quiet understanding that lingered between the two of you. With a sharp nod, you turned back toward the shadowed remnants of the lodge, splitting up again, each step deliberate as you scoured opposite sides for anything that might help you survive.

The finds were sparse but not useless. In the back of a closet, buried beneath a heap of moth-eaten fabric, your fingers brushed over something cool and familiar. You pulled out a small, dusty box of bandages—the edges frayed, but the contents inside still sealed and intact. “Bingo,” you murmured, though the sound barely broke the silence. In a drawer, you found a small box of ammo, the label faded but legible, and a pair of rusted scissors, their edges dulled but still functional with some effort.

Across the room, Joel worked with practiced efficiency. He knelt, his hand closing around something tucked behind a fallen shelf. Holding it up to the faint light filtering through the shattered windows, he revealed a hunting knife, its blade dulled with age but still capable of damage. Joel turned it over once in his hands, inspecting it with his sharp, calculating eye before tucking it into his pack without a word.

You met back in the main room, the eerie silence of the lodge pressing in around you.

“Not bad,” Joel said when he found you again, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the quiet like a steady anchor. He turned a wrench over in his hands, the faint light glinting off the tarnished metal as he inspected it, then stowed it with the tools he’d collected. “Could’ve been worse.”

His eyes flicked to your pack. “What’d you find?” he asked, nodding toward it.

“Bandages, some ammo, scissors,” you shrugged, shifting the weight of your pack slightly. “Not a lot, but…”

“Good job,” Joel interrupted, his tone gruff but sincere. The simple words settled something in your chest, the heaviness easing just slightly as he gave a brief nod.

“Alright,” he said, his gaze shifting to the staircase that loomed ahead, its warped wood groaning faintly under the weight of the silence. “I’m gonna check upstairs quickly. You stay here—I’ll be ten minutes tops.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes landed on you then, steady and searching, and you felt yourself stand a little straighter without realizing it. It wasn’t a look that checked for injuries or exhaustion—it went deeper, something quieter, something anchoring. His gaze carried a weight that pressed against you gently, like he was grounding you in a way words never could. It made the world seem to pause, holding its breath for just a moment.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, the gravel softened by a note of concern he didn’t manage to hide in time. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t just protocol—it was real, slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.

You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. It wasn’t a full lie—you were fine enough. But there was something about the lodge, the way the air felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It stayed with you, tugging at the edges of your nerves. Still, the steadiness in Joel’s gaze was enough to hold you upright, to keep the words from cracking. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his brow furrowing just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you but didn’t see the use in pressing further. He gave a small, tight nod. “I’m here,” he said simply, like it was a promise—because it was. It always was.

Before you could answer, Joel turned toward the stairs, his boots creaking softly against the worn wood as he began to ascend, his figure fading into the dim shadows above. You stood there, rooted in place, your fingers tightening instinctively around your weapon.

The lodge still felt wrong.

The air still felt thick.

The room too quiet.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood planted for a few minutes, your ears straining to track the faint sound of Joel’s footsteps overhead as he maneuvered through the rooms. The steady rhythm of his movements was oddly comforting, a reminder that you weren’t completely alone in this place. Still, the unease gnawed at you, curling tighter in your chest with every creak of the old wood.

You sighed, turning reluctantly. If you were waiting, you might as well keep looking for something useful.

As you moved deeper into the lodge, the air seemed heavier, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Your boots crunched softly over the debris littering the floor, your eyes scanning each corner with wary precision. A collapsed shelf caught your attention, leaning crookedly against the far wall, its splintered remains scattered like an afterthought. But it wasn’t the mess that made you pause—it was what was behind it.

A door.

Half-hidden, almost like it didn’t want to be found. The frame was warped, its paint chipped and peeling, the edge barely visible against the shadows.

You froze for a heartbeat, instincts tugging at you, warning you to wait for Joel. To call him. To let him take point, like he always did. But something—curiosity, stubbornness, or maybe just the restless hum of adrenaline in your veins—made you step closer instead. Your hand brushed the debris aside, and the door groaned faintly as it gave way under your touch.

A rush of stale, frigid air met you, sharp and sudden, crawling against your skin like unseen fingers. You swallowed hard as your gaze fell to the narrow staircase leading down into the basement. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, the light from above barely brushing the first few steps. Something about it felt wrong, ancient in its silence, like the lodge itself had buried it for a reason.

You lingered there, the weight of uncertainty pinning you in place. You could turn back. Go find Joel.

Just a look, you thought, forcing yourself to believe it.

Your fingers curled around the grip of your weapon, the metal cold and grounding against your palm. You took the first step down. The wood creaked under your weight, loud enough that you winced. Quiet, you told yourself. Be quiet.

The silence was unbearable, so thick and oppressive it almost buzzed in your ears. Without realizing it, you began to hum softly under your breath—a faint, wavering melody that meant nothing and everything, a trick to steady your pulse and force the tension back into something manageable.

Then you heard it.

Voices.

They slipped through the darkness, muffled and low, with an edge to them that turned your blood to ice. You stopped cold, your breath catching in your throat as your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You couldn’t make out the words, but they were unmistakably human. Not infected—humans. That realization did nothing to settle the nausea twisting in your gut. If anything, it made it worse.

You strained to hear, your head tilting slightly, every muscle in your body coiled tight. The voices were distorted by the walls and distance, but they were close. Too close. Your grip on your weapon tightened until your knuckles ached, sweat slicking your palms.

Turn back.

The warning flashed through your mind like a flare in the dark, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You flattened yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you peered around the edge of the doorway, and there they were.

Three men stood clustered near a ring of dim lanterns, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the crumbling basement walls. The tallest of the three—a wiry figure with gaunt cheeks and a scar bisecting his right brow—commanded the space, his voice cutting through the stillness like the scrape of a blade against bone.

“She was a fuckin’ bitch,” he spat, his knife twirling restlessly between his fingers. The blade caught the flickering light, winking like a predator’s eye. His movements were sharp, erratic, as though violence lingered just beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse to break free. “Got what was comin’ to her.”

“Jesus, Tom,” the broad one muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He leaned against the wall with a forced laziness, one hand brushing the edge of the handgun strapped at his hip. Everything about him—his stretched vest, his patchy beard, the sneer that seemed permanently carved into his face—radiated menace. Even his stillness felt dangerous, like the coiled pause before a snake strikes. “That was your girlfriend.”

“Ex,” Tom snapped, his voice dripping venom, the scar over his brow twisting with his sneer. “Skank.”

The youngest of the group lingered just outside the lantern’s glow, his presence twitchy and uncertain. His rifle was clutched tightly to his chest, the whites of his knuckles visible against the stock, his eyes darting constantly toward the shadows as though they might swallow him whole. He wasn’t built for this. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he flinched every time Tom’s knife flashed.

“How far’s the settlement?” the kid asked finally, his voice thin and hesitant, as if he already feared the answer.

Your stomach dropped like a stone. Jackson.

“A few hours,” Tom said, flicking his knife toward some vague point in the distance, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “If we don’t hit any patrols.”

The broad man scratched his beard, considering. His sneer deepened into something uglier, the edges curling with grim satisfaction. “They’ve got guards,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring them. “Ain’t no easy pickings. We wait. Arm the rest of the crew first. Then we hit ‘em.”

The floor felt like it shifted under your feet. Ice pooled in your veins, spreading outward until you couldn’t feel your fingertips wrapped white-knuckled around your weapon. They weren’t scavengers. They weren’t drifters looking for a warm corner or forgotten scraps. These men were here for blood.

Jackson—your home —was in their sights.

The kid shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “You sure this is a good idea?” he muttered. “We don’t know what they’ve got. What if it’s more than we can—”

Tom rounded on him in an instant, the knife snapping to a stop in his hand. The kid flinched as Tom stepped close, his scar twisting with his sneer. “What, you scared?” he hissed. “Gonna piss your pants, kid? You signed up for this, remember? Or you wanna end up like the bitch we left back there?”

The kid’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles somehow tightening even more on his rifle. “No,” he murmured. “I’m good.”

Tom turned away, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

Your heart hammered so loudly you swore they could hear it. You couldn’t stay here—couldn’t listen to another second. The world around you narrowed to the single, desperate thought pounding through your mind.

Get out. Find Joel.

You moved, forcing yourself back a step, slow and deliberate. Another step. The floor beneath your boots creaked—loud, impossibly loud—and your breath caught in your throat.

The kid’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”

Shit.

You froze, pressing yourself hard into the shadows, your pulse so frantic it was a miracle you didn’t pass out right then.

The broad man sighed, disinterested. “Probably rats. Place like this, I’m surprised we ain’t wading through ‘em.”

Tom grunted, but his gaze lingered on the dark edges of the room for a beat too long before he turned back to his knife, twirling it once more. “We move at first light,” he said flatly, his voice sharp as flint. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

They didn’t notice you. Somehow, they didn’t notice.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself up another step. And then another. Every nerve screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t risk it—not yet. You climbed the stairs, each step a slow, deliberate fight against panic.

When you reached the top, the cold air of the lodge hit you like a slap. You pushed the door closed with trembling hands, the sound of your breathing ragged in the stillness. For one long moment, you stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide as you fought to push down the panic clawing at your throat.

Find Joel.

That thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, and turned back toward the main room. Each step felt deliberate, your movements careful as you attempted to stay as quiet as possible.

Joel. You needed to find Joel. Now.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Joel appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, his presence so sudden and silent that you didn’t register him until he was right there. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and startling in the suffocating quiet, his concern clear though he had no idea what you’d just witnessed.

You reacted instinctively—without thinking. Your hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t know you possessed. The other hand pressed firmly over his mouth before he could say another word. Wide-eyed, trembling, you stared up at him, your silent plea screaming louder than any sound ever could.

Joel stilled. Completely. His body went rigid beneath your touch, but his gaze—sharp as ever—locked onto yours. His expression shifted as he took you in, reading you the way only Joel could: the panic in your eyes, the tremble in your shoulders, the urgency of your grip. Then, as if following some invisible thread, his eyes flickered over your shoulder, narrowing on the dark, half-open basement door.

The change in him was instant. His entire frame tensed, his jaw tightening until you swore you heard his teeth grind. The flicker of soft concern vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—Joel the protector, Joel with the sharp edges and the deadly calm.

“How many?” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as your trembling hand rose slowly. Three fingers. Three.

He nodded once, sharp and precise. They see you? his expression asked, his brow lifting just enough to push the question.

You shook your head, the words stuck somewhere in your throat, fear silencing you.

Joel’s eyes sharpened, calculating. His hand shifted slowly toward his rifle, every movement deliberate, measured, a man preparing for war.

He didn’t need to speak—his body said it all. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He gestured sharply, flicking his hand toward the wall behind you—a command, clear as day. Get out of sight. His eyes pinned you, unyielding, daring you to argue. Let me handle this.

But your body didn’t move. You couldn’t move.

Your feet felt glued to the floor, your fingers twitching against the grip of your weapon, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The idea of Joel walking toward that basement alone—that black hole of danger—sent ice shooting through your veins.

Joel turned back just in time to see you still standing there, your eyes flicking between him and the door. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the motion sharp, almost angry, before his voice cut through the quiet like a whip.

“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re not coming.”

“Joel—” You didn’t mean for it to sound so small, so pleading.

His head snapped toward you, his glare pinning you in place like a physical force. “No,” he repeated, harsher now, his voice a low growl that reverberated in the small space. “You said you’d do what I told you. You promised.”

Your lip trembled as you looked at him, your fear laid bare in a way you couldn’t hide. It wasn’t for yourself—you knew that. It was him. The idea of Joel walking down there alone, of you standing helpless while something happened to him—it gutted you. You couldn’t let that happen.

Joel saw it. Of course, he saw it. His eyes flickered to the whiteness of your knuckles around your weapon, to the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the tears brimming but refusing to fall. His jaw tightened, his shoulders coiled like a wire pulled too tight, but when he exhaled, it wasn’t anger that bled through. It was something quieter, rawer—something meant for you alone.

“Stay here,” he said again, but this time, his voice had gentled, as though he knew he was asking for too much. He paused, and then—just as you thought he might turn and leave—he stepped closer.

Before you could process it, his hands were on your face—broad and calloused, cradling you as though you were made of glass but still the only thing keeping him steady.

His thumbs hovered, the faintest pressure brushing your cheeks, anchoring you, grounding you. His presence overwhelmed everything, the lodge, the danger—it all faded away until there was only Joel.

“No matter what you hear,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something so desperate, it made your stomach turn. “You do not come down. You hear me?”

His eyes bored into yours, dark and unyielding, as if he could carve the command straight into your soul. It wasn’t just a warning—it was an order, sharp and desperate.

You nodded, small and mechanical, because your throat was too tight to speak. Your eyes burned, blurring the lines of his face, but you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. His fingers stayed where they were, his palms warm against your skin, and his brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize you. Like some part of him was begging for more time. Then his thumb traced your cheek—so soft, so fleeting that it almost didn’t feel real.

His next words fell like a blow.

“If I don’t come back…” Joel hesitated, his voice breaking like he hated every syllable he was forcing himself to say. His grip on you tightened—barely, but enough to steady himself. “You take Winnie. You leave.”

“Joel—” you choked out, the crack in your voice making him flinch, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You leave,” he repeated, the word a command, a plea, everything in between.

“You get back to Jackson, and you don’t stop. You don’t look back.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he wrestled with something unspoken. “You don’t wait for me.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and silent as they ran down your cheeks. “Don’t talk like that,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment like he couldn’t bear the weight of you breaking right in front of him.

“Promise me,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, his words breaking apart with the effort it took to say them. “Promise me you’ll go.”

Your chest ached, torn apart by the desperation in his voice, by the way he held you like you were the only thing left in the world. You couldn’t breathe past the tightness in your throat, but somehow, you found the words. Barely.

“I promise,” you whispered, the lie slicing through you like a blade.

Joel stilled, his gaze lingering on you—memorizing you, you realized—until you thought the weight of it might crush you. His eyes were dark, burning with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t allow himself to feel. It was more than care. More than duty. It was him, all of him, tangled up in that look like a confession carved into silence.

He pulled back just enough to let you go, his hands dropping away with a slowness that made your heart seize. It felt wrong, like he’d taken something with him when he stepped back.

And then, without another word, he turned. His shoulders squared, his rifle steady, every step deliberate and heavy as he moved toward the basement door. He looked invincible, unshakable, a fortress built to protect—but you saw it. You saw the way his steps faltered, just slightly, right before he disappeared from view.

It was so small, so fleeting, but you caught it—the hesitation. The doubt.

And when he was gone, swallowed by the dark, you were left with nothing but the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears, the echo of his voice, and the truth you couldn’t ignore

You’d made him a promise.

But you already knew you’d break it.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood frozen, your weapon clutched so tightly your knuckles ached, staring at the empty space where Joel had been just moments ago. Your breath hitched as your chest caved inward, a frustrated whisper escaping you before you could stop it. “Fuck,” you murmured, wiping the tear that streaked down your cheek.

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, pressing against your skin until you felt like it might crush you.

You strained to hear something—anything—beyond the shallow rhythm of your breathing. A voice, the creak of a floorboard, the sharp crack of a rifle.

But there was nothing.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him. Joel was the sharpest, most capable man you’d ever known, his movements precise, his instincts lethal. If anyone could handle this—three men, armed, their voices dripping with cruelty—it was him. But trust didn’t stop the fear.

Your mind spiraled, unbidden. Joel alone in that basement, the shadows creeping too close. Joel outnumbered, surrounded. The scarred man’s knife glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joel going down, because you—because you—

No. You shook your head sharply, forcing the thought back. Joel had told you to stay. Had made you promise. You clung to the memory of his hands on your face, his words—steady, pleading—cutting through the fear like a tether.

“Stay here.”

And then it began.

The first shot shattered the silence like glass, the sound so sharp it felt like it had punched straight through your chest. You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind filled in the image: Joel, calm, unflinching, taking the first man out with lethal precision.

Then came the shouting, frantic and chaotic, movement as they realized they weren’t alone. The second shot cracked through the air, echoing with brutal finality, followed by the clang of metal hitting concrete. A rifle? A knife? You didn’t know. Another one down.

Joel was fast. He was sharp. He was—

But then the rhythm changed.

The sounds turned messier, louder. Boots scraping. A grunt—low, pained. The thud of bodies colliding, struggling. Your blood ran cold. Every nerve in your body tensed as you heard it: Joel’s voice. A noise that was undeniably him—guttural, strained, torn from somewhere deep.

Stay here. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, the quiet plea from earlier ringing like a hammer against your skull. You owed him this. He’d trusted you with this. You’d promised.

But that sound—his sound—kept replaying in your head, pulling tighter around your throat, suffocating you. Joel was down there. Fighting. Alone. And you were here. Frozen.

No. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming louder than any promise you’d made.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t stay here while he fought for his life. If something happened to him—if you let something happen to him—you wouldn’t survive it.

The old stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, slow at first, your boots deliberate against the wood. But then your pace quickened, reckless and raw, urgency pushing you faster than reason could hold you back. Each sound below sharpened with terrifying clarity as you drew closer: the crash of something breaking, the thud of heavy footsteps, the ragged cadence of Joel’s breathing.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you flattened yourself against the wall, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The cold concrete pressed hard against your back, grounding you even as your mind screamed at you to move, to act. Slowly, you edged around the corner, just enough to see—and the sight that met you stopped your heart cold.

Joel was locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with Tom, the leader. The raider’s knife gleamed wickedly in the dim lantern light, a wicked arc of steel that seemed to catch the room’s shadows and pull them with it. Tom lunged, his aim sharp and merciless, the blade slicing toward Joel’s ribs. Joel twisted at the last second, his hand snapping out like a vice to clamp around Tom’s wrist, halting the strike before it could land.

The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the basement, bodies straining, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Joel deflected the knife again, his forearm cracking hard against Tom’s, the impact loud and jarring. But Tom was quick—too quick—and he broke free with a snarl, his lip curled into something vicious and ugly.

“Come on, old man,” Tom taunted, his voice drenched in mockery, his grin sharp and mean. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His focus was absolute, his movements deliberate, honed by years of surviving men just like this. But you could see the wear creeping in—the slight falter in his step, the way his breath came shorter, sharper. The next swing of the knife was too quick, too cruel. It slashed across Joel’s side, the tear of fabric punctuated by a sickening bloom of red that spread dark and fast against his jacket.

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound choked and ragged as you saw him stumble back a step. Joel grunted, the pain flashing across his face before he swallowed it down, straightening with that same unrelenting resolve. But the blood—his blood—dripping onto the floor sent a bolt of panic through you, sharp enough to shatter any instinct to stay hidden.

“Joel!” The word tore from your lips, loud and unrestrained, a burst of desperation you couldn’t hold back.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock—“No!” he barked, his voice hoarse—but the warning came too late.

Tom’s grin twisted into something crueler, something darker, as his gaze swung to you. “Well, look at this,” he sneered, his knife glinting as he straightened. “Didn’t know you brought a partner. Real sweet.”

He moved fast—too fast. Before you could blink, he was closing the distance, the blade flashing as he lunged. You fired, the crack of the shot splitting the air like a whip, but it was too close, too rushed. The bullet skidded off the concrete near his feet, sending up a burst of dust but leaving him unharmed.

“Too slow,” Tom hissed, and then the knife was slashing toward you.

Pain ripped through you, hot and searing as the blade bit into your thigh. You gasped, stumbling back, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

But you didn’t let go. Your grip on your rifle tightened, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you swung it hard. The butt of the weapon crashed into his shoulder with a dull, heavy thud, the force of it making him stagger to the side.

But he recovered too quickly, his movements fueled by something feral and unrelenting. His eyes found yours again, narrowed with ruthless intent. He came at you once more, his steps predatory, the knife gleaming red.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You steadied your breath, your hands trembling but sure as you raised the rifle again. Time slowed as you lined up the shot, Joel’s warning, the chaos, the fear—all of it fading into the steady pull of your finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out, louder than thunder in the small space, and Tom jerked back, the force of it ripping through him. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor as his body crumpled. His eyes were still open, vacant and unseeing, as he slumped against the concrete.

The silence that followed was deafening.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Silence stretched thin, broken only by the ragged, uneven gasps tearing from your chest, the weapon still trembling in your hands. The sharp sting of the cut on your thigh barely registered, drowned out by the aftershocks of adrenaline flooding your veins. You sank against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface pressing into your back like an anchor, keeping you upright when your body felt like it might fall apart.

Across the room, Joel cursed—a low, guttural sound, tight with pain and something darker. When he moved, his steps were heavy, deliberate, like he was holding himself back, like he didn’t trust himself to close the distance without breaking something.

When he finally stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to coil tighter, pressing down on your chest until it was impossible to breathe.

You looked up, your stomach twisting as his dark eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze hit you like a physical blow, heavy and unrelenting, and you couldn’t stop the small flinch that followed.

“What did I tell you?” he bit out, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “What did I make you promise me?”

Your back hit the wall as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Joel—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off. His palm slammed against the wall behind you, the sharp crack ringing out and making you flinch. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

The anger in his voice was volcanic, but there was something else beneath it—a crack, a tremor, something raw that made it hit twice as hard. He bent down so he was eye-level, his face inches from yours. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break, his dark eyes burning into yours with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine.

“You promised me,” he ground out, his voice shaking now. “I said don’t come down here. I said no matter what you heard—no matter what, you stay put.” His voice cracked on the last word, his brow furrowing like it was taking everything in him not to lose control. “Why is that so goddamn hard for you to understand?""

Your jaw tightened, the tears that had been burning in your eyes threatening to spill over. The knot of fear and frustration that had been choking you since this all started finally snapped, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Joel, he would’ve killed you!”

“I don’t care!” Joel roared, the sound like thunder in the small, suffocating room, shaking the air between you. His voice wasn’t just loud—it was broken, raw, splintered with something too jagged to contain.

The sheer force of it made you flinch, but not because it scared you. It was what you heard in it—his anguish, his desperation, all of it bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breaths ragged and hard, like the words had been ripped from someplace deep and untouchable. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!”

“Well, I care!” you screamed back, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as the tears finally spilled free, hot and relentless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping what poured out now, no holding back what had clawed its way to the surface.

“I care, Joel! You think no one does? You think no one gives a damn what happens to you? I fucking care!”

The last words hit like a gunshot, reverberating through the space, leaving the air thick and choking.

Joel stilled, like you’d physically struck him, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what you’d said. The fire in his eyes dimmed—just a little—but something else flickered there, something darker and heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even shame.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotions you’d unleashed in him. His lips parted slightly, like he was searching for something to say, something to give back to you, but nothing came. His face softened in the slightest way, his fury tempered by the truth you’d thrown at him, but it was still too raw—you were still too raw—for either of you to move past it.

The silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting, until you swallowed hard, forcing down the sob lodged in your throat. Your voice trembled but carried a quiet, cutting edge as you pressed on. “And you—you—promised me.”

Before he could stop you—before you could stop yourself—you reached for him, your fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “You promised me nothing would happen to you,” you said, quieter now but no less fierce, no less shattering.

The torn fabric gave way easily as you pushed it aside, revealing the steady seep of blood from the shallow cut along his side. Your hands trembled as you let the coat drop, the image of the blood burned into you.

“So let’s just call it even,” you said finally, your voice small but heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after fear. You sank back against the wall, your head falling back to rest against the rough wood as you squeezed your eyes shut, like shutting out the world might hold you together for just a moment longer.

Joel’s gaze flicked down to the blood staining your jeans, the dark patch spreading too quickly for his liking. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and he let out a sharp, uneven breath through his nose—like he was trying to hold something back, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.

His hands hovered near your thigh, close but not quite touching, his fingers twitching at his sides. They curled and uncurled, restless and aching, as if he were caught in some invisible war with himself.

“You’re hurt,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, quieter now, like speaking it out loud might make the wound worse. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring at the blood, his expression so tight it looked painful.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” The last part was barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you, as though he couldn’t reconcile it—like the fact that you were bleeding was something he couldn’t forgive.

“It’s just a graze,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was defensive, a knee-jerk reaction to the way he was looking at you. Like the blood on your leg was his fault, like it was a wound he’d put there himself. “Joel, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

But Joel didn’t look fine.

His dark eyes stayed locked on the stain spreading across your jeans, heavy and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t anger in his gaze now—it was something else. Guilt.

“That don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low, gruff, but you could hear it—feel it—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry at you. He was blaming himself. “It don’t matter if it’s a graze or worse. I shouldn’t’ve let it happen.”

Joel crouched, pulling his knife free and slicing through the hem of his shirt without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said, pressing the clean fabric to your leg, his hands firm but careful.

He wrapped the strip tightly around the wound, securing it with a knot. His fingers lingered briefly, checking the tension before he leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning your leg.

“This’ll hold for now,” he murmured, quieter this time. “We’re goin’ to the safe house,” his voice dropping into that tone that left no room for argument. Commanding, but not unkind.

You tried to push yourself upright, to stand on your own, but your legs betrayed you, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. Joel was there immediately, his arms slipping around you with the kind of ease that made you think he hadn’t even considered letting you fall. One arm looped around your waist, steady and unyielding, while his other hand hovered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you wavered.

“Easy,” Joel murmured, his voice softer now, though the crease between his brows stayed etched deep, carved by worry so heavy it made your chest tighten.

You let your eyes drift around the room then, your breath hitching as the scene unfolded in jagged snapshots: the lifeless bodies, the chaos Joel had waded through alone. Your heart clenched, a surge of guilt and helplessness rising in your throat.

“Don’t look,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his tone gruff but layered with something protective. It wasn’t just the violence he was shielding you from—it was the truth of it all, the weight of what survival demanded.

Your knees wavered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him—more than you wanted to, more than you meant to. But Joel didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch. You turned to him, burying your face against his shoulder, your sobs spilling out in jagged waves you couldn’t control.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but low, steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around you like a shield. His hand slid up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you with every careful touch.

You pulled back reluctantly, tears streaking your cheeks, your chest tight with the vulnerability you hated showing. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen, voice breaking as you asked, “Are you mad at me?”

Joel froze. It was barely a second—a hesitation so fleeting you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. But his hands betrayed him, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, grounding himself as much as you. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. The question had shaken him; you could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he needed time to collect himself.

“You’re mad,” you said again, your voice trembling, words spilling out unbidden, raw and unsteady. “Aren’t you?”

That pulled his gaze back to yours. His eyes—sharp, searching—locked onto you, and you braced for it. The anger. The storm. The hard words that would push you away.

But they didn’t come.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I ain’t mad at you.” The words hung in the air, weighted with a sincerity that made your heart squeeze. He hesitated again, his thumb brushing the edge of your jacket, the touch so light you weren’t sure it was real. “Could never be mad at you.”

Joel’s hand lingered a moment longer, his fingers twitching like he might reach up, like he might cup your face and hold you still, make you look at him, make you understand. But instead, he pulled back, his hand curling briefly into a fist at his side, as if he had to physically stop himself from touching you.

Joel nodded once, a sharp, subtle motion, like he was giving himself permission to believe you.

With a quiet sigh, Joel shifted, pulling you closer against his side, his movements gentle but decisive as he helped you toward the stairs.

You let him, your body too tired and your heart too heavy to argue.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The ride to the safe house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy—thick with all the words neither of you could bring yourselves to say. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against the dirt road was the only sound that filled the space between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

Every few minutes, Joel glanced back over his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep, his expression hard to read but unmistakably Joel. Protective. Unrelenting.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel, you’re gonna break your damn neck,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, sharp enough to make him slow.

“Ride beside me,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. It was a command, sure, but you heard the care threaded beneath it.

You sighed, nudging Winnie forward until you were riding alongside him. Joel’s horse matched your pace easily, the two of you falling into a quiet rhythm together. He didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes drifted over you again, scanning you from head to toe with that maddening focus of his—like he was trying to convince himself you were still in one piece, like he could find a hidden injury just by looking hard enough.

“How’s your leg?” Joel asked after a long beat, his voice softer this time, the edge of his usual gruffness dulled by something heavier—something tender.

“Fine,” you replied quickly, maybe too quickly. You sat straighter in the saddle, biting back the wince that wanted to pull at your features. The throbbing beneath the bandage hadn’t eased, but you weren’t about to let him see it.

Joel’s jaw worked tight, his fingers flexing briefly around the reins, knuckles pale. He didn’t look convinced, though he held himself back, his voice dipping low as he muttered, “Should’ve stayed put.” The words came out soft, almost defeated, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “You didn’t need to come down there.”

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we really gonna do this again?”

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken things. His eyes lingered on yours, then followed your gaze as it drifted to the dark stain where his blood had seeped into the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m fine,” he said when he caught you looking. The words were clipped, dismissive, like brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.

“Sure,” you replied, raising a brow, the disbelief clear in your voice. “You’re bleeding, but you’re fine.”

Joel let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustration mingled with something else—resignation, maybe.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“So have I,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The safe house was as bleak as you expected: four walls, a fireplace barely clinging to life, and a draft that made your skin prickle.

It didn’t matter. It was shelter. It would keep you alive tonight.

Joel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a wobbly chair. His rifle clattered softly onto the worn table nearby, within arm’s reach, always within reach.

The room seemed smaller with him in it, his broad frame commanding the space even as he knelt by the fireplace. You could hear the low rumble of his voice—soft, agitated muttering—lost beneath the crackle of kindling catching flame.

You sank onto the faded couch, its springs groaning beneath you as your body gave way to exhaustion. The pull of sleep was strong, the ache in your leg reduced to a dull throb—manageable, but not forgotten.

You let your head tilt back against the threadbare cushions, your eyes slipping closed for what felt like the first time in hours. The warmth of the fire began to spread, chasing the cold from the air and unraveling some of the tension from your limbs.

“Let me see that leg.”

You blinked, the haze of near-sleep lifting as you tilted your head toward him. He was standing there, bottle of alcohol in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, a groan escaping him as he set the supplies on the dusty coffee table with a deliberate thud, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at you, his attention fixed on unrolling the bandages, his movements methodical.

“Didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.

His hands were steady and deliberate as he reached for your leg, lifting it with a care that felt almost out of place against his usual rough exterior. He settled it across his lap, his touch firm but gentle.

Joel didn’t say anything as he began peeling back the bloodied makeshift bandage he'd tied earlier. The fabric clung stubbornly to the dried blood, and when the wound was finally revealed, he let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—a noise caught somewhere between relief and disapproval.

“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers hovering near the edge of the gash but never quite touching. His voice dropped lower, as though he were speaking more to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly, your voice catching as you tried to wave him off.

“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t act like this ain’t a big deal.”

Joel shifted, pouring alcohol onto a scrap of cloth, and the sharp scent of it filled the small room. When he pressed it to your leg, the sting came quick, searing and unforgiving. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, your fingers curling tightly into the worn fabric of the couch.

“Shit,” you hissed, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.

“Easy,” Joel muttered, his voice dipping softer, gentler now in a way that made something catch in your chest. “I know it stings. Just—” He paused, his hands steadying your leg, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. “Just stay still. I’ve got it.”

It was such a small thing—his touch. Thoughtless and unintentional, but it lingered, warm against the ache spreading through you, grounding you in a way that made your breath hitch. Joel didn’t notice; he was too focused, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still finish what he started. But that only made it worse. Or maybe it made it better. You weren’t sure which.

“You don’t have to fuss, Joel,” you said finally.

“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “S’my job.”

“Your job?” you echoed, raising a brow in faint disbelief. “Don’t remember signing a contract for that.”

That earned you a huff from Joel—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t buried beneath layers of frustration and weariness.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely. “You’re a fuckin' smart-ass,” he muttered, the words gruff but not unkind, and there was something almost fond threaded through the irritation, like he couldn’t help himself.

Joel’s hands slowed as he secured the bandage, his touch careful, deliberate, but heavy with exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back with a quiet sigh, the sound deep and tired, like it carried the weight of more than just today.

He didn’t move your leg from where it rested across his lap. He didn’t push you away. So you left it there. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your jeans, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Even though you didn’t listen to me…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, trailing off into a sigh. His hand scrubbed over his face, and when he dropped it, the lines of his features seemed deeper, etched with something too raw to name. “Never fuckin’ listen,” he added under his breath, but the edge in his tone was missing.

He turned his head to look at you then, “You did good back there,” he said, “Real good.”

Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze, your hands fumbling aimlessly at the hem of your shirt. “That was…” you started, but the words faltered, catching in your throat before you could finish.

“What?” Joel asked, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet insistence of his—the one that made it impossible to hide. His brow furrowed as he studied you, his sharp gaze narrowing like he could see right through you. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you lied, the words slipping out too quickly, too softly to sound convincing. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, instead leaning forward, focusing on the task at hand.

Your fingers busied themselves with his jacket, brushing aside the torn fabric and smudges of dried blood as you dabbed gently at the wound. The quiet scrape of the cloth against his skin filled the silence, and you hoped—foolishly—that the distraction might be enough to make him drop it. But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, like he could see right through you.

It wasn’t.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice broke through the silence, low and steady, the sound grounding in a way that made your heart stutter. His hands moved to your wrist, his grip firm but careful, stilling your movements with the gentlest pressure.

The warmth of his skin against yours made your breath catch, and you froze, your eyes locked on where his fingers wrapped around your own. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move. “Look at me,” he said softly.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle.

“That was really fucking scary,” you whispered, barely able to force the admission past your lips.

Your eyes dropped immediately, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you added, quieter still, “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”

You braced yourself for the gruff dismissal that always seemed to follow moments like this—Joel waving off fear like it wasn’t worth the air it took to name it. But instead, he stayed quiet, so quiet you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you.

“Yeah,” Joel said softly, “It was scary.”

Your head snapped up at the admission, your breath catching in your chest. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—an argument, a dismissal, maybe even some clipped comment about how it was all fine now. But there was none of that. Joel’s expression was open in a way that made your heart ache, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen, the firelight painting the lines of his face with hues of gold and shadow.

He dragged a hand slowly over his face, the gesture weighted, as if trying to erase the tension coiling in his jaw. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, rougher. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.” He paused, his gaze flickering to yours, dark and steady, like he was trying to hold you there with just his eyes. “That kinda thing…” His voice dipped lower, softer, as if the admission was meant just for you. “It should scare you.”

You nodded faintly, unable to form words, though your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything. But Joel wasn’t done.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, the bluntness of it landing like a blow. It was unpolished, unfiltered, and so distinctly him that it made your throat tighten. He shook his head, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a grimace. “When I saw your dumb ass comin’ down those stairs…”

You let out a shaky laugh—small, unsteady, but real. “My dumb ass?” you repeated, the words trembling on the edge of humor but not quite making it there. “That’s how you’re gonna put it?”

“Seriously,” he murmured, and the laughter fell away completely. . “You scared me.”

The words hit harder the second time, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the way his voice cracked, just barely, on the last syllable. And when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the unspoken weight of how close you’d come to losing each other. It wasn’t just his usual guardedness—it was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

“I’m not scared for myself,” Joel admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His hands curled into loose fists, his knuckles pale, like he needed to hold on to something solid just to say it out loud. “I’m scared for you.”

Your breath hitched, the confession sinking into you like a stone. “Scared one day I won’t be there,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or I’ll be too slow. Or someone’ll slip past my bad ear.”

“And as much as I’m still pissed off that you didn’t listen to me…” he started, the gruff edge of his voice undercut by the quiet, worn-out softness beneath it.

“…you saved my life back there.”

“Joel—” you whispered, your voice cracking, but he shook his head, cutting you off with a small, quiet movement.

“No,” he said softly, his voice low and rough but impossibly steady. “Don’t.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching faintly before he spoke again. “Not right now.”

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, searching, like he was trying to commit you to memory, as if even blinking might make you disappear.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower, the rasp of it pulling at something deep inside you. “You don’t even know.”

Joel wasn’t a man who admitted his fear. He buried it, pushed it down, locked it away behind walls of steel and silence. But right now, he wasn’t hiding anything. Not from you. Not in this moment.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the world outside the safe house ceased to exist. There was no fire crackling softly behind him, no distant wind howling against the windows—there was only him, his hand on your leg, his eyes on yours, and the quiet, unspoken truth settling between you like a promise.

The tension was too much—thick and heavy, pulling at your resolve until a teasing grin tugged at your lips, breaking the silence like a spark cutting through the dark. “So,” you started, “since I saved your life, you kinda owe me, huh?”

Joel’s lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off, might retreat behind that stoic wall he wore like armor. But then it happened—a soft chuckle, low and warm, rolling through the room like a balm against the weight lingering between you. He shook his head faintly, his hand still resting on your leg as he squeezed it slightly. “That so?” he drawled, his voice rough around the edges, but tinged with something lighter, softer.

You nodded, settling back against the couch with mock seriousness, exaggerating the lift of your chin as you pressed on. “Mm-hmm. Now you’ve gotta do whatever I ask,” you said, letting the teasing lilt in your voice linger just a little longer than necessary. “You know, since I saved your life and all.”

Joel huffed softly, shaking his head again, but there it was—the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of a grin. It was barely there, so fleeting you almost missed it, but it made something flutter low in your chest all the same. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, the firelight catching just enough to make them gleam, the teasing warmth you’d tried to ignite wavered. His gaze softened, though it didn’t lose its intensity, and you felt yourself sink under it, your breath hitching without permission.

“Thing is,” Joel said finally, his voice dipping low—low enough to send heat curling through your ribs, low enough that it felt like a secret meant just for you—“I’d already do whatever you asked.”

The words landed like a fist to your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. Your teasing smile faltered, disappearing entirely as the meaning of what he’d just said settled in. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t playing along. He meant it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath, like they’d escaped before he could stop them. He shook his head, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet with the sharp precision of a blade.

Before you could respond, Joel exhaled hard, the sound tight, his chest lifting as if the next words were being torn from somewhere deep inside him.

“I’d die for you.”

The words sat there, heavy and unshakable, like they couldn’t be taken back. Joel wasn’t flippant—he never was—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t said for comfort, wasn’t offered as reassurance. It was fact. Truth. Something that lived in him, unspoken until now, but so deeply woven into who he was that you couldn’t tear it out if you tried.

Your breath left you, a shaky exhale as you stared at him, unmoored and speechless. Your throat felt tight, the weight of his confession pressing against your chest until it ached.

Joel watched you, his dark eyes softening, as though he could see the effect of what he’d said written plain as day on your face. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression knocked you off balance all over again—like he wasn’t just offering the truth but handing it to you, placing it in your trembling hands, hoping you wouldn’t drop it.

Joel straightened slightly, breaking just enough of the tension to let you breathe. His gaze dropped to the floor as he gently moved your leg from his lap and stood, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Alright,” he said, the word clipped, as if he’d said too much, come too close to showing what he really felt. His tone dipped back into practicality, trying to mask the faint, unsteady edge that lingered, betraying him.

“You need rest,” he added, his voice quieter but firm. “I’ll take watch. We leave first thing.”

You frowned faintly, the heaviness still wrapped around you like a second skin. “You’re tired,” you said softly, trying to thread some sense of concern through the tension. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, like the fire’s quiet crackle might drown it out. “You need sleep too, Joel. I’ll take watch.”

He was already shaking his head, firm and unyielding, before you’d finished speaking. “No,” he said, the word final, resolute in a way that told you arguing was pointless.

“Sleep,” he murmured, the word gentler this time, almost like a plea.

“I need you to rest.”

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you stayed home, cocooned in your little room. Normally, on your days off, you’d wander around Jackson, soak in the closest thing to normal life you might ever get again—listen to the kids laughing on the street, visit the stables, maybe stop by the tipsy bison and sit in the comforting buzz of other people’s voices. But after your yesterday, the thought of stepping outside felt overwhelming.

The weight of what could’ve gone wrong sat heavy in your chest. One misstep, one second slower, and Joel might not be here. You might not be here. That thought had rooted itself somewhere deep, growing heavier with every passing hour until it felt impossible to leave the bed.

So you didn’t. The hours passed in a haze of restless sleep, your aching muscles sinking deeper into the mattress every time you tried to drift off.

It wasn’t until a sharp, abrupt knock at your door broke through the fog that you stirred, groaning softly as you forced yourself to sit up.

You shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of pants and the cleanest top you could find before dragging your hair back into something that vaguely resembled order. Anything to look a little less like you’d spent the day wallowing.

“Coming,” you muttered, your voice hoarse as you padded toward the door. You caught a glance at the clock in the hallway. 7:30 p.m. What the hell?

When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise. Joel stood there, his broad frame filling, he was holding a neat pile of firewood, the lines of his face unreadable as ever but his presence unmistakable, grounding.

“Joel?” you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and something you didn’t want to name. “What are you doing here?”

Joel tilted his head toward the firewood. “Brought you some extra,” he said simply, his tone casual, like he’d just happened to pass by. Then his eyes flicked back to you, lingering a beat too long as they swept over you, taking in the slump of your shoulders, the faint tiredness in your face. “Was gonna leave it, but…” He shifted slightly, his boots scuffing against the wood floor. “Figured I’d check up on ya.”

You forced a small smile, hugging your arms around yourself as you leaned against the doorframe. “That’s… sweet. I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, I guess.”

He nodded once, though his expression stayed skeptical, like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You eat yet?” he asked abruptly, his tone clipped but not unkind.

You blinked, thrown off by the question. “No,” you admitted, maybe too quickly.

Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You plannin’ on it, or just gonna starve?”

“Joel,” you groaned, exasperated, but before you could finish, he was already stepping inside, brushing past you and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Hey!” you called after him, your voice rising in disbelief as you turned to follow. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” he muttered, the words gruff and final, like they left no room for argument. He rolled up his sleeves as he opened one of your cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with an ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Why?” you asked, baffled, hovering uselessly near the door as you watched him root around your kitchen.

Joel paused, his hand braced on the counter, turning just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, a little too knowing, and it pinned you in place. “Because you don’t eat,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, quieter, with a subtle edge of irritation he didn’t bother masking, “And you wonder why you’re tired all the time.”

He turned back to the counter, resuming his task, but not before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised you yesterday I’d make you dinner.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower.”

But as you reached the bottom step, an idea sprung to mind, and before you could think twice, the words tumbled out. “Can you make pancakes?” you blurted, your grin already forming.

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Pancakes? For dinner?”

“Yeah,” you said, unfazed, the prospect of pancakes more exciting than his skepticism. You didn’t catch the way his eyes darted toward the pantry or how he muttered under his breath, “Baby, I don’t think you even got the stuff for pancakes.”

“What?” you called, already halfway up the stairs, a skip in your step like you’d already decided it was happening.

Joel shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me” as he crossed to the fridge, pulling it open with a sigh. You could almost hear him grumbling, counting the odds that there’d be eggs or flour or anything remotely pancake-adjacent in your kitchen.

From the landing, you glanced down, catching the faint clink of bowls being moved around, the shuffle of Joel’s boots against the floor. “So?” you called, leaning over the railing with a teasing lilt in your voice. “What d’ya say?”

He didn’t look up, but you could hear the smirk in his reply. “Go shower. You’re stalling.”

You sighed dramatically, “Fine,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You… figure it out or whatever.”

Joel chuckled low, the sound curling warm in the space between you. “Go on,” he said, flicking his wrist to shoo you off, his voice laced with that familiar gruffness that somehow always felt like home. “Ain’t gonna burn the place down.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips as you turned away. His voice followed you upstairs, the faint sounds of the kitchen already coming alive—clattering pots, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, all as if he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The bathroom was a quiet refuge, the steady rush of the shower drowning out the noise in your head. You tilted your face up to the water, letting it pour through your hair, down your back, washing away the ache in your muscles and the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake.

By the time you’d dried off and tugged on an old sweatshirt and soft, worn sweats, the scents drifting from the kitchen had completely chased away the last of the day’s haze.

Padding downstairs, you were greeted by the faint clink of a spoon against a pot, Joel standing with his back to you at the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked—familiar, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times.

“Smells good,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet as you pulled out a chair at the table.

Joel turned slightly, his gaze flicking over you—first the clothes, then the damp strands of hair sticking to your cheeks. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it softened him all the same. He didn’t say anything at first, just picked up a steaming dish and set it in front of you.

“Eat,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.

You smiled despite yourself, your lips quirking up as you reached for your spoon. “Yes, sir,” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice as you tilted your head, your eyes flicking to the plate. The corners of your mouth tugged higher as you raised an amused brow. “This doesn’t look like pancakes.”

Joel scoffed, his brow raising just enough to make the gesture feel pointed. “If you’re gonna complain, I can take it back,” he said, his hand moving to grab your plate with mock seriousness.

“Hey!” you yelped, smacking his hand lightly, your grin widening despite the way you tried to keep it in check. “I’m joking, geez. Don’t you dare.”

Satisfied, Joel settled back into his chair, his own plate sat untouched in front of him, but his focus wasn’t on the food. His gaze lingered, steady and intent, watching you as you took another bite.

“You’re like…” You paused, swallowing down a bite before gesturing vaguely at your plate. “The stew king.”

Joel’s spoon froze midair, his brows knitting together as he shot you a skeptical look. “What now?”

You grinned, shrugging one shoulder like it was obvious. “The stew king. This is the best stew I’ve had since—well, probably forever. Better than the shit they serve in the dining hall, that’s for damn sure.”

Joel let out a low, exasperated huff, shaking his head. “Didn’t know I was competin’.”

“You’re not,” you said, all matter-of-fact as you shoveled another bite into your mouth. “It’s an uncontested victory.”

He muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you heard the word ridiculous and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.

Joel stilled. He didn’t look at you—not at first. His hand tightened around his spoon for just a moment, like he was trying to keep himself steady. But then you saw it: the corners of his mouth twitched, a small, quiet smile breaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.

He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders eased, the way his usual guarded edges softened just a little.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

After dinner, you settled on the living room floor, the cool wood grounding you as you leaned back against the edge of the couch. You thought he might leave after dinner, but he didn’t, and that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. A glass of whiskey sat in your hands, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the fire Joel had just lit.

He sank onto the couch above you with a low groan, the kind of sound that came from tired muscles and too many years spent carrying the weight of the world. Without a word, you passed him his glass, your fingers brushing his as he took it.

Joel nodded in thanks, his grip firm on the glass.

“You full?” he asked after a moment, leaning back into the worn cushions with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the flames licking up from the hearth.

“Stuffed,” you replied, satisfaction curling your lips into a small smile.

“Good.” His voice was low, almost content, a deep hum that vibrated through the quiet. “So… pancakes, huh?”

You turned your head to look at him, caught off guard. A small smile tugged at your lips. “They used to be your favorite or something?” he asked, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing.

“One of my favorites,” you admitted, resting your glass on the floor beside you. “Pancakes, sushi, pizza—oh, my God, pizza. I miss pizza.”

A low chuckle escaped him, rough but genuine, and the sound caught you by surprise. “You’re easy to please, huh?”

“What was your favorite food?” you countered, curious now, leaning in just slightly.

Joel shrugged, the movement casual but somehow carrying a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Didn’t really have one.”

“Jesus, Joel,” you scoffed, fully turning to face him, an incredulous smile breaking across your face. “Surely there was something.”

He paused, his eyes distant, lingering somewhere in a memory you couldn’t see. “Maybe…” A faint smile curved his lips, faint enough you almost missed it. “Barbecue. Tommy used to drag me to some hole-in-the-wall joint. Meat so good it’d fall off the bone.”

You smiled softly. “That sounds good.”

“It was,” he said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice. His expression softened, his gaze warming, but behind it was something heavier, a shadow of loss that never quite left him. “I remember Sarah…”

You froze. He’d mentioned her only once before, and even then, it had felt like he was handing you something delicate, something fragile and sacred. Hearing her name now felt the same—a glimpse into a part of him he kept locked away.

“I remember Sarah,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Tommy and I’d go, and she’d…” He paused, his lips twitching with a faint, bittersweet smile. “She’d have sauce all over her face. Every damn time. Couldn’t eat a rib without wearin’ half of it.”

A smile tugged at your lips, though your chest felt tight. “Sounds like she had good taste.”

“She did,” Joel said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes glimmered with something the firelight couldn’t explain. “Always wanted the biggest plate. Thought she could finish it all.” He shook his head, the smile lingering but faint. “Never could.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing, letting the moment hang between you. It wasn’t a silence that demanded words; it felt sacred, like it would break if you spoke too soon.

Joel glanced at you then, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. “She’d have liked you,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire.

The most cherished person in Joel’s life, and he believed she would’ve liked you—it was a thought that wrapped around you, warm and profound, settling in a place you didn’t even realize needed it.

“I think I would have liked her too,” you offered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Joel nodded, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache, before you turned back to the fire, letting its flickering warmth fill the quiet that lingered between you.

You sipped your whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding, as the silence stretched between you. It wasn’t heavy, not at first, just there—the kind of quiet that only existed between two people comfortable enough to not fill the space with words. But then, as if the fire itself drew it out of you, you broke it, your voice soft and thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the shifting orange glow. “I was in bed all day.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, a subtle movement but enough to catch your eye. His gaze shifted down to you, a faint glimmer of teasing in the way his lips almost quirked. “Really? Couldn’t tell,” he said, the dryness of his tone laced with just enough warmth to make it feel light. You knew exactly what he meant—the half-tangled hair, the tired eyes, the oversized sweater that swallowed you whole when you opened the door earlier.

“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you took another sip. The corner of your mouth twitched, threatening a smile that you quickly tucked away. “I just… didn’t feel like leaving. Seeing people. Couldn’t do it.”

Joel’s expression shifted, that guarded softness breaking through for just a moment. He didn’t rush to fill the space this time, letting your words hang in the air, safe and untouched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier, like he’d weighed each word before giving it. “I get it,” he said, the rough edges of his tone smoothed by understanding. “Sometimes you just… need to sit in it.”

He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand catching the light as his fingers tightened around it. “I’m sorry if me comin’ by was—”

“No,” you interrupted, the word escaping you with a firmness that surprised even yourself. His brows pulled together slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, but you pushed through, needing him to hear this. “You’re…”

The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, you hated how vulnerable they felt. You hated how much it mattered that he understood, but you couldn’t let it sit there, unsaid.

“You’re the only one who could’ve come by,” you admitted, softer now, but no less certain. Your eyes flicked to his, the weight of his attention steadying you. “I didn’t mind. I needed…”

A pause, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe, but you swallowed past it, your voice quiet but resolute. “I’m glad you did.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you before returning to the fire, the flames reflected in his dark eyes as he spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “You gotta take care of yourself.”

You turned to face him now, drawn by the weight in his voice. He glanced at you, his brow furrowed just slightly. “First thing,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions, “you gotta start with eatin’ some damn food.”

“I just ate dinner,” you protested, setting your whiskey glass down with an exaggerated huff.

Joel’s gaze slid to you then, steady and unrelenting. “And if I hadn’t come by?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Would you have?”

You blinked, your retort catching in your throat. Damn. He’d clocked you there, and you both knew it. A flicker of something soft and self-deprecating crossed your face as you looked away, your lips twitching. “Well,” you said finally, your voice quieter, “I’ll just have to hope you always come by then.”

Joel shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward before meeting your gaze again, this time holding it with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m not always gonna be around to check in on you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something that felt like regret. “You gotta promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

The words hung between you, not a demand but a plea, simple and raw. You swallowed, the lump rising again, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Not try,” Joel pressed gently. “Promise.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips. “I think we both know we’re not great at keeping promises,” you teased, your voice wavering slightly.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, sharp and unyielding, ignoring the deflection. He searched your face, his gaze cutting through your hesitation until you felt it crack. Without thinking, you nodded again, this time with more conviction.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firmer now. “I promise.”

Joel nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before leaning forward to set his whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out low and rough.

His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscle there with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he twisted his head faintly to one side, a quiet grimace flickering across his face.

“You alright?” The question came instinctively, concern threading through your voice before you could stop it. You set your whiskey aside, shifting onto your knees as you turned to face him more fully.

“Yeah,” Joel muttered, the word clipped but gruff around the edges. He leaned back against the couch again, exhaling a breath long and slow. His hand stayed at the back of his neck, rubbing absently like the ache had been there for days. “Just gettin’ old.”

“Joel,” you pressed gently.

He froze mid-motion, fingers still kneading the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as his dark eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to decide whether to give you the truth or deflect it like he so often did.

“Just my back,” he said finally, the words slipping out reluctantly, rough and low as though admitting it made it worse. His fingers stilled for just a second before rubbing over the spot again, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “Probably from pullin’ that damn horse outta the mud the other day… and, well, yesterday.”

Yesterday.

The word landed like a blow, heavier than he intended. Your breath hitched, the memory flashing unbidden across your mind—Joel, pinned and struggling, his face pale with strain, the sound of his ragged breaths tearing through the air. The raw desperation in his eyes as you’d fought to pull him free. You swallowed hard against the ache in your throat, forcing the image back down.

“Hm,” you murmured softly, as though the quiet sound could soothe him as much as yourself. Your eyes drifted over him—the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand lingered over his neck.

You hesitated, the idea flickering faintly in your mind, tentative and uncertain. The fire popped in the silence, embers snapping softly, but the moment stretched, and before you could stop yourself, the words were already tumbling free.

“Well,” you started, fumbling as you sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were to him. “I could, um…” You hesitated, heat blooming in your cheeks as you met his gaze. “I mean… I could maybe… give you a massage?”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brows lifting slightly, the expression on his face caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. “A massage?” he echoed, like the word itself was foreign to him.

Your cheeks burned under his stare, but you pushed forward, trying to keep your voice steady even as your hands twisted nervously in your lap. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now but no less resolute. “To help. With your back. Since you’re so…” You paused just long enough to let a teasing smile pull at your lips, hoping it might soften the moment. “Old.”

For a split second, he didn’t react. Then, Joel let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that broke through the tension like a wave crashing onshore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Just offering my services,” you quipped back softly, trying to keep the teasing light, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest. You wanted to help. You wanted to ease some of the burden he carried, even if it was something as small as this.

The humor faded quickly, though, replaced by something quieter, thicker, as Joel’s expression settled. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the catch in your words—like he didn’t quite believe you could mean it.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You don’t gotta do that for me,” he said, almost gruff, but there was no bite to it. His hand flexed faintly on his thigh, the tension in his shoulders pulling tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Joel,” you said again, softer this time. You leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between you, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh. The fabric beneath your palm was worn and rough, but his warmth bled through it, steady and grounding. You squeezed gently, almost instinctively, your touch a silent plea.

“Something’s better than nothing,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain, coaxing. “And I want to. I want to make you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, You could see the fight in his eyes as he stilled, his jaw tightening, his gaze narrowing as though he was fighting a mental battle. The warmth of your palm on his thigh, your fingers curling ever so slightly, made his skin hum with a longing he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

His thoughts dipped lower, filthier, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He imagined those fingers trailing higher, your lips murmuring words he shouldn’t want to hear, your touch unraveling him completely. His breathing hitched, a low, uneven rhythm he couldn’t quite control, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away before he let the fantasy swallow him whole.

If Joel was a good man—if he was honest, whole, and decent—he’d stand up right now. Put some distance between you. Tell you that this couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t right, that you deserved better than what he had to give.

His eyes betrayed him, sweeping back to you almost involuntarily—quiet, considering—lingering just a moment too long. You were sitting so still, your damp hair framing your face in soft, loose strands that shimmered in the firelight like something out of a dream. The glow caught on your skin, kissed your cheeks, and made you look like you didn’t belong in this world, like you were something holy, something untouchable.

God, you looked like an angel.

And he wanted to ruin you.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick and rough, like he was cursing himself for even considering it, for teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave it—didn’t crave you. And now, you were offering it to him, your touch, your care, your everything, on a silver platter.

Who the hell was he to deny you? To deny himself?

“Alright,” he said finally, the word escaping with an exhale, low and reluctant. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet your eyes again. “But only if you’re sure.”

The corner of your mouth lifted into the smallest, most unassuming smile, the kind that made Joel’s heart stumble in his chest before he could pull himself together. “I’m positive,” you said softly.

He sighed again, muttering something about “pushy” under his breath, but there wasn’t any real heat to it. Slowly, with the careful stiffness of someone who didn’t trust their own body, Joel lowered himself onto the couch, bracing his weight on his arms before settling with his stomach against the cushions.

His broad shoulders shifted as he adjusted, arms folding beneath his head. The soft creak of the couch was the only sound for a moment, punctuated by the faint hiss of Joel’s breath as his body sank into the cushions.

You stood up and hovered for a second, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you watched him settle in. Then, without meaning to, you spoke—your voice cutting through the quiet. “Wait.”

Joel’s head lifted slightly, his face half-turned into the cushion. “What?” he asked, his voice muffled but carrying that familiar edge of impatience.

You froze under his gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, your courage faltering under the weight of what you wanted to say. “Would you… can you… if you don’t mind—” The words tangled on your tongue, awkward and shaky, and you cursed yourself for not just spitting it out.

Joel shifted, turning his head enough to look at you with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “What’re you mumblin’ about?” he grumbled, his brows furrowed as his dark eyes scanned your face.

You exhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Just say it.

“Can you… take off your shirt?”

Joel froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you—already too small—felt suffocating now. Joel’s back, which had just begun to relax under the promise of your touch, went rigid again.

Slowly, he turned, his shoulders tense as his head tilted just enough for his dark eyes to find yours. His hair was tousled, falling forward in a way that made him look softer, but his expression was anything but. It was unreadable—his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and searching, as though he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“What for?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough, cutting through the stillness like gravel underfoot.

Your cheeks burned under the weight of it, of him. “I just—” You swallowed hard, hating how shaky you sounded. “It’s harder with the shirt. I mean, it’d be easier if—” Your hands gestured vaguely toward him, helpless as the words tangled and fell apart.

“Forget it,” you blurted, your voice flimsier than you intended, a weak attempt to recover some semblance of dignity. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and you winced internally, wishing desperately you could rewind time. Erase the last thirty seconds, undo the heat climbing up your neck, and take back the way you’d all but unraveled in front of him.

Joel didn’t respond at first, just looked at you. Then he exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded both frustrated and resigned. His head dipped slightly, his eyes falling shut for a beat before he muttered, “Christ.”

Without another word, Joel shifted. He pushed himself up just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time—giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him it wasn’t worth it. To look away.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The fabric rasped softly as it peeled away from his skin, loud in the stillness of the room. He tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders flexing beneath the firelight before he stilled, holding the shirt in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a moment, you thought he might change his mind—might pull it back on—but then he tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony.

He settled back onto the couch, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face into the crook of his elbow.

You didn’t see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened with something close to self-consciousness. Joel hadn’t bared himself like this in years—not to anyone, and certainly not to you. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it now. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you asked—so open, so earnest. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he didn’t want to name—the way you’d quietly carved out space for yourself in parts of him he thought had long gone numb.

But even as he lay there, back bare and unguarded, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What if you saw him differently now? What if you looked at the scars, the weathered skin, the way his body—so strong once—now bore the weight of a lifetime? What if it was too much, and you turned away?

But you weren’t thinking any of that.

You were staring.

Helplessly, shamelessly staring, your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes moved over him, taking in every inch, every detail, every moment of him completely bare before you.

The firelight danced across his skin, casting flickering shadows that seemed to embrace the planes and ridges of his back. It was like watching something sacred, something meant to be admired but never touched—broad, powerful shoulders tapering into the graceful curve of his spine. That line, so achingly perfect, made your stomach twist tight, heat curling low and deep inside you.

Your gaze caught on the scars scattered across his back, each one like a whisper of a story he hadn’t told you. Then your eyes drifted lower, and everything shifted.

There, at the small of his back, where his skin softened, the faint dimples just above the waistband of his jeans made your breath hitch. They were so unexpected, so disarmingly tender, that they hit you like a fist to the chest. Your lips parted as your gaze lingered there, following the curve of his body where denim clung to his hips in a way that made your pulse hammer.

And then you saw it—the faint glimpse of his side where the firelight caught the gentle slope of his stomach, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the intimacy of it, the way he seemed so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he looked in that moment. That single glimpse struck you like a match to gasoline, the heat rushing through your veins so fast it left you lightheaded.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him.

You wanted to press your lips to the curve of his spine, to trace the path of those scars with your tongue, to kiss your way down his chest, his stomach, lower—until there was nowhere left to go.

You wanted to feel the weight of him beneath your hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if you let your lips linger in all the places that were his undoing.

Him. You wanted him. All of him, in every possible way, until nothing else existed.

You wondered what he was like when he came undone— was he loud, or did he keep it all locked inside, biting back every sound, every moan, like he was too proud to let go completely? Did his hands grip the sheets like they might anchor him, or would he let himself give in, surrender to the feeling? The thought made your pulse quicken, your panties growing damp as your imagination ran wild, unrestrained.

You wondered when the last time was that he let himself feel good—really good. When was the last time someone touched him with care, with reverence? Had it been years? Decades?

And then, unbidden, the thought came: Does he think of me?

The question burned through you, igniting something reckless, something needy, that you couldn’t quite smother. Late at night, when the world fell silent and the weight of the day pressed heavy, did his thoughts drift to you? Did he let himself imagine you in those moments when he chased the edge—your hands, your lips, your body guiding him there?

The thought left you breathless, heat flushing through your body as your heart raced. You could almost picture it—his head tipped back, jaw clenched, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he gave in to thoughts of you.

Your cheeks burned as the images flooded your mind, vivid and unrelenting, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Because the truth was, you didn’t just want him to think of you—you wanted to be there. You wanted to touch him, to make him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. To make him forget everything else, even if it was only for a moment.

God, you wanted him. And you wanted him to want you just as badly.

You wondered if he’d make you wait, if he’d tease you until your breath hitched and your body ached with the need for him. If he’d draw it out on purpose, his voice low and rough as he asked you to say it, to tell him just how much you wanted him. And you knew you’d beg if he wanted you to. You’d let the words fall from your lips, trembling and raw, if it meant he’d touch you the way you craved.

And God, how would he taste? Would his skin taste of salt and heat and Joel, the flavor of him lingering on your tongue like something you could never get enough of? Would his hands tighten in your hair, his breath hitching against your mouth as you kissed him deeper, harder–

“Hope you’re not charging by the minute,” Joel muttered suddenly, his voice muffled against the cushion.

The comment jolted you back to reality, snapping you out of the haze you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. You’d been standing there, still as a statue, lost in the illicit fantasy of Joel Miller—of him touching you, holding you, taking you. A rush of heat climbed up your neck, settling in your cheeks as your thoughts scattered into disarray. “Oh,” you stammered, voice higher than you intended. “Right. Sorry.”

Joel huffed softly, the sound more of a low, gravelly exhale than a laugh. He didn’t lift his head, but you noticed it—the faintest movement in his shoulders, the ripple of tension that suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by your hesitation.

He stayed there, though. Waiting. Trusting.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to focus, to gather your frayed thoughts and channel them into steadying your hands. You hovered for a moment, brushing lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips barely skimming his skin as you fought to steady your pulse.

God, he was warm. Almost too warm, the faint heat of him seeping into your palms. Your hands began to move again, pressing carefully into the firm muscles beneath your touch. You could feel him—really feel him—the tautness of the knots woven into his shoulders, the quiet strength beneath the surface.

But you weren’t doing a very good job—you could feel it, your hands faltering as you tried to work against the unyielding knots in his shoulders. Your stance was off, your angle awkward, and Joel’s frame was just too much—too solid, too broad, his muscles stubborn beneath your touch like they’d been built for this kind of tension.

You pressed harder, determined, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you focused, but your movements still felt clumsy, too light, like you were trying to push against a wall that wouldn’t budge.

And then Joel’s voice, rough and gruff, snapped you back to reality. “Let me know when you start,” he said, the faint teasing lilt in his tone sending a jolt through you like a live wire.

Your gaze snapped to the back of his head. The nerve of him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, narrowing your eyes even as your cheeks burned. Your hands pressed back down, firmer this time, your movements more deliberate. “Shut up, Joel.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat, a rumbling sound that vibrated through your hands where they touched him, and damn if it didn’t do something to you.

“Just sayin’,” Joel drawled, voice rough and faintly teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip. “Feels like you’re petting me, not fixin’ me.”

“I know that,” you muttered, frustration threading into your voice as you shifted awkwardly on your feet. You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms as if anchoring yourself against the words caught on your tongue. “It’s just… the angle. It’s awkward. It’d be easier if…”

Joel shifted, a subtle movement that made your breath catch.

God, why did he have to look so handsome? His face, so rugged and worn by time, somehow managed to soften in the light. His brown eyes, deep and warm, carried a tenderness that cut through the tension like a knife. Puppy-like, almost, but still so distinctly him. And his lips, pink and full, slightly parted like he might say something else—or like he was just waiting for you to close the gap.

“If what, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and slow, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth that sank straight into your chest.

Darlin’.

Joel Miller didn’t say things like that—not to you, not like this. You were used to the exasperated “kid” when you annoyed him, or maybe the clipped “missy” when you pushed his limits. But this?

The way he said it was enough to make your knees feel weak, enough to send a shiver up your spine that you couldn’t control. Was he trying to kill you? Because it sure as hell felt like it. You could’ve let out a whimper if you weren’t fighting so hard to keep it together, to stop yourself from falling apart under the weight of his gaze and the slow, deliberate cadence of his voice.

Oh God. Now a new wave of thoughts flooded your mind, unbidden and unstoppable. Would he say that again? Would he call you something softer, something sweeter, if you were beneath him, breathless and trembling? Would he murmur baby, sweetheart, darlin’ in that same low, gravelly drawl, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he made you his?

The thought sent a flush of heat racing through your body, pooling low in your stomach as your heart pounded in your ears. You couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t stop picturing the way his voice might hitch, rough and wrecked, as he whispered your name like it belonged to him.

Joel’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, you swore he saw right through you. That twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely there but unmistakable—felt like something he was trying to hide. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d slipped on purpose, just enough to let you catch a glimpse of what he was keeping locked away.

His voice broke through the haze of your spiraling thoughts, cutting clean and sharp. “You alright there? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, but your voice wavered, too quick, too thin. Your cheeks burned hot, and you cursed yourself for letting your mind wander there again. Were you really that wound up? Had it been so long since you’d felt someone else’s touch that the smallest bit of attention from Joel Miller had you unraveling at the seams?

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, the weight of his stare making your stomach twist. He wasn’t buying it. “What were you sayin’?” he asked, his tone low, steady, but threaded with that edge of authority that left no room for escape. “Finish your sentence.”

You looked away quickly, heat climbing up your neck as your voice stumbled out. “If I could, um… maybe… get on your back?”

The words tumbled into the room, rushed and awkward, like you were trying to rip off a bandage.

Joel stilled. Completely.

His body didn’t move, not even the rise and fall of his chest, like he was processing what you’d just said—every syllable replaying in slow motion. His head turned slightly, enough to catch you in his gaze, one brow lifting so slowly it sent a thrill through you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—steady and intense—made you feel like he was peeling you apart, word by word.

“You wanna…” he started, his voice low, disbelieving, “…straddle me?”

The way he said it—rough, incredulous, and yet tinged with something dangerously close to amusement—made your heart stutter.

“Yes—I mean—it’d just be easier!” you blurted, the words spilling out in a rushed, frantic tumble. “You’re too big for me to—” You flailed a hand at his back, gesturing vaguely, as if it could explain the absurdity of the situation. “It’s just practical, Joel. That’s all.”

Joel blinked at you, deadpan, his face impossibly still except for the faintest twitch of his mouth. “Practical,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was testing it out.

And then, he chuckled.

It was low and brief, more of a quiet rumble than a laugh, but it sent a shock straight through you—warm and dangerous, curling low in your stomach like smoke. He turned his head back into the cushion, shaking it faintly like he couldn’t quite believe this conversation.

Your face burned, and you crossed your arms defensively. “Joel,” you groaned, the sound of your exasperation only making him huff out another low, gravelly laugh. “If it’s weird, we don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice gruff but steady. “Just go on. Get it over with.”

“Are you sure?” you asked softly, quieter now, your voice uncertain, like you were afraid of pushing him too far.

“I said it’s fine,” Joel muttered, the words clipped and rough, but the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. His face turned further away, burying against the shelter of his folded arms, as if retreating might somehow shield him—from what, you didn’t know. From the moment? From you? But the tips of his ears, dusted pink in the firelight, gave him away, whispering the truth that his gruff exterior wouldn’t allow.

Slowly, carefully, you climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. The motion was awkward and clumsy.

Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his broad back coiling tight beneath your hands, like his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee. It wasn’t resistance, not exactly—it was more like instinct, like even now, with you above him, his guard refused to drop completely.

“You alright? I’m not too heavy, am I?” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, the quiet intimacy of the moment making you afraid to speak louder.

“Heavy?” Joel grunted, his voice rough and low, though his hands flexed briefly against the couch, his grip tightening just enough to make the leather creak faintly beneath him. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice faltering slightly as your fingers hovered uncertainly above his back. “Just… let me know if I hurt you.”

Joel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Ain’t likely,” he muttered.

You started slow, cautious, your fingers pressing into the firm muscles knotted beneath his skin. Joel didn’t relax—not yet—but as you worked, your touch finding a rhythm, you felt his breaths shift beneath you, deepening just slightly, like he was letting out something he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You pressed your thumbs along the edges of his shoulder blades, tracing the lines of tension there. The silence stretched around you, warm and heavy, the crackle of the fire filling the space where words might’ve been. You let it linger, let it be, your hands working lower along his spine, kneading the hard knots hidden there.

It was intimate, so intimate. The kind of closeness that shouldn’t feel this profound but did. You wanted to press down and kiss his skin, tan and golden from years in the sun, warmed now by the flicker of the firelight.

Slowly, deliberately, Joel was letting go, loosening piece by piece, as if surrendering was a language he’d forgotten how to speak. And maybe it was.

“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, muffled against the couch cushions. “You’re good at that.”

The compliment hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. He sounded wrecked already, and you weren’t sure how to handle the way it made you feel—how it set your nerves alight and sent heat pooling low in your belly.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, breathless with the weight of his words. “That feel good?” The question was soft, almost tentative, but there was something else there too—something daring. Like you wanted to see just how far you could take him, how much you could unravel him under your hands.

Joel didn’t answer with words—just a low, drawn-out hum, deep and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and into your hands. The sound felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn, your thighs pressing together instinctively as something heavy curled low in your stomach.

Tension coiled in him—not the kind you were kneading away, but something else, something darker, more primal. He shifted subtly, his hips pressing into the cushion as if to ease the ache building there, but you weren’t naïve. You couldn’t stop the flush creeping up your neck, your lip caught between your teeth as you dared to imagine it. Joel Miller, gruff and unshakable, hard under your touch—and it was you who had done that to him.

You imagined how he’d react if your hands dared to drift lower, past the curve of his belly, your fingers slipping beneath the barrier of his waistband to explore the heat waiting there. Would he gasp, sharp and guttural, as your touch made contact? Would his hips lift instinctively, pressing into your hand, his body betraying just how much he wanted this—how much he wanted you?

Your fingers moved carefully, deliberately, tracing the tension along his shoulders and finding a particularly stubborn knot beneath your palms. You pressed deeper, slower, and Joel shifted under you. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, the word rough and guttural, unfiltered in a way that made your stomach twist with want, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.

God, you wanted more of that. You wanted to pull more of those sounds from him, to know what they’d feel like when they weren’t muffled against the couch, but pressed against your skin.

Your hands trembled as you pressed into the knot again, harder this time, like you couldn’t stop yourself from testing his limits. Joel groaned, the sound deep and rough, and it sent a ripple of electricity through you, hot and consuming. Your body screamed for relief, the ache so deep it nearly pushed you to grind against his back, consequences be damned. Your breaths were ragged, your chest rising and falling, and the slick heat pooling between your thighs had already soaked through.

“Right there,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less wrecked. The way he said it—low and thick, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him—made your breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that,” he added, the rasp in his voice laced with something almost dangerous.

“Jesus, Joel,” you murmured under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But even as the words left your lips, you wondered if it was more a prayer or a curse.

What would his voice sound like if you leaned down and kissed the scar along his shoulder blade, your lips dragging slowly across his skin? If your hands slipped lower, teasing, inviting him to lose control? Would he moan your name, low and ruined, the sound breaking apart as your touch consumed him? Would he groan against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust into you, his words filthy and breathless, begging you to take everything he had to give?

And then you heard it.

“Good girl,” Joel muttered, the words barely audible, low and gravelly, like they’d slipped out unguarded—rough, raw, and utterly devastating.

You froze. Completely.

Your hands stilled where they rested on his back, trembling slightly, and you felt the heat rush up your cheeks, down your neck, down to your aching core in a way that made it impossible to focus.

You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what it would sound like if he said it again—what it would feel like if he growled it against your ear, his hands gripping your tits, his breath hot against your skin.

Finally, when you were satisfied with your work—or maybe just too overwhelmed to keep going—you eased off Joel carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you pushed yourself to stand beside the couch.

Joel let out a low, deliberate grunt, his shoulders rolling as he pushed himself upright, his hands gripping the cushions like he needed a moment to steady himself. H

He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on in one swift motion. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders as he avoided your gaze. His focus stayed fixed somewhere just past you, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly.

But little did he know, you weren’t meeting his eyes either. Against your better judgment, your eyes betrayed you. They drifted down, hesitant but hungry, until they landed exactly where you knew they shouldn’t.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The worn denim of his jeans was taut, straining against the undeniable evidence of his arousal. There was no mistaking it—the hard outline pressing against the fabric, the way he shifted slightly like he was trying to find relief but didn’t want to make it obvious. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your cheeks and slick pooling between your thighs as you realized what you’d done to him.

He wanted you.

That knowledge hit you like a freight train—overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You couldn’t look away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to. The sight of him, hard and straining against his jeans, burned itself into your mind, your heart thundering so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him clear his throat.

Your breath came faster, your chest heaving as the thought consumed you. You wanted to help him. God, you wanted to. Wanted to take away that tension, to make him feel good in a way you knew he hadn’t let himself in far too long. The idea of his release—of you being the one to give it to him—had your thighs clenching, a needy heat coursing through you.

What would he do if you sank to your knees right now, positioning yourself between his thighs? Would his body tense in shock, his breath catching as he looked down at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer? Would he mutter something low and strained, about how this couldn’t happen, how it shouldn’t?

Or would he give in? Would his breath hitch as he whispered your name, rough and almost reverent, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with a quiet desperation? Would he let you take control, let you explore him at your own pace, or would he seize it, the tension breaking as he pressed you deeper, showing you exactly what he wanted, exactly how he needed you?

Joel must have noticed the faraway, dazed look in your eyes, the way you lingered in the heavy silence between you both. “Well,” he said finally, his voice quiet and rough, almost hesitant, as though he was testing the waters. “Thanks. That was… that was good.” His hand dragged through his hair, mussing the curls even further.

You forced a small smile, your chest tight and aching as you tucked your hands behind your back, hoping it might steady you somehow. “No problem,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. Your eyes flicked to his, and then, almost without thinking, you added, “I like making you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, soft but deliberate, their weight landing squarely between you. Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching audibly as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sharp gulp.

Fuck, Joel thought. You were making a damn mess of him. He should leave—really leave—go home, take care of the growing ache in his pants, and swear off ever talking to you again. It would be the right thing to do. The smart thing. But, of course, he didn’t.

How could he, when you looked like that? Wide-eyed, red-cheeked, lips slightly parted like you were holding back something that could ruin him completely.

“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough and hesitant, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was unsure.

“Did I what?” you asked softly, your tone careful, coaxing, almost gentle.

Joel sighed heavily, shaking his head like he regretted even starting. His hand dropped back to his knee, his jaw tightening as though he was debating just walking out. For a moment, you thought he might.

But then, finally, he said it.

“Did you want me to… y’know, help you out?” His voice was quieter now, gruff and uneven. His eyes darted to you briefly, then away, like he couldn’t quite face whatever was stirring between you.

“Your back,” he clarified after a beat, clearing his throat. “I remember you said somethin’ about it the other day, when you were ridin’ Winnie. Twinge, or somethin’.”

Joel cleared his throat again, the faintest pink creeping up the sides of his neck as his gaze flicked to you and then away. “But, uh, no big deal,” he added gruffly, his voice rough and low, like he was backpedaling, trying to give you an easy out. “I can just head out.”

He was trying to play it off—acting like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just offered to touch you, to take care of you in a way that mirrored what you’d just done for him. But the way his voice faltered, rough and quiet, told you everything. He cared—more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, you managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

Joel stilled for a moment, his hand dropping away from his neck to rest in his lap. He hesitated, his dark eyes flicking back to yours. “You sure? I can leave if you—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you interrupted, your voice soft but steady.

Joel inhaled deeply, the sound heavy and deliberate, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The movement made him seem taller, broader, as if he took up all the space in the room at once.

“Uh… can’t promise it’ll be any good,” he muttered, a faint vulnerability beneath his words that made your chest ache.

“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, too quickly, your voice rushing out as you offered him a small, nervous smile. You hesitated for half a second, biting the inside of your cheek as your heart hammered in your chest. Then, finally, you asked, “How do you want me?”

The words left your lips before you could stop them.

How do you want me?

God - If only you knew. If only you understood the way those four words hit him—hard and unrelenting.

Joel’s chest tightened, his cock hardening as his thoughts spiraled, unbidden and entirely indecent, leaving him gripping for control. He pictured you asking that question with a different tone, a different look in your eyes, and it wrecked him. On your back, your legs tangled with his. On your knees, your hands gripping his thighs as you gazed up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Bent over the arm of the couch, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

He swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat rising in him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“I, uh…” His voice was rough, strained, his words catching as though they didn’t want to leave. “Just, uh… wherever you’re comfortable. On the couch, or… wherever.”

You nodded, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he muttered a low, almost inaudible fuck under his breath. The sound sent a ripple through you, your body buzzing as you followed his direction, sinking slowly into the cushions with your back to him. You angled your body slightly away to give him space, though the air between you felt anything but distant.

“Uh… keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, his voice rough and uneven, like he was struggling to get the words out.

“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment creeping into your tone before you could stop it. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Maybe he didn’t want to see you like that. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was.

But God, were you wrong.

Joel knew the truth—knew it with every ounce of restraint he was clinging to. If he saw you topless, in nothing but your bra, he’d lose it. Completely. If he saw your breasts, the curve of them rising and falling with each unsteady breath, if his eyes traced the slope of your bare shoulders, your bare back, he’d be done for. His control would snap like a thread pulled too tight, and he’d ruin everything—you.

So, for now, you had to keep your shirt on. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted you too much.

“I, uh…” Joel started, his voice low and faltering, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, twitching slightly with hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Without thinking, you reached up, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, baring the curve of your neck to him. The movement was small, simple, but it felt intimate—like offering something unspoken. Your skin prickled with anticipation, the charged air between you thickening as you turned your head slightly, glancing back at him with wide, steady eyes.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, the words threading through the heavy stillness between you. “You can touch me.”

Fuck. Joel’s chest tightened, his mind spiraling as the words echoed between you. Touch you. God, he wanted to. More than he should. More than he could admit to himself.

He stared at his hands—rough and calloused, worn by years of work and hardship—and for a moment, he faltered. These weren’t hands meant for softness. Not for you.

Finally, slowly, Joel lifted his hands, each movement deliberate, as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. The hesitation was written in every breath, every twitch of his fingers, a quiet war waging inside him even as he reached for you.

When his hands settled on your shoulders, they were tentative at first, his palms warm against your skin, rough but somehow gentle. Joel’s thumbs pressed carefully into the tight muscles of your shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate circles.

A soft, unbidden sound escaped your lips, barely audible, but enough to make his hands falter mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly, and his breath hitched audibly, like the sound had caught him off guard.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, every word dragged out as though speaking them took effort. His hands hovered, poised to pull away if you gave even the slightest indication of discomfort.

“No,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes fluttered shut. The tension in your shoulders began to melt under his touch, leaving you pliant beneath him. “You feel good.”

Joel exhaled then, a quiet, shaky sound that carried the weight of something unspoken—something he didn’t know how to put into words. His hands settled back into their rhythm, more assured now, his thumbs sliding down the line of your shoulder blades with purpose before gliding back up, tracing the curve of your neck with a reverence that sent your pulse skittering.

It was steady, methodical, almost too careful, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, like he was learning you, memorizing you with every pass of his hands. His jaw tightened, his thoughts spiraling as the weight of your words replayed in his head—you feel good.

You let your head tilt forward as Joel’s hands found a tight spot at the base of your neck, your body instinctively yielding under his touch. Relief washed over you, a soft sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Joel froze, his hands hesitating, until you murmured hazily, “Fuck, Joel…”

His hands slid lower, kneading the muscles along your upper back with careful precision. “Feels good,” you murmured, the words slipping out, soft and dreamlike, unbidden. You melted further into the couch, into him, your body pliant under his touch, like you were made for it.

Joel clenched his jaw, his hands faltering for the briefest moment before finding their rhythm again. He wanted to tell you to quit it. To stop saying all these things to him—these words that wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing until he could barely breathe. To stop making those noises that made his resolve waver, that made him ache in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years.

But how could he?

How could he tell you to stop when the sound of your voice, soft and wrecked, was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard? When the way your body leaned into his touch, so trusting, so vulnerable, felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known?

You held your breath, heart pounding wildly as Joel’s thumbs pressed—just slightly—into the tight muscles near your lower back. The pressure was perfect, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, unbidden moan escaped your lips.

Joel froze instantly, every muscle in his body going taut, coiling like a live wire as that sound echoed in his head. It hit him hard, sharp and visceral, sinking deep into his chest and sparking a fire he couldn’t control.

That moan—soft, breathless, and so fucking sweet—was seared into his memory now, unraveling every thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. Would you whimper for him? The thought tightened his chest, his jaw clenching hard as his hands faltered against you, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to ease up.

Would you gasp his name, needy and wrecked, if his lips pressed to the curve of your neck? If his hands slid lower, over the gentle slope of your hips, past the thin fabric separating him from you? Would you beg for him? For him?

If he touched you now—if his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding lower to feel the heat of you—would you be wet?

God, would you be ready for him? The question burned through his mind, relentless and vivid. He could almost feel it—the way your body might arch into him, the way your breath would hitch when he touched you there. Would you moan again, that same soft, wrecked sound, but this time louder, fuller, edged with need?

The images came faster now, vivid and impossible to suppress. He could see it so clearly: your body trembling beneath him, your lips parted in a breathless plea, your eyes half-lidded, hazy with the kind of need he didn’t deserve but craved all the same.

Joel took a deep breath, sharp and ragged, before abruptly pulling his hands away from you, dropping them into his lap like they’d burned him. “That’s all I got,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, the edge to his words making it sound almost like he was angry—at himself, at you, at the fragile control he was barely holding onto.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave. Turning just enough, you caught sight of him leaning back against the couch, a pillow now strategically draped over his lap, his hand covering his eyes as though shielding himself from the sight of you—maybe from the way you made him feel.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice soft, still tinged with the haze of his touch, the weight of his hands lingering on your skin like a memory. “It was good. Really good.”

Joel’s only response was a single nod, curt and clipped, his jaw tight as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word rough, almost bitten out, as though forcing it past his lips was a battle. “Glad it helped.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Joel cleared his throat, shifting as if to stand, his voice low and hesitant. “Look,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steady himself. “I should… I should really get going. I—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning fully toward him now, your voice soft but insistent.

Joel turned to you slowly, his movements deliberate, like he was fighting every instinct telling him to stay right where he was. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything in him seemed to fray at the edges. Please don’t ask me to stay, his mind begged, the words unspoken but screaming in his head. Because I don’t know if I can control myself any longer.

You faltered, suddenly shy, your gaze dipping for a moment before finding his again. “I wanted to ask you something I noticed earlier… when your shirt was off.”

Joel’s brow twitched, the lines on his forehead deepening as his eyes sharpened. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the weight of your words settling over him.

What was she gonna say?

Was it about the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be, softened by the years and the hardships he carried? Or maybe the way his body groaned with every movement, the weight of too many fights, too many scars etched into his bones? Or was it the silver streaking through his hair, glinting in the firelight, betraying just how much time had carved itself into him?

The look he gave you was cautious, expectant—like he was waiting for you to confirm the insecurities he worked so hard to bury. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, softer but guarded. “Yeah?”

Your fingers moved before you could stop them, trembling slightly as they reached out, grazing the edge of his shirt near the collar. Joel went utterly still, his breath slowing, like he was waiting—letting you. You hesitated, your heart pounding, before gently tugging the fabric down just an inch, revealing a little more of his skin.

Your gaze caught on it immediately: the scar.

It was jagged and pale, stark against the warmth of his skin, carved into his collarbone like a brand from another life. Your breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping as your eyes lingered on the mark. Your fingers hovered close, just near enough to feel the heat of him, but you didn’t dare touch.

“What… what happened?” you asked finally, your voice soft, trembling.

Joel’s gaze followed yours, his face unreadable. He expected the worst—a comment about his body, about the way time and hardship had worn him down. But how could he expect that from you? You, the sweetest woman he’d ever met. This was almost worse, though. Because you cared. And that care, that softness, felt like it would undo him completely.

Slowly, he leaned back, putting a sliver of distance between you as if he needed the space to steel himself. “Knife,” he muttered, his voice rough and clipped.

Your eyes flicked to his face, searching for something in his expression—a trace of the story written into that scar, an emotion he didn’t want to reveal. But Joel didn’t look at you.

“Some guy,” he continued after a beat, his tone measured but guarded. “Long time ago. Tried attackin’ me.”

You hummed softly, the sound filled with a quiet empathy you didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment, you pictured him—Joel, younger but still so unmistakably him. Less gray in his hair, more fire in his eyes. Sharper around the edges, all raw survival and steady hands that had learned how to do what was necessary.

“Had to stitch myself up,” Joel added after a long pause, his voice low, each word deliberate, like it cost him something to say.

Your chest ached with the weight of it, and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ouch.”

He huffed a quiet, humorless sound, his lips twitching for the briefest second before settling back into a thin line. Without thinking, you shifted closer, the space between you narrowing until your knees brushed his. Joel stilled at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

And then, quietly, carefully, your hand reached out.

Your fingertips grazed the edge of his temple, tracing the faint curve of a scar that rested just above the bone. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked to yours, his jaw tightening as though he wasn’t sure if he could let himself breathe. But you saw him—really saw him. You always did.

“And this one?” you asked softly, your voice low, reverent, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness of the moment.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and uneven, your name slipping from his lips like a plea. “Don’t.”

The word was soft, almost broken, and the way he said it sent a pang of something deep and aching through you. There was no bite to it, no command—just Joel, asking for something unspoken.

“What?” you whispered, your hand stilling but refusing to pull away. Your eyes searched his face, lingering on the tight line of his jaw, the way his lashes brushed his cheekbones as he closed his eyes.

“It’s nothin’,” Joel muttered gruffly.

“I want to know,” you urged gently, your voice steady but soft, carrying the kind of quiet insistence that could slip past defenses. “Please.”

“Took a hit to the head,” he muttered finally, the words clipped and bitter. “Made a dumb mistake. Should’ve seen it comin’.”

Slowly, you pulled your hand back, the motion deliberate, leaving a trail of phantom heat in its absence. Joel’s hand twitched, halfway between you, like it wanted to reach for you but couldn’t quite make it.

“Why d’you care ‘bout this?” Joel asked finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t an accusation. It was confusion, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why anyone would care enough to notice, let alone ask.

His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.

You stared at him, your lips parting as you tried to find the words, but nothing came at first. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every time he let his guard slip, even just a fraction, it felt like he was handing you something sacred, something no one else had been allowed to see?

How could you tell him that you cared because he mattered.

How could you tell him that you cared because you loved him?

“Because it’s you,” you said softly, the words slipping free before you could stop them.

His expression faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered, dark and searching, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like he was holding something back—something too big, too fragile to name. Then he shook his head, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to will the moment away.

“Don’t say somethin’ you don’t mean,” he muttered, the words rough and low, swallowing against the literal pain that burned in his throat as he forced them out.

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening as you shifted closer to him, the air between you thick and charged. “Joel you told me a while ago,” you began, your voice steady despite the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “that you cared about me.”

Joel’s gaze snapped up at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, almost wary intensity. He looked like a man cornered, searching for an angle, a way out of a conversation he hadn’t realized he’d walked straight into. But there wasn’t one. You both knew it.

Finally, after a long, loaded silence, he nodded once. It was curt but deliberate, his jaw tightening as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a reluctant swallow. “I do,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the words dragged themselves out of him against his will. “Course I do.”

"Then why can't you believe me when I say I care about you too?" The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice softer now, trembling with the mix of pleading and frustration that had been building inside you. Vulnerability bled through, and your chest ached as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Don’t look away.

"Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

Joel's jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His eyes flicked down, unable to meet yours. His hand moved absently, rubbing the worn denim of his thigh, the restless motion betraying the storm brewing just beneath his skin.

"It ain't..." he started, his voice faltering, so low it felt like a confession. "It's not the same."

"Not the same how?" you pressed, leaning forward. Your voice was steady now, firm, as if the calmness might coax him into staying—into answering. "I don’t get it, Joel. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to just… let me care about you."

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to face you.

You couldn’t take it any longer. Slowly, you reached out, your hand finding his face, gently tilting it toward you. The contact was soft, tentative, but the gesture felt like an unspoken plea, like you were begging him to let you in.

"I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone like I trust you." Your voice cracked, just barely, as you took a breath, searching for the courage to say what you hadn’t said aloud. "You make me feel safe. Joel... I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Joel’s head snapped up at that.

“Look,” you began softly, leaning forward, your voice threading through the heavy quiet between you. “I’m not fighting you on this. It’s not a battle, Joel. It’s just the truth. Whether you believe it or not, I care.”

“And I know you’re stubborn,” you added, your lips quirking in a small, fleeting smile, an attempt to lighten the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “Maybe even more stubborn than me.”

That earned you something—a tilt of his head, just barely, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered to you, guarded but curious. “I’m the stubborn one?” he asked gruffly, his voice rough and low, though the faintest thread of incredulity cut through it.

“Yeah,” you replied, letting the smile tug a little wider as you leaned back, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You can be just as bad as me. Maybe worse.”

“But it’s true,” you pressed gently, the teasing giving way to something deeper, something unshakable. Your gaze caught his, steady and unyielding, holding him there even as you saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes. “I care, Joel. I really do. And it’s not gonna change just because you’re too damn stubborn to believe it.”

Joel’s head lifted fully then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it made your breath catch. The walls he’d fortified so carefully, so stubbornly, seemed to waver, crumbling at the edges. And for the first time, you didn’t just feel like you were talking to Joel—you felt like you saw him.

The space between you felt smaller, sharper, like gravity was pulling you together. You became acutely aware of how close you were, your knees brushing his as the firelight flickered against his face. And then, his gaze dipped—to your lips.

Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me?

The thought slammed into you, leaving your heart racing in your chest. Time seemed to slow, his gaze lingering there just a beat too long. The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. Your breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought he might.

But then Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping abruptly to his hands. He shifted against the couch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was forcing himself to break the spell. “Well,” he said finally, his voice rough and uneven, cutting through the fragile quiet. He cleared his throat, his hands smoothing over his jeans in a nervous, practiced gesture. “I should probably get goin’.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve, a sharp pang settling in your chest. “Oh,” you murmured softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it.

“Yeah, okay.” Your lips curved into a small, fleeting smile, the best you could manage. “Thanks for, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, your voice light but thin. “…the dinner. And the firewood.”

Joel nodded once, his eyes flickering anywhere but you—the door, the fire, his boots—like looking at you might undo him entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “No problem.”

He hesitated, the pause stretching longer than it should’ve. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, the familiar, disarming motion drawing your attention to the tension still coiled in his frame. His bicep flexed subtly, and you hated how that flicker of movement sent heat curling in your stomach even now, when all you wanted was for him to stay.

“And… thanks for, uh… the back thing,” he added gruffly, his voice a shade quieter, more uncertain.

The words caught you off guard, and a soft, unsteady laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “The back thing?” you echoed, arching a brow at him, the teasing edge in your voice betraying the weight pressing on your chest. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Joel’s lips twitched—just barely—a flicker of something lighter that tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, warmer now but still guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let it linger. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, the words rough but softer this time.

“You’re welcome,” you said gently, the teasing fading from your voice as you watched him.

When he stood, you followed him toward the door, the sound of his boots against the floor punctuating the silence between you. Every step felt heavy, the space around you thickening with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob, his broad shoulders shifting just slightly like he was caught between leaving and staying.

For a beat, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, he turned back to you, his dark eyes flickering to yours with an uncertainty that made your heart stutter. “Good night,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, but there was something in it—something more—that he didn’t let himself say. His fingers curled tighter around the knob, knuckles pale from the tension. “Lock up after me, yeah?”

You nodded, your voice steadier than you felt. “Good night, Joel.”

But you wanted to say more.

Don’t leave.

Don’t walk out that door. Stay. Stay here with me.

Let me show you that I care.

Let me show you that I love you.

For a moment, you held your breath, your pulse pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Please. Just say something. Stay.

But he didn’t.

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his face shadowed in the soft glow of the firelight, and turned away.

The door creaked softly as it opened, the cold night air rushing in, biting against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. For a heartbeat, you saw the stars outside—endless, distant, uncaring—before the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden stillness.

You exhaled shakily, the sound unsteady as you pressed your forehead lightly against the door, your eyes fluttering shut. The house felt too big without him, the fire behind you too quiet to chase away the chill that crept into your bones now that he was gone.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, the words breaking like a secret in the empty room—soft and fragile, meant for him but swallowed by the night.

Outside, the stars stretched on forever, distant and silent, but you stayed there, rooted to the spot, the ache of all the words you hadn’t said pressing heavy against your chest.

And you let them linger.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you found yourself trudging toward the dining hall with Maria, trying—and failing—to suppress a yawn. Sleep hadn’t come easy after last night. The weight of Joel’s touch, the sound of his voice murmuring your name, lingered stubbornly in the quiet of your mind, replaying like a song you couldn’t shake.

“Late night?” Maria asked, her tone teasing but curious as she nudged you gently.

“Something like that,” you murmured, rolling your shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the ache that still clung to them.

Stepping into the dining hall, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays greeted you, a comforting sort of chaos that momentarily distracted you from the exhaustion curling behind your eyes. Maria stopped short and turned to you, motioning vaguely.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. “The boys are over there.”

At her words, your gaze followed her subtle nod—and your heart stilled.

As you made your way toward them, it was Tommy who spotted you first. His face split into a wide grin, his arms already opening before you reached him. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled warmly, his Southern lilt wrapping around the word like it belonged there, soft and easy. “Joel was just tellin’ me how you saved his old ass the other day. You’re somethin’ else, you know that? A damn badass.”

Your heart gave a sharp skip at the mention of Joel, your gaze flicking instinctively to him. He stood just a step behind Tommy, his tray in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. He was watching you—quiet, steady—but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind he reserved only for you. Without a word, Joel reached for an extra tray and handed it to you, his movements deliberate but natural, like it wasn’t even a question.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quiet and shaky, betraying you. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks, and you watched Joel’s jaw tighten as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze dropped, flicking away shyly—a softness so uncharacteristic of him that it pulled at something deep in your chest.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice low, quiet enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.

You nodded quickly, gripping the tray a little tighter as you found your words. “Yeah. Your, uh… back thing helped, I think.”

Joel hummed, the sound deep in his chest, approving but subdued. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again—and then lower, to your lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your breath catch.

Tommy’s brow furrowed, his tray hovering in mid-air as he looked between you both, confusion clear on his face. What the hell are they talkin’ about? he wondered, his lips twitching as if he might interrupt.

Before you could even process it, the moment shattered.

“Hey, lady,” a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the air behind you.

Startled, you turned sharply, the tray wobbling slightly in your hands as you found yourself face-to-face with someone you didn’t recognize. He was large—towering, broad-shouldered, with a head shaved so close it gleamed under the lights. His scowl was deep, a permanent mark etched into his face, and the way his eyes raked over you felt dismissive, hostile.

“Oh,” you stammered, caught off guard as your pulse quickened. “Hi.” Did you know this guy? No, you decided, swallowing hard. He was new—one of the recent arrivals who hadn’t yet settled into Jackson’s quiet rhythm.

You felt it before you saw it. Joel.

He hadn’t moved, not yet, but you could feel the change in him—subtle but unmistakable. The air between you shifted as if the temperature had dropped, the warmth of his earlier softness disappearing in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, and Tommy turned too, his expression darkening as he registered the tension.

“Not sure what you think you’re doin’, cuttin’ in line like that,” the man sneered, his voice rough, laced with something sharp and ugly. His eyes flicked over you again, dismissive in a way that made your stomach twist. “Think you’re special or somethin’?”

“I’m—” you started, flustered, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t realize—”

You felt Joel move before you saw him.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice cut through the hum of the dining hall like the edge of a blade—low, deliberate, and unyielding. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

Joel stepped forward, his broad frame eclipsing yours completely as he inserted himself between you and the stranger, shielding you with a movement so instinctive, so deliberate, it made your chest tighten. Without turning his head, his hand found your waist—firm but gentle—as he nudged you back toward Tommy.

Tommy let out a quiet, resigned “Oh boy,” under his breath, his grip on your arm steady, like he already knew where this was headed. Around you, the energy shifted. Conversations dimmed to nervous murmurs, trays clinked against the tables, and chairs scraped as people turned to watch.

Everyone in Jackson knew better. They knew Joel Miller. His name carried weight—a reputation forged in blood and grit, etched into every line on his hardened face. He didn’t need to bark orders or shout threats; his presence alone did the talking. Joel was a man who didn’t bluff, and everyone who’d lived here long enough understood that much.

But this man didn’t. Or he was too new—too reckless—to realize what kind of line he’d just crossed.

“She’s with me,” Joel said, his voice quiet and cold.

The stranger scoffed, his lip curling as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest in a challenge that only made him look smaller next to Joel’s unflinching presence. “Does it look like I care?” he spat, his tone dripping with mockery.

You flinched instinctively, but Joel didn’t react—not at first. He stood stock-still, his profile unreadable except for the faint tick in his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers into a fist at his side. His stillness was terrifying, the kind that signaled restraint—restraint that could snap at any moment.

When Joel spoke again, his voice dropped lower—deadly and cold, each word a warning wrapped in a promise. “It does,” he said, and his eyes sharpened like twin shards of glass. “If you wanna keep breathing.”

The newcomer didn’t take the hint—or worse, he did and chose to shove it aside with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. He rolled his eyes, his scowl twisting into something cruel and sharp, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, man. Tell your brat of a girlfriend she can’t just go around cutting in line. That’s not how things work.”

Brat.

The word struck like the crack of a whip, each syllable biting deeper than the last. A flare of heat surged through you—anger, humiliation, a wild tangle of words clawing their way up your throat. Who does this guy think he is? Brat? Your mouth moved on instinct, the retort already forming, sharp and searing: “Who do you think you’re—”

But the words never landed. Tommy’s hand found your arm, firm and grounding. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, his presence a tether against the storm building inside you. His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you, but the warning in it was unmistakable.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone a weary drawl laced with a hint of something heavier. Experience. Resignation. “Trust me. Don’t.”

It happened in a flash—so fast you could barely process it. One moment, Joel stood beside you, his presence solid and unyielding like a dam holding back a flood. The next, that flood broke.

Joel surged forward with a force that was all precision, controlled fury, and raw intent. His hand shot out, gripping the man’s collar with a strength that sent him stumbling back. The motion was seamless, deliberate, like the inevitable force of a storm bearing down on its target. The man’s back slammed against the nearest wall, the impact reverberating through the dining hall like a clap of thunder.

“What,” Joel growled, his voice low, dangerous, and deadly, “did you just say?”

It wasn’t a yell. Joel didn’t need to raise his voice. The menace in his tone—the quiet, simmering fury—was far more terrifying. His grip on the man’s collar was ironclad, his knuckles white against the fabric.

The man squirmed, his bravado already cracking like thin ice. “Get the fuck off me!” he barked, shoving weakly at Joel’s chest. His hands trembled with effort, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Joel didn’t budge—not even a flicker of motion.

“Say it again,” Joel snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled through the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He yanked the man closer, their faces level now, his grip tightening like a vice. “Go ahead. Say it again. And see what happens.”

“I didn’t—” the man started, his voice hitching, but Joel slammed him harder against the wall, the sound louder this time, sharp enough to make a few people in the crowd flinch.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Joel snarled, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with a fury that could melt steel. “Hell,” he growled, his breath steady but deliberate, like he was holding back a storm, “you don’t talk to her ever. You don’t look at her like that.” His grip tightened on the man’s collar, knuckles white, and with a sharp shove, he slammed him against the wall again. The dull thud of the man’s head meeting the surface reverberated in the tense silence.

Joel leaned in, his face inches from the man’s now paling one, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “And you sure as hell don’t get to call her—” His voice cracked, raw and seething, but he pushed through it, his hand jerking the man forward only to slam him back again, harder this time, the impact leaving no room for argument.

“Anything but her goddamn name.”

The man’s bravado shattered completely. His eyes widened in panic, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I—I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean—”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Joel cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. His gaze burned into the man, and his grip didn’t falter. “Try again.” He yanked him closer, the venom in his words unrelenting. “And look her in the eye while you do it.”

The man’s head jerked toward you, his movements jerky and frantic, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, the words spilling over themselves in his panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”

The dining hall felt like it had frozen in time. Conversations had ceased, forks hung mid-air, the faint crackle of the fire in the corner the only sound to break the silence. Joel was unyielding, a pillar of unrelenting fury. You could see the man squirm beneath his grip, his panic rising with every second that passed.

And then Joel’s gaze shifted.

His head turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and it was like the air shifted entirely. That sharp, cutting edge in his expression softened—not fully, but enough that you felt it like a physical thing. His dark eyes searched yours, asking a silent question, his brow lifting just slightly in that way only you knew meant he was waiting. Not for the man’s apology. Not for Tommy to intervene.

For you.

The vulnerability in that look was enough to unravel you. Joel wasn’t questioning whether he should let go, wasn’t trying to justify the raw, unyielding force behind his actions. He was asking you—quietly, silently—trusting you to decide if the apology was enough, if you were satisfied.

It was such an intimate thing, so deeply personal, completely at odds with the way his knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip, his forearm trembling with restrained fury. The contrast was stark—his quiet deference to you and the raw, unrelenting protectiveness that radiated off him, daring the world to push him further.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you held his gaze. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something tender. “It’s okay. Let him go.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he needed to be absolutely certain. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deliberate breath, the tension rolling through him in waves before he exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then, finally, his hand loosened. It wasn’t abrupt—it was deliberate, controlled, as though every motion carried weight. Joel released the man with enough force to send him stumbling forward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.

The man’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts as he scrambled to steady himself, his trembling hands clutching at his shirt like it might protect him. But Joel didn’t even look at him now. His gaze stayed on you, his eyes still softer, still yours.

“Go,” Joel said simply, his voice low, quiet, but no less commanding. The word carried the same weight as if it had been shouted, and the man didn’t hesitate. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his steps hurried as he all but fled the dining hall. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp creak, the sound punctuating his retreat.

Joel turned fully to you now, his broad shoulders relaxing by degrees, though you could still see the tension coiled beneath his skin. His gaze softened further as it met yours, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away. There was a question there, unspoken but loud enough to feel in the air between you: Did I do right? Are you okay?

Joel’s voice broke through the hum of the dining hall, rough but quieter now, carrying an edge of concern so sharp it sent a pang straight to your chest. “You good?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. There was something about the way he stepped closer, his body angled toward you as though nothing else mattered—like the entire world could crumble around him, and he’d still be here, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Joel didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned your face, his jaw tightening as if he could will the truth out of you, even if you didn’t want to give it. His chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands flexed at his sides like they were still fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you behind him and keep you safe.

Behind him, Tommy let out a low whistle, the sound breaking through the suffocating quiet like a crack of thunder. “Damn, Joel,” he muttered, shaking his head as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Didn’t know you still had that in you. Hell, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

But Joel didn’t react. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even flinch. His focus remained on you, unwavering, like he couldn’t spare even a second to acknowledge anything else. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, almost tender in its roughness. “You should sit,” he said, nodding toward a table in the far corner of the hall. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

“Joel” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He motioned toward the table again, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as if to guide you. “Sit.”

Joel turned back to the line without another word, his broad shoulders tense and Tommy’s chuckle following him like a low rumble of thunder. You noticed the way the people behind Joel in line stood a few paces back now, their movements cautious, like they were navigating the aftermath of a storm.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax as you glanced around the dining hall. The noise had returned to its usual rhythm—a soft din of clinking trays and overlapping conversations—but the weight of what had just happened still lingered in the air. Without waiting, you slipped toward the back of the hall, seeking the solace of a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.

Sliding into the farthest seat, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension in your chest eased, though the moment was short-lived. Maria appeared almost out of nowhere, her movements fluid as she took the chair beside you. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. Her brows arched in silent curiosity, but her expression carried an edge of amusement.

“What did I miss?” she asked, “Why’s everyone looking at you like you just threw the first punch?”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped you, bubbling out unexpectedly, light and tinged with disbelief. Maria’s brow furrowed deeper, though her lips twitched as if fighting back a smile. “What?” she pressed. “What’s so funny?”

“Joel,” you said, shaking your head and gesturing vaguely toward the front of the hall where the line stretched out. “He… handled a situation.”

Maria’s brow arched higher, her interest visibly piqued. “Handled a situation?” she echoed, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce on juicy gossip. “Do tell. What kind of situation are we talking about here?”

You hesitated, the memory of Joel’s fury still fresh in your mind. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the wood grain of the table as you searched for the right words. “There was this guy. New, I think. He said something, and Joel—” You paused, the image of Joel pinning the man against the wall flashing in your mind. “Joel made sure he regretted it.”

Maria tilted her head, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Made sure, huh?” she said, her tone teasing. “Let me guess—intimidation, maybe a little bit of his special brand of physical persuasion?”

You smiled despite yourself, the corners of your lips tugging upward. “Something like that,” you admitted quietly. “He grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall… scared the hell out of everyone watching.”

Maria’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across her face. “Classic Joel,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. But her expression softened as she watched you, her gaze turning pointed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just for show.”

Before you could respond, movement caught your attention. Joel was weaving through the dining hall, two trays balanced carefully in his hands. His face was set in that familiar stoic expression, his jaw tight and his steps deliberate. But then his eyes found yours, and for the briefest moment, they softened.

“Here,” Joel said simply, setting the tray down in front of you with the kind of care that felt oddly out of place in the bustling, noisy dining hall. “They didn’t have any more of that cornbread you liked, so I grabbed you this instead.” He slid a warm muffin onto your tray, its golden top glistening faintly, the scent of honey and cinnamon wafting up.

“Oh,” you breathed, your fingers brushing the edge of the tray, feeling the lingering warmth of the muffin. You glanced up at him, the words catching in your throat before finally tumbling out. “Thanks, Joel.”

He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a slight nod. Joel lowered himself into the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the quiet corner you’d tucked yourselves into. His knee brushed yours briefly under the table as he adjusted his seat, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.

Tommy arrived seconds later, sliding into the chair next to Maria with his tray in tow, his face lit up with a grin that was equal parts amused and mischievous. He stabbed a fork into the potatoes on his plate, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” Tommy drawled, glancing between you and Joel, “guess we’re sittin’ at the safest table in Jackson now.”

Joel’s head snapped toward his brother, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that signaled his patience was wearing thin. “Knock it off,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth like he could end the conversation by sheer force of will.

Tommy chuckled, undeterred. “Can’t help it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an unapologetic grin. “I mean, I’ve seen you get protective, Joel, but that back there?” He gestured vaguely toward the line where the earlier incident had unfolded. “That was somethin’ else.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled, his voice dropping into a warning. But instead of snapping, he glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly before his gaze darted back to his tray.

Maria finally chimed in, her voice carrying that same sharp amusement. “Well, Joel, if nothing else, you’ve definitely set the tone for how new arrivals should behave.”

Joel let out a soft huff, his head dipping as he dragged a hand over his face. “For the last time, I don’t wanna hear about it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and solid, squeezing your knee under the table.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the silent reassurance in the way his fingers pressed gently but firmly against you, said everything he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a message. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m yours.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

My other works!

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[heavyhitterheaux]

How did wife feel about Joe buying the bat mobile?

She was NOT happy 😭😭

Especially since she had told him literally two weeks before that she was pregnant

Joe's eyes fluttered open from feeling the weight shift on the bed, meaning that his wife was awake. He was facing away from you and let his eyes adjust for a minute before turning around to face you. Once he did, he instantly saw that you were giving him a death glare.

“Uh? Princess? Good morning. Is everything okay?” He asked as the same expression remained on your face.

“Your name is not baby right now to me. It's Jos…”

“No! Don’t you dare say it.”

“Don't interrupt me, Joseph. Because I am pissed at you right now.” You told him as he looked around confused.

“What did I do? I literally just opened my eyes.”

“I will throw you across the room if you don't lose that attitude.”

“Baby! I don't have an attitude! I'm just confused as to why you're mad at me! Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” He asked as he sat up against the headboard.

“Why did I wake up at 2 in the morning to throw up because your children know absolutely no chill and I glance down at my phone to see a bombardment of text messages AND alerts having to do with my husband?”

“Well Hard Knocks premiered last night…. I did look pretty good if I do say so myself.”

“It's what you said on Hard Knocks that has me pissed off.”

Just then Joe had a realization.

He bought the BatMobile and forgot to tell you.

And the first thing after he said it to Ja'Marr and Tee was them asking the question if he had told you yet.

“Oh um… I forgot to mention that.”

“Joseph Lee. That thing costs 2.9 MILLION DOLLARS. HOW DO YOU JUST FORGET TO TELL YOUR WIFE!?”

“And Justin did mention that it wasn't the smartest financial decision…” He muttered and you continued staring at him.

“Hmm, is it going to come equipped with two car seats? Because you better figure out how to fit them in there.” You told him and he gave you a tight lipped smile.

“Well I don't get it for a year, I can always make a call and ask for adjustments. Who knows? They might be able to fit the car seats in there.” He answered but you did not look amused.

“You knew that you were going to be a father to twins and you still decided to buy it?”

“The opportunity was right there, babe! Like when am I going to have another chance like this!? And this was before I knew you were pregnant!”

"When we have no money to feed our kids, I'm going to tell them that daddy decided to buy a batmobile instead and that's why everyone's stomach is EMPTY."

"Okay little miss dramatic much."

"I'm about to tell Ja'Marr to come and get you because between me not sleeping and you buying things for 2.9 MILLION DOLLARS you are on my nerves."

"Just think about us fucking in the front seat."

"No. Stop trying to break my focus from me being mad at you."

"But is it working?"

"A little, but if you ask me again later, I'll deny it."

But she's obviously going to let him keep it despite how annoyed she is about the entire thing.

And now she's going to try and get her elephant 😭

[ariestrxsh]

.• ° * જ⁀➴ content warning: smut, angst, manipulation, cheating, toxic relationship, crying, oral (f!receiving), rough car sex, hair pulling, toxicbf!chris, gf!reader

.• ° * જ⁀➴ author's note: sorry guys i kind of made chris a cheating asshole in this (but i'd still let him hit bc i'm lowkey a cuck).

.• ° * જ⁀➴ summary: you and chris get into an argument after you find him cheating on you at a party, but you can't stay mad at him for long, especially when he knows just what you like, and he gives it to you in the backseat of his car.

.• ° * જ⁀➴ this fic is very loosely inspired by this post (it started off as a roadrage fic that leads to sex but the fic really took me down a different road, so i took the rough car fuck from it and kind of changed everything else so idk)

(i used two different songs for inspo, but they both have the same name, and i actually like this concept a lot bc the halsey song more fits where the reader's head is, and the current blue song more fits where chris' head is, so keep that in mind if you ever listen to the songs associated with my fics.)

Drive

You set foot out of the bathroom at a New Year's party your boyfriend had dragged you to, your eyes scanning the sea of faces in search of him.

You didn't recognize most of the people here, but they all recognized you. Chris knew almost everyone, and they all knew of you by association. Chris was a bit of a social butterfly, especially at parties, constantly flitting through each room and getting easily distracted, so you weren't sure where to even begin looking for him.

You had a better chance of finding one of his brothers first and hoping that maybe one of them had seen him. You continued to look for either of the three of them through the crowd while music thumped loudly through some shitty speakers.

You found your way through the living room and the kitchen, bumping into a few people who knew your name but failed to tell you theirs and were no help in finding Chris. The smell of marijuana burning floated into your senses as you wandered out back, thinking for sure that you'd stumble upon your boyfriend outside lighting up a joint, but he was nowhere to be found.

You did, however, find Nick who was getting hit on by a group of girls who were all giggling and playing with their hair while they all completely missed the obvious signs that he was totally uninterested and also gay. "Hey, have you seen Chris?" You called to Nick as your heels clicked against the stonework in the backyard.

Nick politely excused himself and started walking towards you. "No, I haven't, but thank God you're here. I thought they were going to eat me alive back there," Nick whispered in your ear, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as the two of you started to walk back inside. You frowned at him. All you wanted was to find Chris.

"You know, I saw a cat earlier. If we can find the cat, I'm sure we'll find Matt close by. Maybe he's seen Chris," Nick suggested, shrugging. You and Nick pushed your way past a bunch of drunk college kids when Matt caught your eye at the top of the second floor.

He was bent down, petting a black cat and scratching the sweet animal under the chin as she purred and brushed up against his leg. You two made your way over to the banister and started climbing the steps. "Hey, have you seen Chris?" You called to him, startling the cat and causing her to run off to one of the dark rooms down the hall.

Matt glared at you. "No, I haven't," he huffed. "I can't find him anywhere. I swear, I left him alone for like ten minutes," you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach and the thoughts creeping into your mind that he might be somewhere entertaining another girl.

"I wouldn't go up there if I were you. I think there might be someone hooking up in one of those rooms," Matt pointed down the hall, smirking. He turned his attention to Nick. "Hey, since Chris can drive himself now and we don't have to wait for him, do you wanna go?" The rest of their conversation was drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat thumping away in your ears as you peered down at the only room you could tell was lit up.

You saw what looked like two pairs of feet stumbling around as their shadows broke through the light shining through the crack in the bottom of the door. Something told you that Chris was in that room, and even though you had nothing to go off besides a gut feeling, you had to be sure.

After Nick and Matt had made their way back down the staircase and out the door to Matt's car, you finally worked up the courage to march towards the door. You pressed your ear up to the wooden barrier. You couldn't make out what the two voices on the other side were saying, but one of them definitely belonged to Chris.

You subtly turned the knob and threw open the door. Sure enough. Your scumbag boyfriend was getting close and friendly with another woman who had her lips latched onto his neck, and he had his hand resting on her hip. He immediately pulled away and backed up as he realized he'd been caught.

"Hey babe," he said, trying to sound casual. You could tell by the sneer on the girl's face and her body language that she wasn't happy to see you. Your glance flickered between the both of them a few times before you felt tears starting to well in your eyes. You turned away and bolted down the stairs and out into the front yard.

It was a shame Nick and Matt had already left because all you wanted to do was go home, and now the reason you were crying was your only ride. Chris followed closely behind, chasing after you. "Babe, what's wrong?" He asked, playing dumb, as if that could really get him out of this one. You pushed him away, but he pulled you close again.

"What the fuck were you doing with that girl!?" You asked through your tears, raising your voice. "We were just talking," he sweetly told you, wiping away a bit of your smeared eyeliner. "Chris, I'm not stupid! She was kissing your neck," you sobbed in response, shoving him again.

"Babe, you're embarrassing me," he shot back, sounding a bit annoyed with you. "You're the one making out with some other girl at a party where everyone knows we're together, and you're the one who's embarrassed?! You're unbelievable!" You yelled.

"You're always jumping to conclusions and accusing me of shit," Chris responded, embracing you once more. "Shhh. Come on, baby. Come home with me, and I'll show you how sorry I am," he cooed in a soft voice, trying to de-escalate the situation.

"You're not fooling me, Chris. I'm not giving into you this time. Just take me home.." you said, your voice trailing off as he started kissing and nibbling on your ear. "Please. Come home with me. I'll make you feel so good," he whispered into the crook of your neck, pressing his body up against yours.

Your knees and your willpower grew weak as you turned your head to expose more of your throat to him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

As angry as you were with him, he could always win you over with sex. It was like a vicious cycle. He'd hit on another girl in front of you, you'd get jealous, the two of you would start fighting, and then he would console you with sex. You hated that it always worked, but you couldn't help the effect he had on you. He was intoxicating, and you were addicted to him.

"Mhmm. Please, Chris.." you hummed back, giving into him. He had you in the palm of his hand. He reached behind you and opened your door for you, leading you into his car and closing it once you'd gotten in.

It still had that new car smell. He climbed into the driver seat, turning the key in the ignition. You listened to the sound of his engine purring as he pulled away from the street, one hand on the steering wheel and his other on your thigh. His pretty blue eyes shifted between the road, his rearview, and his side mirrors.

You watched the way the streetlights overhead illuminated different parts of the car as you drove underneath them, shadows bouncing off the leather interior, creating a strange illusion, kind of like how it felt to be in a relationship with Chris - like a long, late night drive where the lights and shadows played tricks on your eyes to the point where you didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

"Why don't you put on some music, babe?" Chris suggested, breaking you out of your thoughts and attempting to distract you from bringing up the girl from the party again. "My phone's dead. Can I use yours?" You casually asked him, reaching for his phone that was sitting in his cup holder.

"Mine's dead, too," he replied, trying to grab it before you did. You watched his screen light up as an incoming message came through. "Bullshit!" You yelled, snagging his phone out of his hand.

When you opened his lock screen, it was open to a new contact he'd just saved, and you saw a woman's name you didn't recognize, and when you pulled down notification bar to see who the text was from, it was from her.

"Give it back," Chris demanded, trying to wrestle his phone out of your hand while trying to maintain his focus on the road. The text read: I had fun with you tonight. I hope I didn't get you into too much trouble with your girlfriend. Text me the next time you're lonely. ;)

"That's it, Chris. Let me out of the fucking car," you told him, throwing his phone at him and reaching for your door handle. "Jesus Christ," Chris said, rolling his eyes and turning down an empty road that was dark besides one lone streetlight at the corner.

"I'm not kidding. Stop this fucking car or I'll jump out while it's moving," you threatened. "I know you will," he scoffed at you, hence the reason he was pulling off of the main road and bringing his wheels to an abrupt stop.

Chris had pulled over on the side of the street in a residential area, but there was stretch of empty field before you'd hit any houses, and there were no people around because it was around 11 p.m. on New Year's Eve night and everyone was either out at a bar or a house party or nestled comfortably into their beds ready to start off the new year with a good night's rest.

You threw open the car door. "Don't - slam it," Chris started to say, but he was cut off by you slamming the door shut in his face. You grew even more pissed off at the audacity of him to care about his car in a moment like this. You started marching down the street, your heels angrily clicking against the sidewalk as you tried to hold back your tears with arms crossed over your chest.

He rolled down his tinted window. "Get in," he told you, but you ignored him, not even bothering to slow your strides. "Get back in the car," he repeated through gritted teeth. "No, you can leave. I'll find my way home."

"We're 45 minutes from your house, you've been drinking, and your phone is dead. I'm afraid I don't have a choice. I'm not leaving you out here alone like this," Chris told you, slowly driving beside you, his wheels inching forward with your angry stomps. You gave him the silent treatment, continuing down the pavement.

He stopped the car and pulled himself to his feet, coming around to the opposite side where you were and grabbing you by the wrist. "Look, I know you hate me, and you can tell me all about it in the morning, but for now, let's get you back to my place, and I'll do my best to make it up to you," he softly cooed, looking into your eyes as he grabbed both sides of your face and pulled you into a deep kiss.

You kissed him back, your lips moving in unison with his, but you pulled away. "What? You gonna leave me over it?" He asked genuinely. You stared at him blankly. "Because you never do," he pointed out. He was right.

This was a pattern, and there was a part of each one of you that loved the drama of the tumultuous relationship the two of you shared. You both knew it wasn't healthy, but Chris loved the way you'd get jealous over him and cause a scene. It made him feel like you really cared. And you loved the great lengths he'd go to in order to win you back over after a big fight.

And, of course, you were both addicted to the makeup sex. Neither one of you understood the psychology of why neither one of you wanted out of the relationship. After all, you two really did think you loved each other. You just only had really fucked up ways of showing it.

"Come on. You know you want me. You'd get bored with anyone else," he said in a seductive tone as he winked at you. Again, he was right. He pushed you up against the car and started kissing you, wedging his knee between your legs.

"I need you, baby, and I know you need me, too. I'm the only one who can give you exactly what you like, hmm?" He moaned into your mouth in-between sloppy kisses. "Fuck me, Chris," you moaned back.

"Yeah? You wanna go back to my place, and I'll fuck you nice and good," he purred into your ear. "No, Chris. I want you to fuck me right now," you sternly replied. He raised his eyebrows at you. This was out of character for you, but he liked it, and he wasn't going to let the chance go to waste.

"Fuck. You're so hot," he rapsed as he pulled open the back door. "Get on all fours," he ordered you, pushing you into the backseat. He pulled the hem of your black dress up over ass and started taking down your panties.

He eagerly spread you open, and you shuddered at the feeling of his hot breath radiating onto your core. He leaned in and buried his tongue in between your folds, lapping up your wetness. Your face was pressed against the cold, leather interior as a mewl passed through your lips.

He started to harshly suck on your clit, moaning against your sensitive nerve endings as he brought his hand down and slapped your ass hard. You yelped, leaning back into him. You reached around and entangled your fingers in his soft, brown locks as he continued to eat you like a man starving.

"Like when I eat it from the back?" He seductively asked you. "Mhmm," you whimpered, biting your lip and nodding your head. He wrapped his lips around your bundle of nerves, and he began methodically flicking his tongue over it as your whole body started to tremble.

He slurped up all your juices as he roughly kissed your drooling cunt. He created a bit of suction on your clit again, pulling away slowly and stretching your flesh, which made the feeling far more intense. He smirked after he released it from his lips and it snapped back into place. You whimpered at the delightful sensation.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he praised you. You dug your freshly-manicured nails into the seat as he brought you closer to the edge. His tongue explored you in ways that no one else ever could. You felt the knot in your stomach come undone as he devoured you, paying close attention to every part of your vulva, stimulating you with his soft, wet mouth.

You started to shake as you finished onto his tongue, strangled moans pouring into the car. Chris chuckled against your heat, licking you clean. He released his mouth from you, and you heard the sound of him fiddling with his belt. Then his zipper.

You felt him draw a line up your slit with his tip, dragging it through your wetness. He slapped it against your entrance, laughing at the way you sent your hips back trying to coax it in. "You forgive me, baby? You forgive me for getting mixed up with that girl?" He cooed, teasing you with the head of his cock.

"Of course, Chris. I could never stay mad at you," you whimpered, eager for him to put it in. He smirked, snapping his hips forward and burying himself deep inside you. "So big," you whined as you generously accepted him, your pussy stretching around him and accommodating his thickness.

"Take it," he groaned, starting to buck his hips back and forth. He admired the arch of your back and all your perfect curves as he had you in his favorite position. His eyes wandered towards your ass and the way it jiggled every time he jerked his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your hole.

He grabbed ahold of your hair and used it to steady himself as he pounded away. "You take my cock so well," he growled, rutting into your gspot with every jagged thrust. Your eyes rolled back, and you let out a deep, guttural sound that you almost didn't even recognize coming from yourself.

He started to break a sweat, a few drops of perspiration forming on his forehead, his thick hair sticking to it. The car windows started to fog up with the moisture from your combined breath as the two of your bodies moved as one unit in an escalating exchange of energies.

He relished in the way you squelched around him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. "Harder," you practically sobbed as you felt the pressure building in your abdomen again. He fucked you ravenously, picking up his strides and giving it to as hard as he could, sending satisfaction through every inch of you.

His eyes were slammed shut, his eye brows knitted together, and his jaw dropped, pleasured sounds unfurling from his lips. They were deep, sensual, and almost frustrated - almost animalistic. His car rocked back and forth as he took you in the back seat, your fingers grasping for anything to hold onto as you felt your stomach flutter.

"So close," you managed to whine as you reached the point of no return. With Chris still gripping your hair tightly, he kept his pace as steady and strong as he could while on the brink himself. "Cum on my cock, babe," he demanded, his voice textured with lust. He gripped your hair even harder, tugging with even more force than before as your orgasm rippled through you, fully surrendering to him.

Your bodies reacted to one other in a language of unspoken desire as he pumped you full of his warm, sticky load and your walls throbbed around him, creating a positive feedback loop in which each of you triggered a more intense climax in one another.

"Oh, fuck," he rasped, his dick twitching inside of you as he filled you with every last drop. He relaxed his hold on your hair, and you collpased into the back seat of his car. He pulled out of you, admiring the way his cum glistened on your skin in the faint moonlight as it peeked out from behind the clouds.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, go back to my place, and I'll do that as many times as it takes me to make up for what a jerk I was to you tonight."

taglist: @sturnioloslut1 @trevorsgodmother @aaliyahsturniolo @larallott @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @sturniolosweets @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1 @chrislova @stellarsturns

[darksturnz]

NIGHTS LIKE THIS

CONTENTS:・teeth rotting fluff-heavy plot (imo) ・star!reader ・mild language ・sleeping in the same bed・artist!chris ・substance use + more WC: 2.3k

i highly highly recommend listening to this on repeat, as that’s what i did :,) promise it sets the mood. + heavily dedicated to my literal star @55sturn

The roof of Chris’s trailer creaked as Star stretched out on the patchy blanket, her black hoodie blending into the night sky above. The air was cool, almost cold, but not quite enough to send her shivering. Pine View was never silent, even at night—the hum of cicadas buzzed low in the background, broken occasionally by a bark or the far-off growl of an engine.

Chris sat beside her, leaning back on one elbow, a joint hanging loosely from his fingers. His face was calm, unreadable as always, except for the faint furrow in his brow. Smoke curled lazily in the air between them, dissipating into the starry sky.

“I’m telling you,” Star said, voice animated as her finger traced a constellation, “if aliens exist, there’s no way they’re not watching us right now. We’re like, prime reality TV for them. Chaos, drama, stupidity—it’s got everything.”

Chris exhaled a slow stream of smoke, not bothering to look up. “Pretty sure aliens have better taste than watching us fail at life.” His tone was dry, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but wouldn’t let himself.

Star glanced over at him, her lips twitching into a smirk. “You’re such an optimist, Chris.”

“Realist,” he corrected, passing the joint to her without looking. His eyes were fixed somewhere on the horizon, but she could feel him listening in that quiet way he always did.

She took a drag, coughing slightly before handing it back. “Still. If they’re watching us, I bet they’re rooting for us, y’know? Like… even when life’s a mess, people find these little moments of peace. Kinda like this.”

Chris finally glanced at her, the faintest flicker of something soft in his sharp features. The way her nose crinkled when she tried to suppress her laugh; the way her eyes lit up, reflecting the stars she couldn’t stop rambling about—it was… annoying, maybe, how effortlessly she made the night feel less heavy. But not in a bad way.

“Maybe,” he muttered, almost to himself, before looking away again.

They lapsed into silence for a while, the kind that felt comfortable after months of stolen nights like this. Star broke it first, as she always did.

“You’re extra quiet tonight,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “What’s on your mind? Or are you just too high to function?”

Chris rolled his eyes, taking another drag. “Maybe I like the quiet, Kid. You ever think about that?”

“Nope,” she replied easily, grinning. “You’d be miserable without me, admit it.”

“Sure,” he said, deadpan, though the corners of his mouth twitched again.

Eventually, Star sat up, wobbling slightly as she eyed the trellis below. “Alright, we should head down before I fall asleep up here. You’re terrible at carrying people, and I refuse to be a headline in the Pine View Gazette: Local Emo Girl Plummets to Death Off Trailer Roof.”

Chris snorted. “They’d probably get your name wrong, too.”

Star nudged him with her elbow. “Go first. You’re the guy. Don’t guys like… live for this macho stuff? Protecting damsels in distress n’all that?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “You’re about as distressed as a cat on catnip.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the roof, gripping the trellis. It creaked under his weight, but he made it down smoothly, dusting his hands on his jeans when he reached the ground.

“See?” he called up. “s’fine. Just don’t be an idiot about it.”

Star pulled a face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain Supportive.”

As she carefully climbed down, the trellis groaned ominously. Her foot slipped on a loose slat, and the sound of wood snapping was followed by a startled yelp.

“Chris!”

She fell backward, and he scrambled to catch her. The impact sent them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Star landed on top of him, groaning as she tried to sit up. “Oh my god, I told you this thing was a death trap! Are you okay? Did I—”

“Shut up,” Chris said, breathless, but there was no heat in his words.

He stared up at her, his eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. The joint haze lingered in the air, making every detail sharper—the warmth of her body against his, the way her breath hitched slightly, the glint of stars in her wide eyes.

Her voice softened. “Chris…”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, his gaze flicking briefly to her lips. It was as if gravity itself was pulling them closer, and she swayed slightly, her hands braced against his chest.

And then—

“Chris?”

Lila’s small, groggy voice shattered the moment. They froze, heads snapping toward the trailer’s back door, where Lila stood in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

Star scrambled to her feet, her cheeks burning. Chris sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair as he muttered, “What are you doing up, Lila?”

“I had a bad dream,” she mumbled, sniffling.

Chris sighed, climbing to his feet and brushing off the dirt. “Alright, c’mon,” he said, jerking his head toward the trailer. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Star stood awkwardly to the side, still flustered, as Chris led Lila inside. When he came back out a few minutes later, his face was unreadable again, the moment between them seemingly forgotten.

“You coming?” he asked, nodding toward the trailer.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, following him in.

They collapsed onto the couch with a spread of leftover snacks, bingeing Rick and Morty in comfortable silence. But every so often, Star caught Chris sneaking glances at her, his expression softening just slightly before he turned back to the screen.

Star popped a fry into her mouth, her legs curled beneath her on the couch. The glow from the TV flickered across her face as the absurd antics of Rick and Morty filled the small living room. She stole a glance at Chris, who sat slouched next to her, picking at the crust of a slice of leftover pizza.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the moment on the ground—the way his eyes had locked with hers, the way her heart had flipped in her chest. It was ridiculous, really. Chris was… Chris. Gruff, blunt, emotionally unavailable Chris. And yet, her cheeks still felt warm when she thought about how close they’d been.

“You’re staring,” Chris said without looking up. His tone was as dry as ever, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Star jerked her gaze back to the TV, stuffing another fry into her mouth. “I’m not staring. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Right,” he drawled, finally glancing over at her. “Because you’re the picture of subtlety.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” she shot back, turning to face him fully now. “You’ve been sneaking looks at me all night. What, do I have something on my face?”

Chris raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as he leaned back against the couch. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just paranoid.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge if he was messing with her. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” he replied smoothly, grabbing the remote and flipping to the next episode.

Star crossed her arms, leaning back with a huff. “I could’ve stayed home.”

Chris turned to her, the ghost of a smirk still lingering. “You wouldn’t have. You like it here too much.”

Her mouth opened to argue, but no words came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. For all his snark and the peeling wallpaper of his trailer, Chris’s place felt… safe.

“Whatever,” she muttered, grabbing a handful of fries.

They watched the episode in silence for a while, the tension between them softening into something almost comfortable again. But as the credits rolled, Chris spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“What…what was that earlier,” he said, not looking at her.

Star stiffened, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “What was what earlier?”

His jaw shifted, like he was debating whether to say it. Finally, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his expression unreadable. “You almost kissed me.”

Her face burned. “I—what? No, I didn’t!”

Chris arched an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “You sure about that?”

The air between them grew heavier, the space on the couch suddenly feeling much too small. Star swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as she held his gaze.

“Well, if I did,” she said, trying to sound casual, “you almost…did it back.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his eyes flicked down to her lips, just for a second, before meeting hers again.

For a moment, it felt like they were back on the ground outside, the rest of the world fading away as gravity pulled them closer.

But then, from the hallway, Lila’s small voice rang out again.

“Chris? Can I have water?”

Chris sighed, breaking eye contact as he stood up. “Yeah, I got it,” he called, his tone softer than usual.

Star exhaled, her shoulders slumping as the tension dissolved into the air. She stared at the TV, her fries forgotten, as Chris disappeared into the kitchen to help his sister.

When he came back, he sat down beside her without a word, grabbing another slice of pizza.

“Chris,” she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now.

He glanced at her, chewing lazily. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, her fingers twisting in the hem of her hoodie. “Never mind.”

Chris studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, grabbing the remote again. “You’re weird,” he muttered, though there was no edge to his voice.

Star rolled her eyes, pulling her knees to her chest as the next episode started. But despite the casual banter, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something between them had shifted.

Neither of them said anything more about it, but as the night stretched on, Chris stayed just a little closer to her on the couch, his shoulder brushing hers every now and then.

The glow of the TV flickered softly across the living room, the chaos of Rick and Morty still playing, though Star hadn’t laughed in a while. Chris glanced over, noticing her head drooping slightly, her knees pulled to her chest. Her eyelids fluttered shut, the stubbornness that usually lit up her expression now replaced by something softer, more unguarded.

“Star,” Chris muttered, nudging her leg with his foot.

She mumbled something incoherent, barely stirring.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. The night had already been a whirlwind—her almost falling off the roof, the tension of their moment on the ground, and now this. Yet here she was, passed out on his couch like it was her own home.

Chris stood, stretching before leaning down to scoop up the half-empty plate of fries on her lap. He set it on the coffee table, shaking his head. “You really can’t hang, can you?” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked any real bite.

Star whimpered lightly but didn’t wake. Chris hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides as he debated whether to just leave her there. But something about the thought of her waking up in an uncomfortable position, complaining about her back for the next week, pushed him to act.

He bent down, sliding an arm under her legs and another behind her back. She stirred slightly as he lifted her, her body instinctively curling into his chest. Her head lolled against him, nestling into the crook of his shoulder, and Chris froze mid-step.

Her soft breath tickled his neck as she adjusted again, snuggling closer, completely unaware of what she was doing. His heart stuttered in a way he wasn’t used to, an unfamiliar warmth blooming low in his stomach.

“Damn it, Kid,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no malice in his tone.

She mumbled something incoherent again, her arm curling loosely against his chest like she belonged there. It was so unlike her usual sharp edges, her endless teasing and snarky comments. Like this, she was… soft. Vulnerable. The part of her she didn’t let the world see.

Chris carried her down the narrow hallway to his room, his movements careful and deliberate, as if afraid to wake her. The soft creak of his bedroom door greeted him as he nudged it open with his foot. Moonlight spilled in through the window, casting a faint glow over the small, familiar space.

As he lowered her onto the bed, she stirred, her head shifting slightly. For a brief moment, he thought she’d wake, but she just sighed, curling into herself instinctively.

Chris lingered, crouched beside the bed, watching the way her face relaxed, her lips slightly parted as she fell deeper into sleep. The faintest furrow creased his brow as he studied her, caught between the familiarity of her presence and the strange, twisting feelings in his chest.

She shifted again, burrowing deeper into the blankets as her arm stretched out toward the space where he usually slept. He swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the pillow he always placed between them. The unspoken rule—his own attempt to avoid another awkward morning of waking up to find her tangled around him.

But now, as he watched her, those feelings from earlier returned—the strange pull, the warmth that made him feel more unsettled than he wanted to admit.

Chris dropped the pillow.

He stood there for another moment, his gaze lingering on her soft features before he climbed into the bed beside her. He stayed on his side at first, stiff and unsure, leaning back against the headboard.

But when her arm instinctively draped across his stomach and her head found his shoulder again, he didn’t pull away.

For a while, he just lays there, staring up at the ceiling, her even breaths filling the quiet space around them. The barrier was gone, and something in him—something unspoken—decided it didn’t need to come back.

AUTHORS NOTE: i love him. i literally LOVE him. my sweet angel boy. that’s all.

TAG LIST: @jetaimevous @sturnsblunt @riasturns @ifwdominicfike @chrissturns-wife @mattsmunch @pip4444chris @ribread03 @ariestrxsh @angelic-sturniolos111 @pvssychicken @mattslolita @stvrnzcherries @dottieboo @lovergirl4gracieabrams @bluestriips

[the-froschamethyst4]

How To Stop an Argument 101

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Husband! Barrage Headcannon

SFW & NSFW

Quick AN: I would like to say in my first Barrage fic I placed the name Cal/Calvin in it because that is what I’ll be calling Barrage as his first name, there isn’t much info on him so I decided that his name will be Calvin or Cal for short

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————

SFW

He knows exactly what he is doing when it comes to “distracting” from the issue at hand

Recently you were under a lot of stress with work and the holidays coming up so quickly that you just needed some help from Barrage but he wasn’t pulling his end of the deal and making some things worse

You were in front of the tree trying to wrap presents for him and some family members that were coming over for the holidays but he was being no help

Watching the game on TV, being loud, and drinking beer while you wanted to watch a Christmas movie to be in the mood

“Cal, please turn it down.”

“Hon, I can’t hear what they are saying though.”

“We have a basement you can turn the TV up as loud as you want down there, I’m too overstimulated.” You say while trying to not pull your hair out.

“There’s only a few minutes of the game then I’ll go downstairs.”

“No, Cal…please do it now, I can’t think.” You say putting your hands on the side of your head.

Barrage sees that and turns the TV off and with no other word goes downstairs. He doesn’t want you to burst and there because more then just a simple discussion

You thank him but he just hums a response back to you.

That was just one out of many possible arguments that could have happen.

There’s been many days where Barrage just doesn’t take it seriously and starts pushing buttons

“Cal! Have you seen my necklace? I’ve been looking for hours now!” You call from upstairs.

The necklace was special, it was real pearls and real gold, your grandmother gave to you before she passed and you loved that necklace wore it any chance you got and tonight was a holiday party at your work but you couldn’t find the damn thing anywhere

“No!” He calls from downstairs. The overwhelming sensation of you possibly have finally lost it hit you and now you’re starting to get a little pissed off now, because you always say it in the same spot.

In your jewelry box on a small hook that only it sat on, no other necklace

You even went and checked the bathroom drawers just in case but nothing

“CAL! PLEASE COME HELP ME FIND IT!!” You yelled getting frustrated

“Hon, it’s just a necklace.” He says coming into the bedroom.

“It is not just a necklace it’s my most prized possession, and I know I didn’t just loose it, I place it back in my jewelry box every time I’m done wearing it, so where the fuck is it?!” You start slamming drawers now.

“Well, don’t break everything just to find this damn necklace.”

“Then help me!” You turn, red to the face and eyes looking like you’re about to cry.

“Hon, don’t cry-“

“Don’t tell me not to cry cause I will!”

You fall on the bed head in your hands, Barrage knew where the necklace was. He opens his nightstand drawer and pulled out the necklace.

“Here.”

“You had it!?”

“I got it polished for you. You know how the creases had that black stuff in it?”

“Yeah?”

“I got it polished and I was going to give it to you, later, but now is fine, sorry for hiding it.”

“It’s okay,” the tears stopped and all there was sniffling in the bedroom. “C-Can you put it on me?”

“Sure, hon.”

Arguments happen but the one thing Barrage kind of likes doing when he knows he’s in the wrong is flex, flexing his big muscles he worked hard on

“No, you’re wrong!”

“How am I wrong?”

“You really wanna sit an argue or are you going to shut up and let me talk?”

“Shut up?” Barrage leans back on the couch flexing his arms that were behind his head.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” He smirks

“S-Stop flexing.”

“I’m not flexing. I’m just relaxing.” He says

“…” you couldn’t look away, you love them too, the way he can just pick you up with ease, how when you two have sex you claw at them sometimes breaking skin

“Fuck off,” you say walking away knowing he won that argument but he knows he was wrong

When you start getting a big heated and you start throwing out the bro, dude, bruh words

“Dude I swear to god if you-“

“Did you just ‘dude’ me?” He says

“Yeah and?”

“We have sex…you really wanna be throwing the word dude around?”

NSFW

Having an argument in the middle of sex just turns Barrage on even more.

This man is fucking toxic

He could start an argument over nothing then ask if you’re down for sex afterwards

Honestly thinks it's funny when you rant about your rough and hard day as he goes down on you and you can't think straight because his tongue and mouth feels good on your lower half

When Barrage comes home from work, he'll sometimes be surprised you stayed up to wait for him, only for him to now take his frustrations out on you, while he rants about his day, now

Does he start random arguments? Yes. One day he started one when he came home to no dinner on the table, and express how he would like to have dinner on the table before he comes home, he was smirking the whole time knowing you have the trad wife bullshit

So, he knows what he is doing

"Ex-fucking-cuse me?" You say, hands on your hips, fury burning in your eyes, and knuckles turning white.

"You heard me woman, I want food on this table by the time I get home," he says.

"Fuck you, now! You get to fix your own damn food for now on, I'll be fixing my food while you figure out how the stove works." As you tun your wrist gets grabbed just for you to be bent over the kitchen table, and you feel his hard dick

"I'm only kidding, hon," he teases.

You hate when Barrage leaves his clothes all over the place, but he does it only to get a good view of his wife being bent over

"Calvin, pick up your clothes, how many times am I going to tell you? We don't live in a pigsty."

"How many times are you going to keep picking up my clothes to realize I'm only doing it to get a clear view of your ass?" He says, you stop and drop his clothes. "Hey."

"Pick up your clothes," she says.

Y/n can start arguments as well, if anything, you both are toxic for each other but you both don't care, you both know you complete each other.

Y/n fixed food for Barrage bring it to him in his home office setting it down on a clear spot and gives him a kiss on the cheek, and then one on his temple, then one on his forehead, neck, cheek again, and then lips.

"Hon, what are you doing?"

"Just kissing you," you tell him as your hands start teasing him, messing with his shirt, then to his belt, getting it unbuckled and then moving your hand before walking out.

"Oh damn, I forgot, I have some chores to do around the house," you say, blue balling your husband.

"You fucking, minx," he growls.

You loved teasing him, I mean the bastard does the same shit to you, why not do it back? You're not hurting anything...maybe his pride, but he'll be okay

"Fuck baby." Barrage held your waist, you bend over his desk, the food wasn't even on his mind anymore, it was how good he was going to fuck you, how good he was going to make you feel

"C-Cal, s-slow down-"

"No, you don't get to make demands here, you teased me and now this is what you get," he says.