#Pulled down by the weight of his mistakes

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 2 PART 2

so you slept with him. once. respectfully.

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+. virginity loss. vaginal sex. cunnilingus. handjobs.

a/n: oh dear god.

His mouth finds yours again, deliberate now. Not urgent, not overpowering. Just real. Lips soft but sure, moving with a quiet confidence that makes your stomach twist tight. You’re straddling him, legs spread over his hips, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and there’s no mistaking the heat between you. You can feel him, thick and hard beneath you, even through the barrier of your uniform. But he doesn’t grind up. Doesn’t grab. Just kisses you like he has all night to learn the shape of your mouth.

And maybe he does.

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his uniform, pulling him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. His hands move slowly, one sliding up your side, fingertips skimming the curve of your waist through the thick material, the other resting at the small of your back, just enough pressure to remind you he’s there, that he’s choosing this, choosing you, and not because of some royal obligation or political convenience. This is something else. This is want.

You break the kiss first, gasping, forehead pressed to his, breath mingling. Your body’s trembling, your thighs clenching around him, and you’re painfully aware of just how wet you are. It’s soaked through now, you can feel it, hot and slick against your underwear, your body reacting to the feel of him under you, to his mouth, to his voice, to him.

“I haven’t done this,” you whisper. The confession rips out of you before you can stop it.

His brow furrows, but not in confusion. Just concern. Soft, grounding.

“I mean, just that time. When we were sparring.” Your voice breaks a little. “When I… I was on you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your hip. “I could tell.”

“I didn’t—mean to grind on you like that,” you add quickly, heat flooding your face. “It just—happened. I lost control. I didn’t even realize how close I was until���”

“You came,” he finishes for you. There’s no mockery in it. Just the barest edge of awe. “You came on me.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. You nod.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he says, voice lower now, coarse. “The way you were shaking. The way you looked at me like—like it meant something.”

“It did,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I didn’t know what was happening, but, Gods, I couldn’t stop. You felt so good, Mark.”

His jaw tenses and you feel his grip on your hips tighten slightly. He swallows hard. “You feel good now.”

You tilt your hips, rocking forward just slightly, and his breath punches out of him. You feel every ridge of him pressing up between your legs, and your clit pulses from the contact. Your thighs tighten reflexively.

You do it again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

A low, broken sound escapes his throat. His hands glide under your suit, bare skin now, warm fingers skimming your back like he’s trying to calm himself.

“You don’t have to go any further,” he murmurs into your throat, mouth brushing sensitive skin. “I just want you close.”

You press down harder, moaning softly at the friction. “But I do. I want to.”

Your fingers fumble with his uniform, tugging it up, and he helps you without question, lifting it over his head and tossing it aside. He’s warm under your hands, chest hard with muscle, but his eyes stay locked on yours like you’re the thing he’s trying to memorize, not your body. You touch him, tentative at first, palms against his skin, thumbs brushing across the defined lines of his stomach. He exhales through his nose, eyelids fluttering.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur.

He laughs, breathless. “You’re wearing white and straddling me. I’m trying really hard not to come in my pants.”

You laugh, a choked, breathy thing, and kiss him again. This time it’s messier. Your mouths slide together, tongues tangling, lips parting, and you feel him groan into you as your hips move again, rubbing yourself against him. Slow, wet drags, each one sending a spike of pleasure straight to your core.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers against your lips.

He flips you suddenly, slow but firm, your back hitting the mattress with a soft gasp. He settles between your legs, still clothed, pressing down into you just enough for your bodies to align again. You’re panting. Your thighs fall open for him instinctively, and his hands settle beside your head, holding himself over you like he’s afraid to crush you.

You reach for his hand, guide it down between your bodies, to where you’re aching.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

He does.

His hand doesn’t go where you guided it, not yet. He follows his own path, slow and unhurried, retracing your shape like he’s mapping something sacred. His palm drifts up from your waist to your ribs, each pass grazing skin that feels suddenly electric. He’s so warm. Grounded. Intent. And when his hand finally curves over your breast, you suck in a breath, back arching under the weight of it.

He doesn’t squeeze. Just holds. Fingers splayed, thumb brushing slow circles around your nipple through the fabric, coaxing it into a tight, aching peak. You bite your lip, not sure if the sound you just made was a moan or a whimper. Maybe both.

Mark watches your face like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. You want more.

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “Just—keep going.”

Something in his expression softens. His lips part, but whatever words he had die unspoken. Instead, he shifts down, trailing kisses across your collarbone, then lower, until his mouth is at the edge of your suit’s neckline. His hands tug gently at the fabric, and you lift your arms without thinking, helping him pull it over your head.

The cool air hits your skin and then, him. His breath, his mouth, the warm weight of his gaze drinking in your bare chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly. Not in awe. Not to flatter. Like it’s a simple truth.

Your breath stutters, but then he leans down and kisses you there. Just above your heart. Then lower. A trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of one breast. When his lips finally close around your nipple, your whole body jerks.

“Mark–” It’s a gasp. A plea.

He hums against your skin, the low vibration rippling straight through you. His tongue swirls slowly, deliberately, savoring every reaction. Your fingers sink into his hair, soft and dark and thick, and you hold him there, helpless to stop your hips from shifting under him, chasing that friction, that heat.

His other hand moves to your other breast, thumb flicking gently over the nipple, teasing it to the same sensitivity as the first. Every inch of you feels lit up. You’ve never been touched like this. Never let yourself be. But here, under Mark, it’s not scary. It’s overwhelming, yes, but safe. Grounded.

“Is this okay?” he asks between kisses, his voice jarring.

“Yes,” you pant, nails curling against his scalp. “It’s more than okay.”

He kisses lower. The valley between your breasts. Down your stomach, his lips brushing over the softest part of you. Your body arches, chasing his mouth.

Then lower still.

He pauses at your waistband, the damp, clinging fabric stretched tight over your hips. His breath is hot against your skin, and you feel your thighs quiver.

His hands move down, slow, reverent, and he hooks his thumbs under the band. But he doesn’t pull yet. He looks up at you, his mouth hovering just above your core.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmurs.

“I—yeah,” you whisper. “I can’t help it.”

He leans in, kisses just below your navel. “I like that you’re letting me see this. All of you.”

You nod, barely able to breathe. “I trust you.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. Then finally—finally—he starts to tug the fabric down. Inch by inch. You lift your hips to help him, and your soaked underwear peels away with a wet sound that makes both of you groan.

He pulls it down past your thighs, your knees, tossing it to the floor, and you’re left bare beneath him. Exposed. Aching.

Mark’s eyes drag down the length of your body, slow, intense. When he sees how wet you are, slick and glistening between your thighs, his breath catches audibly.

“God,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Then he moves between your legs, lowering himself with slow purpose, hands spreading your thighs. You feel his breath against your most sensitive skin, and you nearly come apart right there.

And then, his mouth is on you.

His breath ghosts over your slick folds, lips so close you can feel the tremble in them, the restraint. Your thighs twitch, involuntarily parting wider under the pressure of his hands, spreading open like petals drawn to heat. He doesn’t move yet, just watches you, face poised between your legs, eyes locked on your soaked center like it’s something holy.

The air’s thick, heavy with the scent of your arousal, and when he finally leans in and drags his tongue up your slit in one slow, decadent stroke, your entire spine bows off the bed.

“Mark—!”

Your voice is hoarse, high, ruined. His groan is low and raw, the kind that vibrates against your most sensitive flesh. His tongue doesn’t stop, he traces the shape of you, tongue slow and sure, tasting everything, as if the slick between your legs is ambrosia. You’re so wet you can feel the mess coating your inner thighs, and the way he licks into you, thorough, worshipful, only makes it worse.

He kisses your pussy like he kisses your mouth, like he means it. Like he wants it to last.

His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting your hips slightly, tilting you into the steady motion of his mouth. His tongue works slow at first, mapping the heat and curves of you, flicking, pressing, sliding in shallow strokes that make your thighs quake.

He finds your clit and lingers, tongue circling, then flicking with maddening precision. You cry out, the sound thick with shock, hands clawing at the sheets, searching for something to anchor you as your body bucks toward him.

You grab for his hair instead, fingers tangling in dark, sweat-soft strands. You feel the flex of his jaw, the way his lips seal around your clit, the suction as he sucks gently, then harder, and you’re falling apart by degrees. Your hips grind up into his mouth before you can think better of it, and Mark fucking moans, the deep sound thrumming through your cunt like a shockwave.

“Doing so good for me, sweetheart.” he murmurs into you between strokes. 

You whimper. “Again! Please, again!”

He grins against your cunt, you feel it, and then he flattens his tongue and drags it up again, slow and heavy, nose brushing your clit while his lips press into the soaked mess of you.

Your thighs try to close around his head, instinctive and desperate, but he shifts, his hands slide up, arms hooking under your thighs, locking around them, and he pulls. Drags your body down the bed, yanking your hips flush to his face with a groan like he can’t stand being any farther away.

“Oh god,” you choke, thighs trembling in his grip. “Mark—what—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Now you’re half-lifted off the bed, your knees bent over his shoulders, your thighs trapped in the cage of his arms as he pins you open and devours you. His tongue works fast, now relentless, flicking and circling your clit with precision, his face wet with your slick, his jaw working like he’s addicted to the way you taste.

You scream for him. High and sharp and shameless.

“Mark, please—please— I can’t—”

“You can,” he groans, pulling back just long enough to drag his tongue through your folds again, lips slick and red. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”

And you are.

Your whole body is drawn tight, strung up on the edge of something unbearable. Your belly coils, your thighs shake, and he keeps sucking, licking, kissing your clit with filthy reverence, until the tension finally snaps.

You come with a sob, the orgasm tearing through you. Your body convulses, hips jerking, thighs quaking in his hold. He doesn’t stop. He exhales against you, licking you through it, swallowing every twitch and cry like he’s starving for it. Like he wants to own every second of your release.

You’re still gasping when the tremors start to fade, your legs heavy over his shoulders, your chest heaving. He finally lifts his head, lips glistening, hair mussed, eyes wild and warm.

And smiling.

“Fuck,” he cooes, voice breathy, “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your kiss deepens slowly, like wading into something warm and endless. His lips are slick, the taste of your release still lingering on his mouth, and when your tongue brushes his, you hesitate. You weren’t prepared for the flavor of yourself, thick and heady on him. You pause mid-kiss, startled, cheeks burning.

But Mark doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he kisses you deeper.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, fingers spreading over your jaw like he’s holding something precious. The kiss shifts, less hunger, more care. He licks softly into your mouth, slow and coaxing, until you’re kissing him back again, letting yourself taste what he just took from you with his tongue, like it’s meant to be shared. Your moan vibrates into his mouth before you can stop it, and he answers with a sound that comes from deep in his chest.

He stays above you, the broad warmth of his body caging yours without pressing, one knee between your thighs, the other leg braced beside your hip. And beneath it, he’s hard. Painfully hard. You can feel it now, thick and twitching where it rests against your bare thigh, just under the fabric of his underwear.

You hesitate, nervous again.

But your hand moves anyway.

It starts slow, just your fingertips brushing the fabric stretched over his thigh. You trace the edge of each muscle on his soft skint, letting yourself feel him. Mark breathes in deep, doesn’t move. Just watches you, eyes darker, lips slightly parted.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, voice low and serious. “We’re not in a rush. This doesn’t have to be tonight.”

You look up at him. Your hand doesn’t stop moving. “You took care of me.”

“I wanted to take care of you,” he says instantly. “Not because I expected anything back.”

You slide your palm lower, along the edge of the black waistband stretched tight over his hips. The muscle there jumps under your hand, a sharp twitch that makes your stomach flutter. You feel the heat of him beneath the fabric. The hard, heavy length of him, straining against the fabric.

“I want to,” you whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I want to learn.”

His expression breaks open, relief and heat and something almost tender all flickering at once.

“Then I’ll show you,” he says. “As slow as you want.”

You press your hand fully against him now. He’s so hard it makes your throat tighten. Big. Thick. You trace him from base to tip through the fabric, and Mark shudders, jaw clenched. Your thumb grazes the head where it curves up against his waistband, and you feel it, wetness, hot and sticky. He’s leaking for you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, biting down on his bottom lip. “You’re really messing with my head here.”

You stroke him again, slow, through the material. You feel every pulse, every twitch. Your body’s flushed, still sensitive from the orgasm he gave you, but this, this kind of control, feels new and addictive.

“Can I see you?” you ask, voice trembling with nerves you can’t quite shake.

Mark exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. “Yeah. Of course.”

He shifts, lifting his weight off you, his hands moving to the clasp of his cape. You watch him, wide-eyed, as he unhooks it, then peels the waistband of his underwear down. The fabric clings to his hips, then his thighs, and then finally, he’s free.

You suck in a breath before you can stop it.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy, with a soft curve and flushed darker at the tip. The shaft glistens with pre-cum, veins running the length of it, twitching slightly as it springs against his lower stomach. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively.

You stare. Openly.

“Still good?” he asks, voice a little softer now.

You nod. Your fingers wrap around him carefully, trembling just a little. He’s hot, and when you give him a slow, tentative stroke, he groans, his hips jerking forward slightly, his hands curling into the sheets beside you.

“That’s good, baby, keep doing that.” he whispers. 

You stroke again, firmer this time, from base to tip, watching the way his brows furrow, how his mouth parts with every movement of your hand. You can feel the slick at his tip, and your thumb circles over it gently. His reaction is immediate, a deep groan, hips lifting just slightly into your 

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes, and each one draws another sound from him, tight and breathy. His cock pulses in your grip, hot and hard and heavy, and the way he responds, hips twitching, jaw flexing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, shaking breaths, makes you feel powerful in a way you’ve never felt before.

He’s completely focused on you. Every groan, every strained exhale, every time he closes his eyes like he’s trying to hold himself together, that’s because of you. Because of your touch. Your kiss. The way you’re still looking up at him, wide-eyed and flushed, working his length with growing confidence.

Your fingers glide up the thick shaft, pausing at the tip to smear the bead of precum leaking there. It's slick and hot, and he moans into your mouth when you swirl your thumb around it, hips rolling forward into your palm before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” His voice is hoarse now, buried somewhere between restraint and surrender. “You’re killing me here.”

You don’t stop. You can’t. His reaction is addictive, how his whole body stiffens, pressed to you, how his thighs flex, the way his brows knit tight every time you stroke down to the base and back up again. He’s breathing faster now, the tension winding tighter and tighter beneath his skin.

Then you kiss him again.

You can’t help yourself, he’s so beautiful like this, all raw edges and control slipping, his face flushed and damp, hair mussed, lips parted. You lean up, catching his mouth with yours, and he melts into it. His lips crush yours with heat and hunger, his hand cupping the back of your head as he deepens the kiss. It’s needy, breathless, your mouths sliding together, teeth knocking, tongues tangling as he moans straight into you.

And still, you keep stroking him.

Your hand works him with slow, smooth movements, the pad of your thumb teasing the sensitive underside of his head. You squeeze a little, testing, and he gasps, the sound guttural and low, breaking apart inside the kiss. His hips jerk again, grinding into your hand, and his voice goes ragged.

“Shit—” he mutters, breaking the kiss, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder. “Baby, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna come all over your hand.”

The word baby hits something deep in your chest, something warm and sharp that steals your breath. You’ve never heard anyone say it to you like that before like it’s tender, not teasing.

“I don’t mind,” you whisper, lips grazing his ear. “I want to see you come.”

He lets out a broken laugh, but it’s desperate, strained. “God, don’t say that.”

You stroke him again, firm, wet, sure, and his body shudders. He’s so close. You can feel it in the way he tenses, the way his cock jerks in your palm, the way he grips the sheets like he needs something to hold onto.

And then, suddenly, he reaches down and wraps his hand around yours, stopping the motion with a tight, shuddering breath.

You freeze, eyes darting to his. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” He shakes his head, cupping your face with his other hand, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “God, no. You’re perfect. That was—” He groans, breath catching, like the words can’t form. “I just don’t want it to end like that.”

You blink, confused. “You don’t want to…?”

“I do,” he says, kissing you softly, lips lingering. “I want to come with you wrapped around me. I want to feel you.”

His words sink into your chest, heavy and hot. Your thighs clench, your breath goes shallow. You’re still aching from before, still open, still wet. You never stopped wanting him. Not for a second.

“You want to be inside me?” you ask, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

Mark meets your gaze. His voice is low, sincere. “Only if you want it. I meant it when I said we’re not rushing this.”

You nod slowly, heart pounding. “I want it. I just… I’ve never done this before. Not like this.”

His forehead presses to yours. “I know. And I’ve got you. I’ll go slow. I’ll stop the second you want me to. But if you want to feel it…”

You swallow hard. “I do.”

He kisses you again, long, deep, sweet, and when he pulls back, his hand is already moving, trailing down your stomach with infinite care. You part your thighs for him, trembling with nerves and need, your whole body open under his.

And when his fingers find you again, wet and ready, he groans like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

His kisses trail down your neck as if he’s resisting the urge to do more all at once, lips brushing your pulse, tongue flicking gently at the sweat-slick hollow of your throat. His hand stays poised between your thighs, fingers spread, warm and steady over your mound. You’re already gasping, your hips twitching up into the weight of his palm.

“You’re so soft here,” he murmurs into your skin. “So fucking warm.”

Then he moves. His middle finger slides lower, dragging through your soaked folds, gliding with effortless ease. The slickness between your legs coats his skin, and he exhales a deep, shaky breath that ghosts over your collarbone.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re still dripping for me.”

Your thighs quiver around his hand, every muscle drawn tight with anticipation. His finger brushes your entrance and lingers, just enough pressure to make you ache, but he doesn’t push in yet. He circles slowly, teasing your hole, letting your body want it before he gives you anything.

You whimper, hips rocking into his touch. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He presses in with a slow, steady push, his thick finger stretching your tight walls with careful precision. Your breath stutters, your body clenching hard around him, and he stills halfway in, waiting, watching your face.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and gentle, despite the strain in it.

You nod, barely able to speak. “It’s… big.”

“I know, baby. Just breathe. Let me in.”

He kisses you again, soft, grounding, and his finger eases in the rest of the way. The stretch burns, but only for a moment, dulled by the slick between your thighs and the way he’s murmuring to you, coaxing, soothing.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “You’re taking me so well. Fuck.”

Your pussy clenches around him, the sensation deep and electric. When he starts to move, slowly pulling out, then pressing back in, it’s like the world narrows to just the steady glide of his finger and the heat curling low in your belly.

Then he adds another.

You gasp as his ring finger joins the first, the stretch sharper now, more insistent. He goes slower this time, working you open gradually, thumb brushing your clit with featherlight touches in between each thrust. The dual sensation makes you squirm, torn between the fullness and the teasing pressure against that aching little bud.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmurs, his voice husky now.

“I—I don’t,” you stammer, cheeks flushed, thighs trembling. “Mark—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves to your breast, kissing along the curve, licking the skin before taking your nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, then harder, and your hips jerk up into his hand, your cunt squeezing down on his fingers.

“Shit,” he breathes, pulling off with a pop. “You’re close already, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath coming in sharp bursts. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t.”

His fingers speed up, thrusting deeper now, each curl of them hitting something inside you that makes your whole body twitch. His thumb presses more firmly to your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that sync perfectly with the thrust of his hand.

Your head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as your legs spread wider, desperate for more friction. The sound of it is filthy, wet and obscene, each thrust of his fingers into your soaked cunt making you hear how broken you already are for him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You hear that, baby? That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re this fucking desperate.”

His lips are back on your throat now, sucking bruises into the sensitive skin just under your jaw, marking you with each deep stroke of his fingers. He’s no longer gentle, he’s fucking you with his hand now, hard and fast, two fingers stretching your slick hole while his thumb crushes against your clit.

Your thighs clamp around his wrist, your hands clawing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the pressure builds and builds.

You’re panting now, close to sobbing. “I—I can’t—Mark, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps. “Let go. Come for me. Come all over my fucking hand.”

And then he hooks his fingers, curling them deep and dragging against that soft, spongy spot inside you.

Your orgasm hits, sudden and violent and impossible to contain. Your whole body locks, every muscle tightening, your cry shattering the silence as you come, your cunt spasming hard around his fingers. The pressure breaks and releases, a blinding burst of pleasure that leaves you shaking beneath him, legs trembling, mouth slack.

Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, slower now, his voice soothing as your body pulses around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, kissing your forehead. “You did so good. Just let it happen. Let me feel you come.”

You’re barely able to breathe, your chest rising and falling fast as aftershocks ripple through your cunt.

He finally eases his fingers out, soaked and glistening, and brings them to his lips. Licks them clean. And then he looks down at you, blushed, trembling, utterly wrecked.

“You still with me?” he asks, brushing hair from your face.

You nod slowly, eyes dazed. “That was… Gods, Mark…”

He leans in, kisses you again, slow and deep. “Shh, just look at me, baby.”

His cock is still hard, hot against your thigh. And you know what’s coming next.

Mark doesn’t rush.

He watches you breathe, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pulls, then leans down, placing a warm kiss on the inside of your thigh. His lips linger there for a moment, and you feel the softness of his breath, the warmth of his skin. His fingers stroke slowly along your hip, not demanding, just holding.

“Still good?” he murmurs, voice deeper than before, like it’s weighed down with all the restraint he’s clinging to.

You nod. Your body aches in the best way, flushed and open, pulsing from the orgasm he pulled from you with nothing but his hand. But under the tremble of your thighs, there’s something else now. Nervousness. Wonder. Anticipation so sharp it almost hurts.

“I want to,” you whisper, voice small. “I want it to be you.”

His hand cups your cheek, tilting your face up so your eyes meet. There’s nothing playful in his expression now, no smirk, no teasing. Just intensity. Just care.

“It’s only ever going to be me,” he says, and the way he says it, quiet, grounded, true, makes your heart clench.

He kisses you again, slow and deep, while one hand guides his cock down between your thighs. You feel the hot, thick weight of him brushing against your folds, sliding through the slick mess he made of you. Your hips twitch, breath catching, thighs parting wider.

Then he shifts.

He takes your right leg gently and lifts it over his shoulder, his hands smoothing up the back of your thigh as he adjusts you beneath him. The new angle opens you further, exposes your soaked pussy completely to him. He leans over you, chest against yours, his cock resting just at your entrance now, throbbing, impossibly hard, slick with your wetness and his own need.

Mark’s weight is warm and steady over you, his skin slick with heat, arms braced to either side of your shoulders as he holds himself above you, not pressing, not rushing, just there, with that soft look in his eyes like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters right now.

Your right leg is still hooked over his shoulder, and he’s kissing the inside of your knee, his lips slow and reverent, like he knows exactly what this moment means. You’re bare beneath him, open, trembling, and he’s not teasing anymore; every movement, every breath, is full of quiet intention.

The thick head of his cock nudges your entrance again, and this time, there’s no space between you. You’re wet enough to make it easy, but tight enough to feel everything. He’s so much larger than anything you’ve ever felt before, and when he presses forward, slow, patient, not even halfway in, you feel it all at once. The stretch, the fullness, the way your body tenses without meaning to.

You gasp, your hips shifting. Not to pull away. To adjust. To open.

Mark groans low in his throat, hips pausing, his breath stuttering against your collarbone. “You okay?”

You nod, forehead pressing against his, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like they’re lifelines. “I’m okay. Just—slow.”

He kisses your temple. “Always.”

Then he moves again.

The head of his cock slips in deeper, and you feel every ridge, every inch spreading you wider than you’ve ever been stretched. The slow press of it pushes into something deep inside you, and your body clenches reflexively, trembling under the new sensation. It’s more than fullness. It’s being taken, inch by inch, until your walls are pulsing tight around him.

Mark lets out a hiss through clenched teeth. “Fuck, you feel good,” he groans. “God, you feel so good around me.”

You feel the way he holds back, his hips barely rocking, every movement shallow, careful, like he’s waiting for your body to catch up to your need. He kisses you again, lips soft against your mouth, swallowing the whimpers and gasps that spill out as your body adjusts.

“Just breathe,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re doing so fucking good. I’ve got you.”

You do. You breathe. And after a moment, the sharp edge of the stretch begins to soften, fading into something deep and wanting. Your thighs fall further apart. Your pussy pulses around him, wet and throbbing, sucking him in bit by bit.

You whisper, “More.”

Mark grits his teeth. “Fuck. You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan. “I want you all the way. Please, Mark—”

He doesn’t make you ask twice. With another slow, grinding push of his hips, he slides deeper into your cunt, stretching, filling, claiming space inside you no one’s ever touched before. You can feel him pulse, feel the tension in every part of him as he sinks in to the hilt. His pelvis presses flush to your thighs, your clit grinding just barely against the base of him.

Your mouth falls open.

He’s deep. Deep in a way that makes your breath falter, your fingers dig into his back. The thickness of him inside you has your walls fluttering around him in helpless waves, trying to adjust, to hold him. He stays still, breathing heavily into your neck, murmuring soft words that ground you.

“You’re doing perfect,” he whispers. “You’re taking me so well, fuck—so well.”

You feel stretched open, raw and full in the best way, your nerves lit up from the inside. His cock twitches deep inside you, and you moan, your hips rolling slightly in response.

That’s all he needs.

Mark pulls out just an inch, then presses back in, slow, controlled, the motion dragging every inch of his cock along your walls. You both gasp, him at the feel of your wet, tight heat gripping him; you at the way the movement sends shockwaves through your entire body.

He does it again. And again. Each thrust a little deeper, a little more confident.

You cling to him, panting, your leg hooked over his shoulder giving him a better angle to reach deeper with each press of his hips. His pace is still careful, but it’s growing, more rhythm now, more friction. You can feel the way your walls begin to adjust, fluttering less in resistance, more in rhythm with his strokes.

Your clit brushes the base of him with every thrust, and your moans get louder.

“Mark—oh my god—” you cry out, your voice broken, high. “I didn’t know it would feel like this—I can’t— please— I can’t—”

His voice is ragged now, teeth gritted. “This is how it should feel,” he pants into your neck. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doing so well for me.”

You’re overwhelmed, your body writhing under his, flushed and pulsing, every thrust stretching you to the brink. But it’s not pain anymore. It’s pressure. Need. That low, spiraling pleasure starting to rebuild between your legs, deeper than before.

He doesn’t let go of your hand. One of his fingers stays curled with yours beside your head, even as his other hand wraps beneath your thigh, holding your leg high on his shoulder, giving him room to sink deeper into your dripping heat.

Your walls flutter again, your core clenching as he rocks into you.

He feels it.

“Not yet,” he grits out, slowing just slightly, sweat dripping down his temples. “Don’t come yet. I said wait.”

And you nod, moaning into his mouth as he kisses you again, harder now, your bodies locked together, grinding slow and deep, just on the edge of too much.

Your hands slide up his back, fingertips slipping across sweat-slick skin, nails catching lightly over every tense ridge of muscle. You can feel his heart hammering through his chest, feel it inside you too, echoing in the thick, steady drag of his cock plunging deep again and again, carving space within you that hadn’t existed until him. You’re barely holding on, your entire body wound tight like a bowstring, but the moment your fingers fist in his hair and pull, everything changes.

Mark growls. The sound isn’t human. It rumbles out of his chest and vibrates against your neck, where his mouth moves with more hunger now, no longer soft and reverent. His teeth graze your throat, then bite down, just enough to sting, enough to make you cry out and arch up into him.

“You like that,” he grits, voice cracking as his hips slam forward.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Do it again.”

And he does.

He bites down harder, just above your collarbone, as his hips start to move faster, his cock driving into you in thick, full strokes that make the mattress rock beneath you. You’re so wet, so wrecked, the filthy slap of skin-on-skin is loud now, shameless, matched only by the rhythmic bang of the headboard slamming into the wall behind your head. Each thrust rocks your body upward, your leg still hooked over his shoulder, giving him a perfect angle to bottom out with every grind of his hips.

His cock hits that deep, perfect spot again and again and again, and the way he moans your name, raw and breaking, makes your pussy clamp down, slick and fluttering, your body reacting to every thrust like it’s not yours anymore.

“Mark—” you gasp. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it—”

“Yes, you can,” he pants, licking up your throat, his hand moving from your hip to the back of your thigh, holding you open for him, taking you. “You are. Taking all of me—look at you, baby. Fucking beautiful.”

He’s sweating above you, his muscles flexing with each brutal thrust, his jaw clenched tight, eyes dark and focused, like he’s watching every flicker of pleasure on your face, like each moan you make is his reward. You feel his body tightening above you, every inch of him flushed and flushed and thrumming with barely leashed tension.

And your body—Gods, your body’s spiraling.

Your clit grinds against the base of him with every thrust, slippery and swollen, and the friction there, combined with the deep stretch of his cock hitting you in just the right way, is sending sparks up your spine, your thighs trembling, your hands scrabbling for anywhere to hold.

You tangle both hands in his hair and pull again, harder this time.

Then his mouth is on you, biting your neck, your shoulder, licking over the marks he leaves like he’s claiming you, branding you as his.

“You’re close,” he groans into your throat. “I can feel it. I know it’s deep, baby. I can feel you shaking.”

You are. You can feel it too, your pussy tightening down hard, your stomach clenching, that overwhelming fullness turning into unbearable heat. Your voice is gone, your gasps ragged and broken as your hips rock up, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that edge like you’re about to fall off a cliff.

Then he shifts, just barely, hips angling down, perfectly, and when the thick head of his cock drags hard against that sweet, swollen spot inside you, it breaks you.

You scream.

Not words. Not coherent. Just sound, helpless and raw as your orgasm rips through you again. Your pussy spasms violently around him, wet heat flooding your core as you clench and throb and shake. The walls around you lock tight, milking him, desperate and pulsing, your vision blurring with tears as you convulse beneath him.

And Mark snaps.

“Fuck—fuck—baby—” he groans, voice cracking open as his thrusts falter, cock slamming deep one last time as he comes. He buries himself to the hilt, hips grinding hard as he spills inside you, his whole body trembling with it. You feel the first hot spurt of his cum hit deep, thick and endless, flooding your pussy as your walls pulse around him, milking every drop.

His mouth is at your throat, his voice a ruined whisper. “Oh my god—you feel so good—so good—”

You’re still spasming around him, every nerve still lit, your body gone limp beneath the overwhelming wave of it all. The smell of sex is thick in the air, sweet and musky. The room is filled with nothing but your panting breaths, the fading tremble of skin on skin.

Mark collapses onto you gently, still inside, still hard. He shifts your leg from his shoulder and kisses the side of your knee before resting his forehead against your collarbone, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close, careful not to crush you under his weight.

You’re shaking. You don’t even realize it until he rubs slow circles into your hip, his voice low and rough and impossibly soft.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

You feel his cum leaking out of you already, warm and sticky between your thighs, the stretch of him still deep, comforting, your bodies still locked together. He hasn’t moved. He doesn’t want to move. You feel the way his hands tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go.

Your voice is hoarse. “Mark…”

He lifts his head, brushes your hair from your forehead, kisses you, slow, deep, tender.

“You were perfect,” he says. “You’re mine.”

You’re still flushed, your breath ragged, body slick with sweat and smeared with the mess the two of you made. Your thighs are trembling, cunt leaking, clenching down on nothing as you lie there under him, your leg unhooked from his shoulder, your chest rising and falling in soft, gasping waves. But the heat hasn't left you. If anything, it’s burning deeper now.

You squirm beneath him, sensitive, overstimulated, but also aching. That feeling hasn’t gone away. That low, throbbing pressure is still sitting heavy in your gut, coiled between your legs. You rub your thighs together, unconsciously seeking friction. His cock slips free from you as he shifts, and even that soft, wet drag of him exiting your soaked cunt makes your body jolt.

Mark immediately notices.

He lifts his head from where he’s pressed against your neck, his voice soft but low. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no. Not that. I just…”

You hesitate, embarrassed. You’re not even sure why. You know what you’re feeling, what you still want. It’s just new. Your body feels strange and flushed and restless, and the words feel awkward in your mouth, like they don’t belong to you.

Mark sees the hesitation in your eyes. He cups your cheek gently, brushing your hair back.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “You can say anything to me.”

“I think I’m still…” You trail off, fidgeting slightly on the sheets. “Still, um… I still feel kind of…”

He waits, patient.

“Aroused,” you finally admit in a rush, cheeks burning. “I still feel aroused.”

Mark huffs a soft laugh, not mocking. Just warm. Reassuring.

“Good,” he says, fingers brushing your jaw. “That’s not a dirty word, you know. You don’t have to whisper it like it’s a secret. It’s okay to want more. It’s natural to feel that after your first time.”

You exhale shakily, your eyes flicking away from his, but he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I want you to tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “If you’re still horny, baby, I’ll give you what you need.”

Your breath hitches.

“I want to try being on top,” you say. 

His pupils darken instantly, his hands tightening slightly on your waist.

“Yeah?” he breathes, voice deepening with desire. “You want to ride me?”

“I want to feel you like that,” you murmur. “I want to see you. I want to move. I want to… do it.”

Mark kisses you again, harder this time, tongue sliding over yours, groaning into your mouth. Then he shifts, pulling you gently with him as he rolls onto his back, his arms still wrapped around you, not letting you go for a second.

You straddle his waist, your thighs bracketing his hips, your body still buzzing. His cock is soft between you now, but only for a moment. You press your soaked, swollen cunt against him, grinding down with a slow, instinctive roll of your hips, and feel him begin to thicken again beneath you, your slick smearing across his shaft.

His hands find your hips, guiding your motion, eyes locked on your face as you move over him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

You look down and see it, your arousal and his cum glistening between your thighs, coating his cock, your folds glossy and flushed, twitching against him. It’s shameless. Filthy. And it only makes you needier.

“Do you want to ride me, or do you want me to help you?” he asks, voice gentle but breathless.

“I want to try,” you whisper. “But… stay close.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He watches as you reach down, fingers trembling slightly, wrapping around the base of his cock. It’s thick and heavy in your hand, slick with your fluids, already beginning to swell back to full hardness. You stroke him once, twice—slow and deliberate—and he groans, hips twitching under you.

“Line me up,” he says, voice strained. “Go slow. I want you to feel everything.”

You nod, guiding him to your entrance. Your cunt clenches instinctively, still sore, still aching but ready. You lower yourself slowly, gasping as the head pushes in, stretching you again, that same burn and fullness hitting you like a fresh shock.

Mark groans beneath you, head tipping back, muscles tightening.

“Oh fuck, that’s it. Look at you. Taking me again already. God, that’s it, baby.”

You sink down inch by inch, legs trembling as your walls stretch around him. It’s different like this. Deeper. More exposed. You feel every inch of his cock as it fills you again, thick and hot and throbbing, dragging along your walls as your cunt clenches tight to accommodate him.

You whimper, bracing your hands on his chest, your head hanging as your hips settle flush against his.

You’re full again. So full.

He strokes your thighs, breathless, reverent. “You’re doing so good. Look at you. My perfect girl. Fuck.”

You begin to move. Slowly, tentatively. Lifting your hips just a little, then sinking back down, gasping as you feel the drag, the pressure, the heat. Mark groans, his hands guiding your pace but not controlling, just supporting, letting you take your time, letting you ride him the way you need.

Every movement lights you up again, your nerves raw and awake, every brush of his cock inside you sending new sparks down your spine. You start to ride him in earnest, hips rolling, thighs burning, your cunt soaked and clenching, the sound of slick friction building between you again.

Mark’s hands slide up to your breasts, cupping them, thumbing your nipples as he thrusts up into you in time with your rhythm. His mouth is open, his eyes locked on your body as you bounce on his cock, your voice breaking into moans, gasps, and breathless cries.

You're in control, and he’s giving you everything.

And neither of you is anywhere near finished.

You move slowly at first, body trembling with sensitivity, your thighs aching from what came before, but the heat hasn’t faded. It’s only sharpened. You grind your hips forward, slowly rolling them down his cock, feeling every ridge, every inch stretch your cunt again as you begin to take him at your pace.

Mark’s hands never leave your skin. One stays low on your hip, fingers splayed across the curve of your ass, grounding you, guiding without forcing. The other slides up your spine, curling between your shoulder blades to pull you down into him as you ride.

Your chests press flush, skin to skin, sweat-slick and hot. His chest is broad and firm beneath yours, his heartbeat a steady thunder against your breasts, which now rub against his with every movement of your body. Your nipples drag over the plane of his chest, already sensitive and tight, and the friction makes you moan into his mouth as you kiss him.

It starts soft, lips parting slowly, breath catching. His tongue brushes yours gently, savoring you. But as your hips begin to roll faster, your body building that rhythm again, the kiss deepens, shifts, his mouth hungry, hot, claiming. You whimper into it as your thighs spread wider, sinking deeper onto him.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, clutching tight, holding onto the tension anchoring you both together. He groans into your mouth as you rise and fall on his cock, your soaked pussy gripping him so tightly with every thrust that you feel him throb inside you.

“God,” he rasps against your lips, his hands gripping tighter now, not holding you down, but feeling every inch of your movement. “That’s good, baby, keep doing that.”

You can’t answer, you’re too focused on the pressure building between your legs again. Your hips roll, grind, the movement slower than before but deeper, dragging his cock along that swollen, sensitive spot inside you with each thrust. You tilt your hips just so, and when the thick head of him drags hard against that sweet, aching spot, your whole body shudders.

Your lips break from his in a gasp, head tipping back, and he immediately leans up, mouth open, tongue sliding along the column of your throat. He kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach as you ride him in steady, rolling waves.

Every time you drop down onto him, the thick stretch of his cock fills you completely, rubbing deep inside your cunt, pushing slick sounds into the space around you, the slap of your hips meeting his building louder with each thrust. The room smells like sex, wet heat, sweat, and him. Your thighs are shaking, your body quivering, but you don’t stop.

He’s holding you so close now, his arms locked around you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re riding me so fucking good,” he whispers, his voice raw. “So tight around me. Fucking yourself on my cock like a good little thing.”

You nod, gasping, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down, your clit brushing his pelvis, dragging along him with every roll of your hips. You whimper into his neck, and he holds you tighter.

“I can feel you,” you whisper, breathless. “Feels so good… you feel so good inside me…”

He groans, deep and guttural, his cock twitching inside your walls, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your knees.

“You’re gonna drive me fucking insane,” he growls, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last long, baby, not if you keep fucking riding me like that.”

You slow for a moment, catching your breath, your forehead pressed to his.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” you whisper.

His hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, his gaze locked on yours, hot and dark and aching.

You start to move again, your soaked cunt clenching down around his thick cock, your hips rolling in long, slow circles, grinding the length of him against every sweet spot inside you. He groans and gasps, but stays with you, thrust for thrust, breath for breath, kiss for kiss, as you ride that razor-thin line, your bodies wrapped around each other like they’ve always belonged this way.

You're still riding him, slow and deep, your thighs spread wide across his hips, your breasts pressed to his chest, every inch of your skin connected to his, hot, damp, electric. His cock fills you completely with every roll of your hips, thick and throbbing, dragging along your sensitive walls so perfectly you swear you can feel every vein.

At first, you keep your rhythm steady, your pace deliberate, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. Mark's hands stay on your hips, not guiding, just holding, grounding you, letting you take control. His eyes never leave your face, watching the way your brows knit with pleasure, how your mouth falls open with every bounce, every grind.

You're not sure when it happens exactly, but the pleasure begins to crest again. It starts as a pulse in your belly, that same heavy ache that bloomed during your first orgasm, only this time it’s deeper, sharper. Your body knows what’s coming now, it wants it. Craves it. Demands it.

You keep going, but your rhythm starts to faltery, our thighs shaking, your hips stuttering as your clit swells and throbs against his skin. You lean in to kiss him, messy and breathless, but the moment your lips meet his, you moan into his mouth. It's too much. Too good. Your whole body is tightening again, clenching down on him hard, and your thighs start to burn from the effort.

“Mark,” you gasp, head falling to his shoulder. “I—I can’t—too close, I don’t know if I can keep going…”

He reacts instantly.

“I’ve got you.” His voice is low, dark, commanding. His hands tighten around your hips, broad, steady, possessive. He shifts under you, planting his feet against the mattress, bending his knees for leverage.

Before you can even blink, he takes over.

His hands grip you hard and he starts to thrust up, fast and deep, using the strength in his hips to fuck up into you while pulling your body down at the same time. The first slam of his cock makes you scream, your walls stretching, fluttering, pulsing as he drills up into your soaked, overstimulated pussy.

“Oh god—Mark!”

The sound of your bodies meeting is obscene, wet and loud, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the room with every brutal thrust. Your breasts bounce against his chest with every slam of his hips, your nipples brushing his sweat-slicked skin, your cunt slick and open and gripping him like you were made to take every inch.

Your fingers claw into his shoulders, trying to hold on as he fucks you from beneath, each thrust hitting deep, hard, unrelenting. His cock drags over that sweet, swollen spot inside you over and over and over until your legs go weak and your voice is nothing but broken gasps and shattered moans.

“That’s it,” he groans, sweat dripping from his brow. “You’re fucking milking me—god, baby, you’re so tight—you gonna come for me again?”

You nod, crying out as your head falls back, your whole body tense.

“Yes—yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—right there—”

He doesn’t.

He grits his teeth, hips slamming up faster, harder, his hands dragging you down to meet him again and again until your walls clamp down in a vice-tight grip, your pussy convulsing around his cock as your orgasm hits. It’s blinding, white-hot and violent, ripping through your body in wave after wave of electric pleasure.

You scream his name, eyes squeezed shut, thighs locked tight around his hips as your climax crashes over you.

Mark groans, low and deep, his whole body going rigid beneath you as his cock throbs hard, thick pulses spilling inside you as he comes. His cum is hot, flooding your cunt, filling you until it leaks out around his shaft, slick and messy and perfect. He holds you there, impaled on his cock, trembling as he spills everything into you, breath ragged in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—yes,” he groans, voice broken. “I’m coming—god, baby, you feel so fucking good—”

You collapse onto his chest, shaking, your walls still fluttering, your cunt still twitching around him, milking every last drop.

He doesn’t let go.

His arms wrap around you, holding you tight, pressing kisses into your hair, your shoulders, anywhere he can reach.

And you lie there, both of you wrecked and still joined, your bodies fused in heat and come and sweat, the last shudders of pleasure still echoing through your bones.

You're still trembling against his chest, every inch of your body flushed and exhausted, your breath coming in soft, uneven gasps as the aftershocks roll through you. His arms stay around you, steady and warm, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other stroking your hair slowly, rhythmically, as if anchoring you to him.

And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like you're suspended in something impossible. Something too big to name.

But then your thoughts start to spiral.

You shift slightly, wincing at the wet, sticky heat between your thighs, the deep ache that lingers where his cock had been buried inside you just seconds ago. The mess is thick and hot, his cum still dripping out of you, and the raw reality of it, all of it, sinks in.

You kissed him. You begged for him. You rode him. You let him see you like that, hear you, feel everything you couldn’t hide. You’d never even let someone touch you like that before, and now…now you’re lying sprawled across the bare chest of Viltrumite Emperor Mark Grayson with his cum leaking down your thighs, your body covered in sweat and bite marks and bruises you’re not entirely sure you didn’t ask for.

What the fuck did you just do?

You bury your face into his neck and try not to think about it. But your thoughts won’t stop spinning, swirling behind your eyes with a creeping kind of dread. Shame slips into your bloodstream like a slow, burning flush. Not because of him. Because of you. Because you wanted it too much. Because you came too hard. Because you couldn’t control your voice, your body, because you liked it.

Too much.

Way too much.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You clench your eyes shut, trying to breathe past the guilt curling at the edges of your chest. Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe it was just heat. A mistake. A moment. He’s the Emperor. You’re not even…

It was just sex.

You repeat it to yourself like a shield.

It didn’t mean anything. He was there. You were there. You got caught up in it. Maybe he was just being kind, generous in a moment where you were vulnerable. You practically climbed him. You pulled his hair. You moaned his name like he belonged to you. Gods, you begged for it.

This has to be a one-time thing.

It has to be.

He’s going to get up. You’ll both clean yourselves up. He’ll say something polite, something careful, and you’ll both pretend it never happened. Maybe he’ll smile. Maybe he won’t. Either way, you can survive it. You’ve survived worse.

You shift slightly on his chest, trying to pull away, to start the process of detangling yourself from this moment, from him, but Mark’s arms only tighten around you, warm and firm, his voice low against your hair.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You freeze when he speaks, your entire body tensing against his. His voice is soft, laced with the same steady warmth he’s always used around you, but now, it cuts through your haze like light bleeding through fog. You don’t answer at first. Can’t. You’re not ready to lie, but the truth sits too thick in your throat, heavy with shame and confusion.

Mark feels your hesitation.

His hand lifts from your back and cradles your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your temple. When you don’t meet his eyes, he doesn’t push. He just shifts under you carefully, adjusting your weight so he can sit up without jostling you. You expect him to pull away, to start dressing, to offer you space, but he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms tighter around you and murmurs, “You don’t have to say anything right now, but I can feel you pulling away. You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m fine,” you whisper. “Just… tired.”

He doesn’t call you on the lie. Doesn’t press.

“Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve been through a lot. First time’s not just physical. It’s a lot. You did good.”

You nod, barely, eyes stinging. He could make this so much worse. If he started explaining or apologizing or making it clinical, you might shatter right there. But he doesn’t. Instead, he eases you off his lap, gently laying you back against the bed. He slips away only to stand, completely naked, broad shoulders flexing as he moves toward a discreet panel embedded in the wall.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice small.

“Taking care of you.”

The panel lights up under his touch. He taps a few quiet commands, and moments later, a soft chime sounds deeper in the ship, followed by the low rush of water.

“I told the ship to prep the bath,” he says without looking back at you. “I didn’t want to just toss you a towel and call it a night.”

You watch him, throat tight, heart fluttering in a strange, twisting way that feels far more dangerous than anything physical. His back is strong and scarred, marked with old battles, but there’s a tenderness in his movements that unnerves you more than any show of strength. He turns and walks back toward you, stopping to kneel beside the bed.

“I want you to soak. Warm water helps with soreness. And you’re gonna feel that tomorrow.” He smiles, gently. “Trust me.”

You nod silently.

He reaches for you again, not pulling, not insisting, just offering his hand.

“Come with me.”

You take it.

The bath chamber is clean and sleek, built into the private quarters with the same quiet luxury everything on this ship seems to carry. The tub itself isn’t really a tub at all, it’s sunken into the floor, broad and deep, steam rising gently from crystal-clear water as the soft ambient lighting casts everything in gold and shadow.

Mark helps you step in first, holding your hand as you ease down into the water. The heat hits you instantly, coaxing a low moan from your throat as it spreads through your sore thighs, your hips, the deep ache between your legs. The water seeps into every raw, tender inch of you, chasing away tension with each breath.

He slips in behind you, his arms sliding around your waist, guiding your back to rest against his chest.

You let yourself sink into him, his warmth, his silence, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

His hands move slowly, reverently, down your arms, over your ribs, pausing to stroke your hips. Not sexual. Just gentle. Reassuring. He presses kisses to the back of your shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You know it’s not just about your body, right?” he says. “It never was.”

Your breath hitches. You stare down at the water, rippling gently with every tiny movement, your fingers trailing across the surface.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

“I don’t either,” he admits. “But I know I’m not walking away from it.”

You press your face into his neck and close your eyes, letting the water hold you. Letting him hold you. Because whatever this is, it happened. And he’s still here.

You rest in the water with his arms around you, his chest a steady, warm wall at your back. Every breath he takes moves through you too, your bodies molded together beneath the surface, tangled not in tension now, but something slower. Something quiet. Something real.

The ache between your legs is fading under the heat of the bath, replaced by a soft throbbing awareness. Not need. Not urgency. Just the echo of him still inside you, his shape, his weight, the imprint of his voice in your ear, and his hands on your skin. The water soothes, but it doesn’t wash him away.

You feel his hand move gently, smoothing down your side beneath the surface, then resting just above your hip. He’s not touching you to arouse. He’s just there. And somehow, that touches deeper.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him.

His gaze is already on you, steady, searching, like he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next. Like you’re the gravity he’s fallen into. His lips are slightly parted, damp from steam. His eyes are soft in the light. Not guarded. Not playing.

You turn your face toward his.

And kiss him.

It starts soft. A gentle press of your mouth against his. Not greedy. Not hurried. Just there, shared breath and heat and the slow tilt of your head as your lips mold to his. His hand tightens subtly on your waist. He shifts behind you to lean in, deepening the kiss just a little, his tongue brushing yours in slow, lazy strokes. His body is solid against your back, thighs bracketing yours beneath the water, cock soft but resting warm between your cheeks as he pulls you closer into his lap.

You breathe into his mouth.

The kiss lingers.

You pull back just a bit, your nose brushing his. “I’m not trying to start again,” you murmur, lips still grazing his. “I just… I wanted to.”

His hand rises from the water and cups your cheek, guiding your face back to his.

“You don’t have to explain wanting to kiss me,” he says, voice low. “You can just kiss me.”

So you do.

You turn in his lap, water sloshing gently around your waists, your knees now bent against his sides. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and you kiss him again, deeper this time. Slower. Like you’re letting him taste something you didn’t trust him with before.

His hand cups the back of your neck, fingers sliding into your wet hair, tilting your head just enough to open you further. He kisses you like you’re not just something to claim, but something to worship. Something he never thought he’d have, and now that he does, he’s not wasting a second.

Your chest presses against his. The water laps around you. The bath is silent, save for your soft breaths, the slick sound of your mouths parting and rejoining. There’s no rush now. No agenda. Just lips and tongue and breath and touch, more intimate than anything either of you said aloud.

When you break the kiss, your forehead rests against his. His hand slides back down your spine, slow and reverent.

“You’re still with me?” he asks, voice almost reverent.

You nod, eyes closed. “Still with you.”

Still wanting.

But not for the same reasons as before.

You stay like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breath shared, his arms warm around your waist and the water rippling softly around your bodies. The intimacy isn't loud anymore. It hums, slow, steady, insistent. Like the beating of a second heart just beneath your skin.

Then, slowly, you shift.

Your knees adjust on either side of his hips, thighs brushing his under the water. You settle onto his lap again, your bare, tender heat sliding naturally into place over his cock, not guiding him in, just there, pressed against him, your slick folds gliding along the length of him as you shift forward to straddle him fully.

Mark’s breath catches.

You feel it instantly, the twitch beneath you. The subtle, slow throb of him thickening again, right beneath your core. Not fully hard yet, but getting there, responding to the soft, wet friction of your cunt against his shaft as you move just slightly in his lap.

You look up at him, your hands sliding over his shoulders, down his arms, anchoring yourself to the strong lines of his body. His eyes are darker now, his pupils wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“You feel that?” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

His hands settle on your hips, holding you gently in place. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “I feel you.”

You shift again, slowly, deliberately, and his cock slides between your slick folds under the water, pressed right up against your clit now. The contact sends a shiver up your spine, and his grip on your hips tightens just a little, not stopping you, just feeling. Letting you set the pace.

You move your hips in a slow, grinding roll, dragging yourself against him from tip to base. The motion is smoother than before, slick with the mix of water and cum still between your thighs, your pussy still flushed and aching, still needing even through the tenderness. Your breath hitches, your mouth parting with a quiet moan.

Mark growls low, his eyes flicking from your face to where your bodies meet beneath the water.

“God,” he rasps. “You’re still this wet for me?”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “It doesn’t go away.”

His cock twitches against you, already swelling thicker, harder, the feel of him unmistakable now beneath your core. You keep grinding slowly, your clit catching on the ridge of him with every pass, the pressure blooming back to life inside you. He’s getting harder with every movement of your hips, and soon he’s pressing thick and hot along your slit, the head of him nudging just beneath your entrance with each shift.

You moan softly, your hands sliding into his hair.

Mark lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes heavy-lidded. “Tell me what you want.”

You don’t answer with words. You roll your hips again, a little more insistently now, your eyes locked to his, your mouth parted as you drag your pussy over the length of his cock, coating him with your slick. He throbs beneath you, and you feel him fully harden, the head of him swelling and nudging perfectly against your entrance under the water.

He groans, his fingers digging into your waist now, breath coming faster. “Fuck. You're gonna ride me again, aren’t you?”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “If you'll let me.”

He bites back a groan and nods.

“I’ll give you everything.”

Mark’s hands never leave your skin.

Even as you grind down on him again, slow and steady, letting the hard line of his cock slide along your slick folds, he holds you carefully, fingers firm on your hips, anchoring you, but not restricting you. He watches you like you're something delicate and divine at the same time. Like he’s resisting the urge to take over, to thrust up, to flip you and drive himself back into your dripping cunt, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He’s giving you space, even as you feel him pulse harder and thicker beneath you.

His cock is fully hard now, pressing perfectly against your entrance with every slow roll of your hips. You can feel the way your body is already reacting to him again: your clit swollen, your walls clenching reflexively, still loose from the way he stretched you earlier, still aching to be filled again.

Mark leans up slightly, his mouth brushing your collarbone, his voice low and deep and close.

“Go slow,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, your breath catching, and reach between you to line him up. He lets you, his hands moving to stroke your thighs instead, soft, coaxing circles of touch that ground you even as you feel his cockhead nudging at your entrance again. The heat of it makes you whimper softly, the tender stretch of your slick pussy already straining to take him back inside.

You sink down.

Inches at a time, his cock slides into you. Your walls part around him with slow, aching resistance, and your fingers curl into his shoulders, nails biting down. He’s thick. He’s so thick. Even slick and open, the stretch is real, and you can feel every vein, every ridge dragging along your soaked inner walls as you take him again.

Mark groans under his breath, his hands flexing around your waist. “That’s it, baby. You’re doing so good. Just like that, nice and slow.”

You keep your forehead pressed to his, gasping softly as you inch lower, your thighs shaking, your cunt wrapping around him tighter and tighter until finally, you bottom out again. You can feel the base of him grinding against your clit, the tip of him pressed deep inside, just shy of too much.

You whimper. “God… you’re all the way in.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “And you’re so full, fuck. Can feel you pulsing around me.”

He doesn’t move.

He just holds you there, keeping you pressed tight to him, letting your body adjust again. His hands stroke up and down your back, over your spine, dipping down to cup your ass gently. His cock throbs inside you, but he doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t push.

“You don’t have to do it like before,” he says, mouth brushing your ear. “Just stay right here if that’s what you want. Let me do the rest.”

You nod into his neck, but when your hips twitch, trying to rock forward again, he moans lowly.

“Not yet,” he breathes. “You’re still shaking.”

“I want to move.”

“I know.” He kisses your jaw. “Relax, baby. Let me take over if it’s too much.”

You go still in his lap, heart pounding. He lifts you slightly, his hands under your ass now, and then eases you back down again, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and impossibly smooth. The motion is hypnotic. Full. Deep.

You moan brokenly, clutching his shoulders, thighs spread wide over his hips, head thrown back.

“There you go,” he groans, kissing your throat. “Let me hear you, baby. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You do.

His cock drags so slowly that your entire cunt feels like it’s clinging to him, every wet inch of you fluttering around his shaft as he lifts and lowers your body with maddening control. He doesn’t piston. He doesn’t slam. He moves you, like he’s teaching your body how to take him, how to want it.

You melt against him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, hips rolling in time with his slow, deep rhythm. His cock hits your sweet spot over and over, your clit grinding along his skin, and your moans grow higher, needier.

“You’re gonna come like this,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna make you come just like this, slow and deep.”

You nod, dazed. “It feels so—so good. I feel everything.”

He pulls your hips down again, grinding against you in one long, slow press, and your walls tighten violently, your breath catching as you shudder above him.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hot against your ear. “Tell me it’s good.”

“It’s so good,” you moan. “Mark—fuck—it’s perfect. I feel so full, so hot, I—Gods, I need—”

“You have me,” he whispers, cupping your face now, kissing you between every word. “Right here. All of me. You’re not going anywhere, baby.”

You whimper into his mouth, your hips now grinding desperately as he moves you up and down his cock in that same perfect, deep rhythm. You can feel the tension starting to build again, higher this time, slower, but unstoppable.

And he’s right there with you, panting into your neck, cock twitching deep inside as he whispers all the ways he’s not letting go.

His grip changes.

One second he’s just holding you, warm, steady, reverent, and the next his fingers tighten around your hips like a command. He digs into your flesh, thumbs pressing into the curves of your pelvis, and suddenly you feel it, that shift in the air, in him. The soft, slow rhythm that had carried you both is gone, replaced by something deeper, heavier.

You gasp against his neck, your body trembling with anticipation, but he doesn’t ask permission this time. He doesn’t have to. Your cunt is already clenching around him in anticipation, your body still slick, still aching, still needing.

Mark thrusts up hard, burying himself in one sharp motion that drives a moan straight from your chest. His cock slams deep inside, the sound wet and loud, echoing against the tiled walls of the bath chamber, your thighs hitting against his hips as water sloshes violently around you.

You cry out, clutching his shoulders for balance, your nails dragging across sweat-slick skin.

His rhythm changes entirely now. He isn’t lifting you slowly anymore, guiding you gently. He’s pulling you down hard onto him with every thrust, slamming his hips up to meet yours with brutal precision. The sound of skin slapping skin grows louder, wetter, more obscene with each thrust, the sharp smack of it drowned only by your gasping cries and the growls he’s letting loose against your neck.

“Let me kiss that pretty mouth while I fuck you,” he groans out breathlessly. 

You feel every word in your gut, in your clit, in the deep, aching flutter of your cunt as he thrusts into you, hitting the end of you with every powerful grind of his hips as you press your lips to his. You’re a mess, slick dripping down your thighs, your inner walls tightening around him like you can’t bear to let him go, your moans spilling out uncontrollably.

“Mark—” You sob his name as your body begins to fold, the heat in your belly building too fast, too bright. "Touch me again—please—I can’t take it."

He groans and grabs your ass, spreading you wider, slamming you down harder. “Yes you can,” he nips your throat. “You’re taking me so fucking well. You’re mine. You’re gonna come on my cock again, and you’re not gonna stop until I say so.”

You whimper, walls clenching hard around him, every nerve screaming as your clit grinds into the base of his cock with every desperate bounce. He’s fucking up into you with reckless rhythm now, deep, punishing thrusts that leave your mind unraveling, your thoughts shattering like glass. All that’s left is need, the way he fills you, the way he owns your body in this moment.

And then it happens.

Your orgasm doesn’t rise. It snaps.

White-hot pleasure slams through you, your cunt spasming so violently it pulls a scream from your throat. Your thighs lock around him, shaking uncontrollably, your body jerking as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you like you’re breaking. Your inner walls tighten around him like a fist, milking him, pulling him deeper.

Mark curses, his control finally shattering. “Fuck—baby—gonna—”

He slams up into you one final time, hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. His cock swells deep inside, and then he’s coming, hot, thick pulses spilling into your pulsing pussy as he groans brokenly against your neck. You feel it all, the way his whole body trembles, the way his cock twitches inside you, the warmth of his cum filling you until it leaks out between your thighs in thick, wet streams.

He doesn’t pull out.

Not immediately.

You collapse forward against his chest, gasping, your cunt still fluttering around him, your body barely able to stay upright. Your arms are limp over his shoulders, and his hands are stroking you now, soft again, returning to that tender rhythm even as you tremble in his lap, completely used, completely wrecked.

His breath is warm in your hair. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it go. I’ve got you. I’ve got all of you.”

And you believe him. Because right now, in the hot, messy aftermath, with his cum dripping out of you and your heartbeat tangled with his, you belong to him.

The water has gone still around you. The world has gone quiet.

He strokes your back, his voice low and hoarse against your ear.

“You were perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re still perfect. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Because in his lap, wrapped around his cock, leaking his warmth, held like you’re the only thing that matters in the universe, you’re safe. Ruined. Loved. And utterly his.

Your body is limp in his arms, all nerves reduced to a hum beneath the water, your muscles soft and useless after being wrung out, used, and worshipped. Your cunt still aches with the shape of him, fluttering tenderly with each breath, every subtle shift in the bathwater brushing against the oversensitive flesh and drawing a low, half-conscious shiver from you. You’re sore, soaked, spent, and still he holds you like you’re precious. Like you’re not a mess. Like you’re his.

Mark doesn’t speak, and neither do you. There’s a reverent stillness between you now, one that doesn’t need filling. His hand glides down your back, fingers trailing through the damp strands of your hair, thumb tracing lazy circles between your shoulder blades. You’ve never felt so warm. So held.

And then, gently, he begins to move.

He shifts your weight in his lap until you’re reclining more fully against the solid breadth of his chest, one of his thighs cradling your bent knees beneath the water. You let him move you, pliant and trusting, your breath soft against the side of his throat. When he reaches to the edge of the bath, you hear the faint click of a compartment opening, the small hiss of a seal releasing.

He draws out a fresh cloth, thick and soft, along with a sleek glass vial of oil-slick bath soap. The ship must’ve warmed it automatically, because the scent of lavender and something faintly herbal curls through the air immediately, calming, clean, intimate.

He pours a ribbon of the soap into the water between your bodies, swirling it gently with one hand. The water shifts from crystal clear to a soft cloudy glow, the lather rising in gentle spirals around your skin. Steam curls upward from the bath’s surface, and you sink deeper into him.

“Just relax,” he murmurs near your temple, his voice a low vibration against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, the motion barely a twitch. You’re still trembling slightly, overstimulated in a way that feels raw and exposed, not painful but overwhelming. And yet his touch… his presence... makes it bearable. He begins at your shoulders, soaking the cloth and wringing it out before running it over your skin in slow, reverent passes.

The first swipe sends a shiver through you.

The cloth moves down your collarbones, along your chest, his motions slow and methodical. He doesn’t linger over your breasts, doesn’t tease or gawk, just washes you, thorough and patient, like he’s honoring the aftermath of what your body gave him. Every inch of skin he touches is cleaned with the kind of care that makes your chest ache.

He shifts you slightly, lifting one arm gently out of the water. You let it happen, boneless and quiet, watching the way his hand wraps around your wrist as if you’re something fragile and sacred. He glides the cloth down your arm, over your elbow, to your fingers, one by one.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs suddenly. His lips brush your temple again. 

You flush under the praise, heat blooming in your cheeks even now.

He lifts your other arm, repeating the ritual. Then moves lower, over your sides, your stomach. When he reaches your thighs, he adjusts you again, drawing your legs over his so you’re draped entirely across his lap, your cunt nestled against the warmth of his lower stomach. His hands are large, encompassing. Gentle. You can feel the tension in his muscles beneath you, still there, but he keeps it on a leash.

Then the cloth finds the space between your thighs.

You twitch, gasping softly, your hand tightening in the fabric over his shoulder.

“I know,” he says, voice steady and low. “I’m being gentle.”

And he is. Painstakingly so.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t invade. Just cleans you, slow and methodical, washing away the thick mix of slick and cum that’s still leaking from you. You feel it float away in the water as he drags the cloth carefully along your folds, over your inner thighs, even the backs of your knees. It’s not erotic. Not exactly. It’s tender, almost overwhelming in its intimacy.

You let out a shaky sigh, and your head falls heavier against his chest. Your eyes start to flutter closed.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs, brushing wet strands from your face. “You don’t have to fight it.”

“M’not,” you mumble, barely intelligible. “Just… warm.”

He smiles against your hair. “You’ll fall asleep if you stay still like that.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “Feels nice.”

His hands continue moving, slower now. Just touches. Tracing patterns into your skin. At some point, he sets the cloth aside and shifts lower in the bath, submerging both of you more fully in the heated water. You’re half-floating now, weightless and cradled in his arms.

You barely register the moment your breathing deepens.

Your fingers slacken where they’d been curled in his chest. Your body goes heavier, fully relaxed now, even your legs unmoving. Your face is pressed to the hollow of his throat, lips parted slightly, lashes damp and fluttering.

Mark exhales slowly, watching you.

His thumb brushes your jaw, then your cheek, the corner of your mouth. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t speak.

He just holds you in the quiet, watching steam rise into the air around you as your breathing evens out completely. As you slip under.

And in the stillness of the bath, with your body curled in his arms and your warmth pressed against his chest, Mark closes his eyes.

And lets the world stop.

The water has gone still. You’re asleep, truly asleep now, your breath soft and even, lips parted against the curve of his chest, your bare body draped over him like you were meant to be there. Your limbs are limp, completely relaxed, one arm slung loosely across his stomach. Your skin is warm and dewy from the bath, and the smell of lavender clings to both of you, sweet and calm in the dim blue light.

Mark stays like that for a while.

One hand cradles your back, the other resting just beneath your thigh, fingers brushing the soft curve of you in slow, absent strokes. His eyes are half-lidded, the edge of exhaustion brushing his bones, but he doesn’t move yet. He watches you.

You’ve ruined him. He knows it.

Not just with your body, though that’s certainly carved into him now, the way you feel around him, the way you moaned his name like it meant something bigger than just pleasure. No, it’s more than that. It’s the way you curled into his chest afterward without thinking, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, even when you were too embarrassed to say what you wanted. It's the fact that when he washed you, you let him. Trusted him.

You weren’t supposed to matter like this.

He breathes in deeply through his nose, then exhales slow, watching the ripple of steam curl toward the ceiling.

You’re a warrior. From another world, another throne. You don’t belong here, not on this ship, not tangled up in the complicated grief of a Viltrumite empire trying to pretend it still has a soul. And yet… here you are. In his arms. Breathing softly against his chest, like the weight of the galaxy doesn't reach you when you’re close to him.

‘She’s not mine,’ he tells himself. ‘She’s not staying.’

But gods, it feels like you are.

Eventually, the water cools. Mark moves with care, rising slowly from the bath with you in his arms. You don’t stir. He cradles you against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, your head tucked against his shoulder, hair damp and clinging to his skin.

He carries you through the quiet corridor, feet bare against the metal floor, steam rising from your bodies as he moves. His pants cling to him, still soaked, but he doesn’t care. His shirt is long gone, left in a tangled heap somewhere near the bed or bath or maybe both. It doesn't matter.

Your quarters are dark, the lights dimmed to a warm glow at the edges, and the sheets are still tangled from when he tucked you in earlier with Marky, before all of this began. Before you fell into him like you were always meant to.

He lays you down gently, easing your body into the sheets, pulling the soft blanket up over your waist. You stir just slightly, brows twitching, a soft sound catching in your throat, but then you settle again. Like you know it’s him, even half-asleep.

He hesitates.

He should leave. His pants are soaked, his uniform streaked with sweat and everything else. His body aches, but his mind is worse, buzzing, pulling in too many directions.

But he doesn’t go.

He sits on the edge of the bed first, one hand braced behind him, his head bowed. You shift slightly, and your hand, still barely conscious, brushes his thigh. Like you’re reaching without knowing. And that’s all it takes.

He exhales once, quietly, and slides in beside you.

The sheets are soft against his bare skin. You curl against him without prompting, nestling into his side like you’re drawn to the heat of him even in sleep. Your thigh drapes over his, your cheek finding the spot above his heart, and your hand settles lightly over his ribs.

He stares up at the ceiling for a long time.

And thinks.

‘What the fuck am I doing?’

He’s got a universe to manage. Viltrumites to keep from imploding. Peace to keep on a knife’s edge. His daughter. His son. You? You’re from another world entirely. You have a destiny with your sword and your light and your impossible strength. He’s seen it in your eyes, in the way you don’t look at yourself like you belong in war, even though you fight like you do.

And still…

He looks down at you, at the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, at the bruises he left on your collarbone and neck, faint and fading.

You’ve become something he didn’t expect.

He didn’t plan for you.

And yet the thought of waking up without you in this bed, in his arms, of you slipping away back to Eternia like this was nothing but a passing storm, makes something in his chest twist tight.

You sigh in your sleep, curling closer.

Mark pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders, then lays his arm around your waist, tucking you against him as if that will keep the universe from touching you while you sleep.

Just for tonight, he thinks.

Just for now.

But his fingers tighten gently at your hip, and the thought that follows, quiet, buried deep in the back of his mind, is one he doesn’t say out loud.

‘I hope she doesn’t leave.’

Mark’s eyes are just beginning to grow heavy.

You’re curled into him, your body limp from the bath and everything before it, wrapped in the softness of the sheets and the fading steam still clinging faintly to your skin. One leg drapes over his hip, your arm tucked between your bodies, your head resting on his bare chest like it belongs there. The scent of lavender from the soap still lingers, but underneath it is the raw, unmistakable imprint of what the two of you did, your sweat, his come, the heat of it all still cooling slowly in the quiet dark.

His arm is draped over your waist, holding you close but not tight, his hand splayed across the dip just above your hipbone. His thumb strokes there, absentminded, as if his body hasn’t quite realized the high is over yet.

His eyes close.

And then, Knock knock knock.

The sound is soft. Hesitant. Three light taps. Barely audible through the quiet hush of the quarters.

But it cuts through everything like a blade.

You shift faintly in his arms, letting out a low murmur, your leg twitching across his thigh. You don’t wake, but the sound grazes the edge of your rest, unsettles the peace settling into your bones.

Mark’s eyes snap open.

He listens.

Then, after a pause, a voice comes, small, muffled, barely more than a whisper through the door.

“…Daddy?”

Mark’s stomach drops.

He exhales through his nose, slowly. Carefully, he lifts his arm from around you, moving gently, inch by inch, so he doesn’t disturb you. Your body stirs with the loss of his warmth, brow knitting, but you stay asleep. The soft glow from the corridor spills in through the door’s edges, painting a halo around your silhouette beneath the sheets.

He crosses the room barefoot and shirtless, pants still damp and low on his hips, hair disheveled from steam and sleep. The heat from the bath is fading from his skin, but inside, his heart pounds with something worse than alarm, guilt.

He palms the panel beside the door. The metal slides open with a quiet hiss.

Marky stands there.

Barefoot, sleep-tousled, his oversized nightshirt slipping off one shoulder. He clutches a plush dinosaur against his chest with one arm, and with the other, he’s rubbing his eyes.

He’s not crying, but he looks close.

Mark crouches immediately, instinct overriding everything else. “Hey, bud,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

Marky doesn’t answer right away. His lower lip trembles. His fingers curl tighter into his shirt.

“I woke up.”

Mark nods slowly. “You okay?”

“I… I heard noises.”

Mark stills.

“What kind of noises?” he asks, though he already knows.

The boy looks up at him with wide, dark eyes. “Like thumping. And screaming.”

Mark’s gut twists. His breath catches in his throat.

“I thought—” Marky swallows, voice even smaller now. “I thought she got hurt. She sounded like she was.”

Mark draws in a slow, steadying breath. “She’s not hurt. I promise.”

Marky’s eyes dart to the open doorway, into the room beyond, where your sleeping form is still barely visible under the blanket.

“…Is she mad?”

Mark flinches inwardly. “No. She’s not mad.”

Marky hesitates. “She screamed a lot.”

“I know.” Mark doesn’t try to deflect. He kneels, placing both hands gently on his son’s shoulders. “She’s okay. Really. She’s just tired now.”

The boy looks down at his feet. “I thought she liked me.”

Mark’s heart squeezes. “She does like you. She told me. She said you were smart, and polite, and brave.”

Marky’s head lifts slightly. “Really?”

Mark nods. “Really.”

A pause.

“Can I see her?”

Mark doesn’t even think. He scoops Marky up into his arms, the boy’s small frame tucking instinctively into the crook of his neck, the dinosaur crushed between them. Mark stands, careful not to jostle him, and turns into the room, the door sliding closed behind them with a quiet hiss.

You’re still asleep.

Your body lies half turned toward the doorway, one arm curved beneath the pillow, hair fanned across the sheets, your shoulders bare and kissed by the low gold lighting that glows at the edges of the walls. The blanket clings to your waist, and the marks from earlier, light bruises, faint bite prints, flushed skin, are still visible in the dim light.

But your breathing is soft. Steady. Undisturbed.

“She’s okay,” Mark murmurs.

Marky peers over his shoulder. “She’s really sleeping?”

Mark nods. “You wanna say goodnight?”

The boy nods quickly.

Mark steps closer and kneels beside the bed again, letting Marky lean in. He looks down at you, eyes wide, cautious. Then, slowly, he reaches over and sets his dinosaur down near your hand, tucking the plush gently against your fingers where they rest near the edge of the blanket.

“…Goodnight,” he whispers. “I hope you feel better.”

You stir faintly, your fingers curling around the soft toy in your sleep.

Marky’s smile lights up his whole face.

Mark’s chest aches.

“She likes you,” he says, voice rough around the edges.

Marky looks up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. And she’s not going anywhere right now.”

The boy nods once, solemn. “Can I stay?”

Mark hesitates only a moment.

Then he shifts, easing Marky onto the far side of the bed. The boy lays down, facing you, one hand still resting gently near yours. He curls onto his side, tucking his knees up, eyes already beginning to flutter closed.

Mark watches him for a long moment, then looks back at you.

You’re still curled on your side, breathing deep, eyelashes fluttering slightly with each exhale. Your fingers still cradle the stuffed dinosaur.

He should leave. He knows he should.

His pants are cold, clinging to him, and his body is still sore in all the best and worst ways. He should clean up. Clear his head. Try to compartmentalize what just happened.

But instead, he steps around the bed, slides under the blanket beside you, and lets it all stay.

You exhale in your sleep, and your body shifts instinctively, your bare back pressing into his chest like it knows he’s there even unconscious.

And Mark, the Emperor, the father, the mess of a man trying to hold too many pieces together, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

Just for a minute.

Just to stay.

The room hums in silence, broken only by breath and the low, constant murmur of the ship’s environmental systems. It’s warm. Dim. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

Mark lies on his side, shirtless beneath the blanket, his arm stretched across your waist. Your back is pressed to his chest, your body soft and warm where it molds into him, one leg curled over his, the other tucked beneath the sheets. Your breath is steady. Rhythmic. Your face is turned into the pillow, one hand loosely cradled around the stuffed dinosaur Marky had brought in with him.

Marky sleeps beside you now, nestled against your front, his small body curved naturally into yours like he was made to fit there. His cheek rests on your arm, his tiny fist balled up near your collarbone, the edge of the blanket pulled up over his shoulder by Mark’s hand before he’d settled in.

Mark lies behind you, holding both of you in place.

But his eyes don’t close.

He’s still.

His mind isn’t.

He’s had people in his bed beforeto, o many, probably. He's been held, and he’s held others. He’s felt bodies against him, has taken comfort in closeness, even in chaos. But this… this is different.

Because this hasn’t even been a day.

He met you yesterday.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, you stepped off a winged beast with wings, wearing armor that didn’t shine, it warned. You weren’t like the other envoys. You didn’t smile, didn’t posture. You didn’t flirt or flatter. You didn’t try to charm him. You introduced yourself like it was a formality and watched the ship’s interior like you were measuring it for weaknesses.

You walked like a soldier. Talked like one too. Straight-backed, quiet, all mission. No nonsense.

And now you’re here.

Asleep. Soft. Tangled in the sheets of his bed. His son curled in your arms like he’s always belonged there.

It doesn’t make sense.

Mark stares at the back of your neck, watching the slow flutter of your pulse beneath your skin. He can still feel where your body held him. The ghost of your moans still echoes behind his ears, low and trembling and real. Not practiced. Not performative. Every second of it was new for you, and you didn’t hide it.

You told him you didn’t do this. That this was different. That he was.

And it should terrify him.

Because he barely knows you.

He doesn’t know how you take your coffee. Doesn’t know what music you like, or if you even listen to any. He doesn’t know how you laugh. He’s never seen you drunk, or angry, or grieving. Doesn’t know your middle name. Doesn’t know your favorite memory, or what Eternia looks like when it rains. He doesn’t know what scares you, or what you’ve lost.

But he knows the sound you make when you’re coming.

He knows how you kiss when you’re trying not to cry. How your fingers tremble when they clutch the sheets. How your body fits against his like the space was always meant for you. He knows the sound of your voice when it’s stripped of all armor, when it’s just you, whispering that you wanted him to be the first.

He knows how carefully you touched Marky when you spoke to him, how you crouched beside him, kept your voice gentle, even when you didn’t have to.

He knows you didn’t have to allow him into your bed tonight. That it wasn’t power. Or duty. Or strategy.

That it was choice.

And that terrifies him more than anything else.

Because if this means nothing, he’s already gone too deep. And if it means something? If you mean something?

Then what the fuck does he do next?

Mark tightens his arm around your waist just slightly, anchoring himself to the feeling of your body beneath his hand. He watches the way your spine rises and falls with each breath. The little twitch of your fingers against Marky’s stuffed toy. You’re not afraid in your sleep. You’re not tense.

You’re at peace.

With him.

He wonders if you’ve had that, lately. If you’ve ever had it. Or if it’s as new for you as it is for him.

His gaze shifts over you and lands on Marky. The boy’s breathing is slow and even, his brow smooth, his tiny mouth parted slightly in sleep. His hand is still tucked against your chest, touching you in the same way he does to Mark when he needs comfort and isn’t awake enough to ask for it.

Mark’s throat tightens.

This shouldn’t feel like something complete. Like something full. You’ve only just arrived. You’ve known each other for a blink. But already, his son trusts you enough to curl into your arms. Already, he wants to wrap you in his.

And for all the cold, brutal things Mark’s seen in his life… this?

This is the thing that makes his chest ache.

He presses his forehead lightly to the back of your shoulder, closing his eyes.

He’s never believed in fate. Not really. He’s seen too many people bleed out on the wrong side of fate to trust it. But tonight, holding both of you in the low warmth of this ship, his son against your chest, your body molded to his, the smell of your skin still sweet in the sheets, he wonders if maybe… just maybe, fate brought you to him.

Even if it’s only for one night.

Even if everything else burns tomorrow.

He’ll remember this.

And slowly, finally, with your body soft against his and Marky’s slow breathing filling the space between you, Mark Grayson, Emperor, warrior, father, man, lets himself drift.

And sleeps.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

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[youthguk]

Entropy: Collapse (Finale) | jjk (m)

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

“The universe tends toward chaos.”

You said it was just sex. But gravity doesn’t stop pulling — and entropy always ends in collapse.

genre: smut, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language

Wc: 10k

part 1 here (!!!) your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You’ve spent the past four hours staring at the same simulation code, and the red blinking cursor feels more like a threat than a prompt. Your desk lamp is the only light on in the room, casting long shadows over textbooks, half-drunk tea, and the wrinkled copy of your research grant application — still unsigned, still mocking you with possibility.

It's one forty-seven a.m., the kind of hour that strips everything quiet, even your thoughts. The sky outside is the color of unfinished ink, and the campus streets below are empty. No movement. No noise. Just the occasional flicker of a hallway light going out down the corridor — dormitory entropy, in real time.

You rub your eyes and stretch your neck, but nothing shifts. Not the physics paper. Not the persistent heat blooming in your stomach. Not the memory of how his voice rasped when he told you to open wider. Five days have passed since Jeon Jungkook's last text.

Well — not since you left him hard in the TA room, lips bitten raw and pants around his thighs, after whispering “Don’t think this means anything.”

Your phone lights up with his name again - no message this time. He's already sent plenty that you've left unanswered, filling your notifications with desperate attempts at connection.

Something tugs at you, an invisible force as real as gravity. Your hand moves toward the phone with the careful slowness of someone trying not to startle fate. Each moment feels weighted with possibility, with the kind of weakness that threatens to become something more significant.

Without responding to his messages, you press call. The phone rings twice before his sleep-rough voice answers, "...Y/N?"

That sound - deep, warm, familiar in the worst way - hits you like a collapsing wave. You lean back, eyes closed, phone pressed to your ear. "Are you alone?"

A pause. "Yeah."

Your voice softens instinctively. "I'm in bed."

Through the speaker, sheets rustle. "Are you okay?"

"I can't stop thinking about that night."

His exhale trembles. "Baby..." The word slips past his pride. "I've been going crazy."

You wish you could stop, wish you could call this a mistake, but the moment has already consumed you. "I've been touching myself."

A guttural groan tears from his chest. You picture his hand flying beneath the sheets, his cock hardening as your thighs press together. "Fuck," he rasps. "Tell me what you're doing. Please—"

The leather chair squeaks as you shift, fingers trailing over your sleep shorts. "My hand's already there. I'm so wet, Jungkook."

His moan fills the line. "Are you rubbing your clit?"

"Mhm..."

"Slow?"

"Not slow enough."

His rhythm becomes clear through the phone - his ragged breathing, rustling fabric, the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself. You picture his tattooed hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Fuck, I wish I was there. I'd spread you open, use my mouth until you begged."

"I don't beg."

"You did," he growls. "You do."

Your breath catches as your fingers quicken, hips rolling toward something forbidden. "You'd fuck me slow first, wouldn't you? Just to tease."

His groan sounds pained. "Yes. God, yes. I'd make you come on my cock until you forget your name."

"Too late."

His laugh comes broken, winded. "God, you're unreal."

Your soft moan makes his rhythm falter. "Don't stop," he gasps. "Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop—"

You let him drown in your breathing, in the slick sounds of your movements, let him believe you're about to unravel. Then you pull away, letting silence fill the void.

"Y/N?" His voice comes breathless.

"I have to go," you whisper. "Goodnight."

"Wait—"

The call ends before he can finish. You stare at the dark screen, pulse still hammering between your legs, throat dry and cheeks burning. Somewhere in his room, he's still hard, still aching, still alone.

Without smiling, you let your head fall back and whisper to the ceiling, "Thermodynamics never warned me about this kind of heat."

The phone is face-down on the desk now, like it’s guilty. Your hand is still sticky with want. Your heart still beats faster than it should. But the room is quiet again — painfully, cruelly quiet. As if nothing just happened. As if you didn’t just break your own rules for the fifth time in two weeks.

You don’t move. You just sit in the stillness, surrounded by half-solved equations and the low hum of your old desk lamp. Your body is flushed and your mind is disgustingly awake.

The post-call static crackles louder than it should in your ears. What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t supposed to be anything.

Jeon Jungkook was entropy incarnate — hot and careless and untouchable. A beautiful disaster contained in perfect muscle memory. A reputation in motion. You were supposed to observe him like any other chaotic system: from a distance, with your hands behind your back and your lab coat on.

But now? Now you’re one of his goddamn data points. You swipe your tongue across your lips, still tasting the desperation in your own voice. He sounded wrecked. And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked knowing you could pull him apart with a few words. You liked the way his breath shook when he said your name. You liked the way you made him beg, even when you were the one unraveling.

The thrill of power over him was intoxicating, but that only made it worse. Your control slipped too easily when his voice came through the line - low and desperate, cock in hand, saying things that made your breath catch. He spoke like you were his whole universe, the only constant worth orbiting, and that terrified you.

With guilt tightening your spine, you push back from the desk and stand. This is exactly why you don't let yourself get attached. This is why you insisted it was nothing more than sex.

Because you can’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when you’re a finalist for the CERN summer rotation, when your advisor just asked for your draft proposal, when your whole future has to be measured in unit conversions and GPA decimals. And Jungkook? He doesn’t fit into the equation. He’s not a constant. He’s not a vector. He’s not even a variable. He’s the error term — the chaotic, unpredictable, heat-inducing mistake that corrupts the entire model. The kind of anomaly your professors warned you about.

And still, the memory of his moan echoes in your mind - that raw, strangled "baby" when you confessed your hand was between your thighs. Your knees buckle and you collapse face-down into your pillow, groaning into cotton.

You make the same promises you always do: You'll delete his number tomorrow. You'll end it properly next time. You'll mean it when you say it's over.

Because you are not a girl who gets off to old mistakes. And even thought entropy is inevitable — collapse is still a choice.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus courtyard is flooded with late-morning sunlight, the kind that turns everything golden and too warm, like the world’s trying to trick you into slowing down. You don’t. Your sneakers hit pavement with the same clipped rhythm they always do — fast, focused, efficient. A girl with a purpose.

There’s a coffee cup in one hand, a folder clutched to your chest, and your headphones are in — not for music, just for armor. Physics department office hours, then lab, then TA prep. No room for detours. No reason to look anywhere but straight ahead.

And yet, something catches your attention - his laugh. That low, boyish sound you've memorized despite yourself. Your steps falter slightly as your eyes find him: Jeon Jungkook.

Back leaned casually against the stone column outside the business department, one ankle crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like the heat doesn’t dare touch him. Two girls are perched far too close on either side of him, their voices high and coy, like everything they say is an invitation. One twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The other leans in, whispering something near his ear.

His smile is polite but distracted - his eyes are fixed solely on you. The moment your gazes meet, you freeze, blood rushing through your veins as your mouth fills with the bitter taste of caffeine and regret. He's not doing anything extraordinary, just standing there, yet the air seems to bend around him like he's become the center of gravity itself.

The sunlight catches him perfectly - illuminating his golden skin, the intricate tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt cuff, the silver ring glinting as he absently brushes hair from his face. You despise how vividly you remember those fingers against your skin, how he's the only one who's ever made you come undone with just his voice through a phone, making you feel completely his.

When his expression shifts into a subtle frown, hurt evident in the slight crease of his brow, you immediately drop your gaze. Without hesitation, you continue walking, shoulders squared and headphones suddenly deafening despite their silence. Behind you, Jungkook pushes away from the column, his eyes tracking your retreat until you vanish behind the admin building.

The girl beside him notices, nudging his arm with a pout. "Who's that? She looked... intense."

He doesn't answer, because only one thought consumes him: She saw me. And looked away like I never happened.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The seminar room smells like chalk dust, overripe fruit from someone’s lunchbox, and too many minds running on too little sleep. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Your pen taps lightly against your knee, bouncing in rhythm with the low buzz of voices filling the space before the professor arrives.

You’re early. As always. You’ve got your notes laid out like a defense line: printed equations, a crisp copy of the grant rubric, your half-drafted proposal for the summer placement. It’s the kind of prep that should settle your nerves, that should root you in facts and numbers and control.

But exhaustion weighs heavy, and your mind wanders to dangerous territory - his voice still echoing in your ears. Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop

Behind you, two girls slip into their seats, their laughter cutting through your thoughts.

"God, he's such a slut," one says, voice dripping with disdain.

"Who?" her friend asks absently.

"Jeon Jungkook. I swear if I see him flirting with another freshman outside the business library again..."

"He doesn't even try," the other scoffs. "Girls just throw themselves at him like they want their lives ruined."

Their gossip continues - something about a chemistry student with green hair, an economics major who fell off a table. Their words blur together as you stare at your notes, at the clean columns of formulas. ΔS = ΔQ/T. Entropy as heat divided by temperature. Order, motion, equations - these should be your constants.

But your stomach twists as memories flood back unbidden: your knees on his bedroom floor two weeks ago, his fingers teasing you under a library table while Newton's third law lay forgotten, his name on your lips just last night as aftershocks rippled through you.

They don't know. They shouldn't know. This was meant to be meaningless - for both of you. You were supposed to be different, just an anomaly in his system, a temporary spike in temperature. Yet here you are, his touch branded into your skin, his name still burning on your tongue.

When the professor walks in, you force yourself to focus on the equations before you, ignoring how your throat constricts and your hand trembles around your pen.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The air outside the lab building is heavy with spring. Not fresh — just close. Like something’s about to happen, but hasn’t yet. The sky’s turned white with too much light, and your skin feels a few degrees too warm as you step outside, research proposal folder pressed tight to your chest.

You need coffee. You need silence. You need distance from the way your body still pulses whenever you remember his voice on the phone.

Your heart stops when you spot him on the ledge near the back entrance. Jungkook lounges there with deceptive casualness - one foot propped on the low wall, black ball cap shadowing his face, fingers toying with his hoodie drawstrings. Though his posture seems relaxed, you know he's been waiting. Your stomach sinks as reality settles in.

A futile glance over your shoulder confirms this isn't your imagination. His eyes lock onto yours, and there's no escape.

And for a split second, his face breaks open like light through cloud cover — too fast, too warm. He stands up.

“Y/N.”

You continue walking, but he matches your stride, undeterred.

Keeping your eyes fixed ahead, you barely acknowledge his soft "hey" with a slight nod.

“Didn’t think I’d see you outside a textbook this week.”

You huff out a dry sound that might pass for a laugh. “I’m busy.”

He falls into step beside you. His hands are in his hoodie pockets. You can feel the heat coming off him like a small sun — too close, too real.

“You always say that,” he says, trying to joke. “Even when you’re coming on my—”

“Don’t.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. He falls silent as they continue walking, the tension between them thick enough to slice through.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler: "Hey... about the other night..."

You pause mid-step, refusing to meet his gaze. "There is no other night," you say coldly. "There was nothing."

He flinches as if struck, and you continue walking, leaving him behind.

And before he can recover enough to respond, you’ve already pushed through the glass doors of the research wing and disappeared into the building.

Behind you, Jungkook stands frozen in the courtyard, lips parted, jaw tightening.

He watches the door for a full ten seconds before muttering to no one, “…yeah. Fucking nothing.”

You don't stop walking until you're inside the stairwell, out of sight, out of breath.

Your fingers are white-knuckled around the folder. You hate that your hands are shaking. You hate that your heart is doing that thing again — the stuttering thing, like you just sprinted across a field when all you did was stand in his shadow for sixty seconds.

There was nothing. The words left your mouth with practiced ease, rehearsed like a formula you'd memorized. They should have felt precise and clinical - a clean incision to excise what had grown between you. Instead, the declaration burned like touching a live wire, leaving aftershocks that refused to fade.

The cool wall against your back offered little comfort as you tried to steady your breathing. His appearance had shattered your careful equations - that smile that hinted at shared secrets, that look that suggested you still held meaning. You'd convinced yourself he was forgettable, reduced him to simple physics: just impulse, just friction. But one glance was enough to resurrect every memory of his touch, every place his mouth had mapped your skin.

What twisted deepest was the hope in his eyes - that earnest belief that you might want conversation, that you hadn't truly relegated him to past tense. You pressed your knuckles to your lips, drinking in oxygen like it could douse the ember in your chest. You'd told him there was nothing, but your body betrayed you with every quickened heartbeat, every nerve ending crying out for more.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The third floor of the physics library holds a particular kind of silence - tense and punishing, where even the slightest sound draws sharp glares from focused grad students and ambitious TAs. Usually, this atmosphere helps clear your mind, but today the quiet only amplifies your thoughts.

From your favorite corner cubicle, you stare at your open laptop and notebook, equations sprawling across the pages in messy trails. The grant deadline looms just three days away, but instead of focusing on formulas, your mind keeps drifting to Jungkook's expression when you dismissed what was between you - not angry or smug, just wounded in a way that makes your chest ache.

You shift in your seat, grateful for the comfort of your loose sweater and short black skirt, hair clipped back carelessly. Relief should come easily after ending things, but your body betrays you - thighs pressed together, fingers twitching with muscle memory of threading through his hair.

The soft scrape of a chair breaks your reverie. An iced Americano appears at your elbow, condensation beading on the plastic, and your breath catches as Jungkook settles across from you uninvited. He's wearing a hoodie and black cap, a light sheen of sweat suggesting he rushed here. When his eyes meet yours, the silence between you grows thick with unspoken words.

He just nods once toward the drink. “You look like you needed it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

He raises his palms, surrendering. “Just being nice.”

You remain silent, knowing you should tell him to leave but finding yourself unable to form the words. Returning to your notes proves futile as the numbers blur together, his presence impossible to ignore. His leg brushes against yours under the table once, then again. Though you shift away slightly, you don't completely break the contact.

He leans in, his voice low, soft as static. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You blink slowly. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugs, lips curling into something unreadable. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me come from a phone call.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “I was alone.”

“You didn’t sound alone.”

You glance at him, sharply. But he’s not teasing. His gaze drops to your lips.

“I keep thinking about the way you sounded. Like you were trying not to moan.”

His voice dips lower. “Like you wanted me to beg.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s not—”

His hand moves beneath the table, landing on your knee with deliberate intent. You freeze as he speaks in a low, steady voice: "Tell me to stop and I will." His fingers trace upward along your thigh in a slow caress, and though you know you should stop him, the words catch in your throat. His touch continues its path until he reaches the heat between your legs, pausing just shy of where you need him most. You can feel the warmth of his skin hovering there like a promise, and your body betrays you - already wet, wanting, yearning for more.

“I knew it,” Jungkook whispers, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “I fucking knew it.”

Then he touches you. A single stroke through your folds — not too hard, not too soft — just enough pressure to make your back lift a half inch from your chair. You suck in a breath. Sharp. Audible.He doesn’t stop.

His fingers slide through your slick again, this time slower, almost reverent, parting your folds like he’s learning them from scratch. His middle finger circles your clit, not quite touching it directly — just close enough to make your thighs tremble.

“You shaved for me?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Came to study like this?”

Words fail you, conscious thought evaporating at his touch. Because just then, he pushes two fingers inside you. You bite your fist, hard.

The stretch is immediate. The way his fingers hook — upward, firm, unrelenting — makes your eyes roll back. You clench around him, wet and hot and embarrassingly ready, and he groans low under his breath like he feels it in his spine.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts moving — slow at first. A careful pump. Testing. Feeling how you open for him. His thumb brushes your clit, and your thighs jerk again. The table shakes slightly. You dig your heel into the floor to ground yourself, but it’s useless. He has you.

Every curl of his fingers finds that same spot inside you — the one that makes your knees want to give out.

Every stroke deeper makes your walls flutter. And every second your body stays silent is a war.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Taking my fingers so well. So fucking good.”

You glance at the students two rows away — hunched over laptops, lost in problem sets. They have no idea you’re being finger-fucked within arm’s reach. That he’s curling his fingers just right. That his thumb is pressed to your clit now in slow, deliberate circles. That you’re already starting to twitch, to break.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispers. “I want you to see how good I make you feel.”

You try with every ounce of willpower you possess. But when he leans across the table and growls “Come for me like this — right now — let them sit and fucking listen if you can't stay quiet,” you lose it.

Your orgasm shatters through you with the force of a detonation, your body pulsing desperately around his fingers as your hips buck forward. Stifling a moan, you bite down hard on your hand, stars exploding behind your eyes as waves of pleasure leave you trembling and wrecked. His fingers slow their torturous pace before slipping free, leaving you clenching around empty air, your skin feverish and oversensitive. When you finally manage to look up, you find him watching you intently as he slowly licks his fingers clean.

And before he can speak — before he can smirk or tease or reach for your hand — you’re already standing, already shoving your notebook back in your bag.

Wordlessly, you brush past his chair, pausing only to whisper close to his ear, "Don't follow me next time." Before he can respond, you slip away, leaving nothing but the ghost of your breath against his skin.

Jungkook remains in the sterile silence of the library, his chest heaving and body aching with need. Beyond the physical desire, something deeper and unfamiliar takes root in his chest - a feeling he can't name or shake.

The journey down the stairs passes in a haze, your legs unsteady and skin electric with lingering sensation. Your skirt clings damply, and every breath carries the taste of what just happened - salt and secrets, wild and unspoken.

The bright afternoon sun assaults your senses as you exit the building, the glare through the glass awning making your eyes water. Your heart still pounds an erratic rhythm as you stride forward, refusing to look back. You don't need to - you can feel his gaze following you from the third-floor window, heavy and inevitable as gravity itself, weighted with something that feels dangerously close to guilt.

By the time you make it to the research building, your pulse has evened out — mostly. You’ve redone your lip gloss. Pulled your hair down to hide your flushed neck. Smoothed the back of your skirt at least twice.

No one would suspect what had happened in that silent library just minutes ago, but the memory burns fresh in your mind. You climb the stairs rapidly, attempting to focus on anything else - trying to reclaim your identity as the dedicated student who lives for equations and late nights of study.

Your advisor stands outside his office, leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug bearing "I Void Warranties." After exchanging greetings, you follow him into his paper-strewn office clutching your proposal folder like a shield.

"I read your draft," he says, thumbing through the pages. "The structure and math are solid. Your quantum modeling section exceeds expectations. If you complete the final sections this week, I'll submit it early to the CERN summer board."

Your breath catches at the mention of CERN - the pinnacle, the dream, your escape route. You manage a quiet thanks as he continues.

"Remember, you're competing with grad students," he adds, pausing to sip his coffee. "Stay focused. Don't lose momentum now - especially not for a boy, no matter how good he looks in sweatpants."

Your spine stiffens at the casual observation. Though he delivers it like light banter, the implication makes your ears burn. You respond with a quick "Understood" before taking your folder and retreating to the hallway.

Outside, the ambient noise feels overwhelming - footsteps, vending machines, the persistent hum of academic ambition. As you press your hand to your chest, the reality crystallizes: Jungkook represents entropy while this grant embodies order. The math should be simple, with order emerging victorious - shouldn't it?

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There’s something almost sacred about an empty hallway just past four p.m. — the way footsteps echo too loud, the way the scent of old paper and aging floor polish settles like a hush over everything. The way the fading afternoon light slices through the tall windows in strips, dust motes dancing like particles suspended in time. You’re alone in the TA room.

The door’s cracked open. Your laptop hums softly beside the thick stack of lab reports you haven’t graded. You’ve half-forgotten what time it is. The world feels far away — a distant thing made of unread emails and unreadier feelings. The hum of fluorescent lights above your head offers the only company.

The soft click of the door opening makes you freeze. You look up to see Jeon Jungkook standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with an unspoken tension. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, each step weighted with purpose.

You don’t look up at first. You can’t. Because the second you do, the second you see the way his sweatshirt hangs off his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he closes the door behind him — you know this whole room is about to become a physics problem you can’t solve.

“I need help,” he says, casual, soft, like he’s reciting a line from memory.

You finally meet his eyes. “Wrong department.”

He exhales a laugh — just air, no humor. “I know.”

You glance past him toward the hallway, toward the closing door. The click echoes too loud in the silence. You straighten in your chair, fingers curling loosely around your pen. “If someone sees you here...”

“They won’t.”

Silence hangs between you, the air thick with tension as he moves closer, each deliberate step echoing in the quiet room.

“I’ve been trying to leave you alone,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, head tilted like he’s trying to read your expression. “I really fucking have.”

“Try harder.”

His lips twitch at the edge. “You don’t want that.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

He nods slowly. “No,” he says. “But I know how you sound when I’m inside you.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press together instinctively. The chair creaks beneath you, traitorous. You stand before you know why. Maybe to put distance. Maybe to make it worse.

“I told you,” you say, not quite steady, “this isn’t anything.”

He steps into your space so slowly it feels like a drug — all heat and closeness and scent. His fingers reach out, grazing the hem of your sleeve.

“But you keep letting me in,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing. Just tension. Raw and real. “You keep looking at me like this means nothing, then moaning like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”

You look up at him sharply. And that’s when it breaks. His hand catches the side of your jaw as his mouth crashes into yours, and there’s no slowness now, no subtlety. His other hand is already at your waist, pulling you in, gripping you like he’s waited years for this. Your folders scatter to the floor behind you, pages fluttering like panicked wings.

He pushes you against the door — not hard, but firm, solid. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the sound like it belongs to him.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, lips brushing yours, breath hot, chest pressed to yours like he’s daring you to lie.

Your silence answers for you, and without another word, he sinks to his knees. Hands sliding up your skirt, mouth already open against your thigh, biting gently as he drags your underwear down — not teasing this time, not patient. His fingers dig into your ass as he pulls you closer, lips ghosting up your inner thigh, nose brushing your skin.

And when his mouth finds you — hot, wet, already aching — you nearly scream. He licks you slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every inch. Tongue flattened, circling your clit, then sucking it softly until your knees buckle. You press your palms against the door behind you to stay upright. He groans into you, like the taste of you is something that hurts. His tongue works faster. You’re panting now, trying to stay quiet, trying not to grind against his mouth — and failing.

“Jungkook...” you whisper, broken, breathless.

He hums in response, lips wrapping around your clit again, two fingers suddenly sliding inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of your wetness filling the room — it all hits at once.

You bite down hard on your knuckle as your legs tremble beneath you, feeling the heat of tension radiating through the wood at your back. The familiar tightness builds deep inside as he senses your approaching release.

“Come on,” he growls, lips slick against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And when it hits, your world dissolves into pure sensation. The force of your release ripples through you like an inverted gravitational pull, your body writhing against the wall as waves of pleasure crash over you. Through the haze of your climax, you're dimly aware of your thighs clenching around his head, your desperate gasps for air echoing in the empty room.

He continues his relentless attention until your breathless pleas finally make him stop. When he pulls away, his face is slick with evidence of your pleasure, his swollen lips curved into satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly debauched state.

Before he can speak or reach for you, your mind snaps back to reality and the words are already forming on your tongue.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

He flinches, barely. Straightens slowly, chest still heaving.

“I’m busy,” you say again, voice steadier now, cooler. “You should go.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. He just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, the look in his eyes something molten and close to violent. Not dangerous. But on edge. Like he’s been keeping something down and you just dared him to let it loose.

He takes one step closer and you don’t back away.

“You really want me to go?” he asks, voice too calm, too soft, too furious. “After everything?”

“Yes.”

Another step. Close now. You can smell yourself on him. and it makes your knees lock.

“After the fucking library? After this?” He gestures downward, voice rising. “After you came on my face and still had the audacity to look me in the eye and pretend it meant nothing?”

You straighten your spine. “It doesn’t.”

His face hardens. “You’re such a liar.”

“I told you what this was.”

“No,” he growls, “you told me what it wasn’t.”

The air shifts. You feel it happen — the weight of the silence that follows. Heavy. Stifling. The kind that carries consequence.

Then his movements shift - he takes hold of your wrist with a grip that's firm yet gentle, his touch deliberate and sure. You shove him back instinctively, but he catches you again, faster this time. Presses you to the door — hard, body flush to yours, arm braced beside your head.

His mouth is just inches from yours. His eyes burn like he’s standing at the center of a star.

“You want me to stop?” he asks again, voice low, cracking at the edges. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, instead, you tilt your chin higher and whisper, “Make it quick.”

Without hesitation, his hand finds its way between your thighs as he shifts your panties aside. His hardened length presses against your slick entrance, drawing simultaneous sounds of pleasure from both of you - your sharp gasp mingling with his deep groan.

“No time,” he mutters, lining himself up. “No teasing. I need to be inside you now.”

And then he’s pushing in. You cry out — soft, sharp — your fingers digging into his hoodie as he fills you in one deep, unrelenting stroke. He’s thick, hot, and you’re still too wet from before. Your walls clench around him instantly.

“Fuck,” he growls into your neck. “You feel—so—fucking—good.”

You whimper, nails catching the fabric on his back.

He starts to move — slow only for the first two thrusts, then fast, desperate, furious — hips slamming into you with a rhythm that’s more like punishment than pleasure, but it still makes your toes curl. The door rattles. The room fills with breath and skin and the slap of his body against yours. Your head hits the wood behind you as he thrusts harder, deeper, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave his shape inside you.

“Tell me it’s nothing now,” he spits, voice hot in your ear. You moan.

“Say it,” he growls, hand gripping your thigh, hiking it up higher. “Say it while I’m fucking you so deep you can’t think straight.”

You can’t speak. You’re too full. Too gone. Your fingers claw for purchase as he pounds into you again and again, the pressure building fast, filthy, sharp. Every thrust pushes the breath from your lungs, and every time he slams in deeper, your walls tighten helplessly around him.

“God, you’re so wet,” he gasps. “So fucking tight. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You shake your head — a weak denial. He grabs your face with one hand, turning your mouth to his.

“You’re mine when you come,” he whispers. “No lies. No running.”

And then his fingers slip between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter in seconds.

The orgasm rips through you — fast, brutal, silent but screaming in every nerve. Your body arches, clenches, legs shaking as he fucks you through it, still chasing his own. It only takes three more thrusts before he groans and stills, cock pulsing deep inside the condom, forehead pressed to yours. The silence after is deafening.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as his arms cage you in, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric between you. When you finally open your eyes, you find him already watching - no smile, no smirk, just an intense gaze that makes your chest tighten. For a fleeting moment, everything feels weighted with possibility.

The silence stretches between you as he slowly withdraws, his movements careful and deliberate. His fingers trace delicate patterns at your waist, like he's memorizing the curve of you, and his breath fans hot against your neck. When he finally breaks the quiet, his voice is barely above a whisper, but carries a gravity that makes your pulse skip.

“You’re more than this,” Jungkook says. “Why do you keep acting like I’m not supposed to see that?”

You blink, stunned by the softness in his voice. By the truth in it. He looks at you — really looks at you — and there’s no arrogance left, no cocky smirk, no boyish charm to hide behind. Just eyes that burn too bright and too honest, like he’s tired of pretending this is all it is.

Something inside you fractures at his words. No one has ever spoken to you with such certainty, touched you as though you were irreplaceable. Not even him, until this moment.

Yet you can't afford to let him in - not when you've finally built something stable, something that won't crumble under the weight of feelings over logic.

With practiced ease, you retreat behind your walls. As you smooth your sweater and adjust your skirt, you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but his face, methodically erasing any evidence that his touch had left you trembling just moments ago.

"I have work," you say flatly, turning away. "And you need to go."

His brows pull tight as he whispers your name, but you cut him off.

"You got what you wanted."

"I didn't come here for sex," he says, voice strained. "I came here to see you."

You grab your folder from the floor, each movement deliberate and distant. "Well, now you have."

Before he can say anything else - before he can make you stay or tell you something you're not ready to hear - you slip past him and out the door, leaving him alone in a room that still echoes with everything left unsaid.

His texts light up your screen, but you can't bring yourself to open them. Three messages in total - two from last night, one this afternoon. Each notification feels like a weight on your chest.

Deep down, you already know what they say. His words echo in your mind without needing to read them: "hey, you okay?" followed by "can we talk?" and finally, "just tell me what's going on, please." The familiar cadence of his concern makes your heart ache.

You've repeated the mantra countless times - that you're done, that letting him in again would only lead to more heartache. Yet when the knock echoes through your building, your body betrays you. Despite every logical reason to stay put, your feet carry you downstairs, drawn to him like gravity refusing to let go.

He waits outside, hood drawn and hat low, hands tucked in his pockets as if trying to make himself invisible in the daylight. When you step out and close the door behind you, the sharp morning air fills your lungs.

His posture straightens at the sight of you, but his expression remains solemn. "You've been ignoring me."

You cross your arms tight against your chest, offering a noncommittal shrug. "I've been busy."

His jaw tightens as he studies you. "I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what we're doing anymore."

"There's no 'we,' Jungkook."

He draws a careful breath. "You've said that before."

"Because it's true." Your voice wavers despite your resolve.

"You claimed there was nothing between us," he says, "yet you kept coming back."

"It was just sex."

The words strike him visibly, making him flinch. You force yourself to look away, focusing on the empty street while he shakes his head. "You're lying."

A bitter smile crosses your lips. "So what if I am?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with a desperate kind of hope that's beginning to fade. "Then prove it. Look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing."

You face him, mouth parting to speak, but the words die in your throat. The truth is, you can't bring yourself to be that cruel.

The silence stretches between you like a thread about to snap. Finally, you break his gaze. "I don't have time for this. I have a future to think about."

He accepts this like a final verdict, nodding once. "Then I won't bother you again."

As he walks to the curb without looking back, you remain frozen on the steps, heart caught in your throat. You try to convince yourself this is what you wanted, even as you watch the one person who truly saw you walk away.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The bass vibrates through the off-campus house, each beat sinking into your ribs like a reminder of something long forgotten. You wonder, not for the first time tonight, why you let your friend drag you to this party where you clearly don't belong.

The scene feels foreign now - dim lights casting shadows, sharp laughter cutting through stale air, and hallways thick with the scent of vodka and poor choices. You lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a sour drink, dodging the occasional stumbling partygoer.

Despite telling yourself you'll leave within an hour, your eyes keep searching the room. And there he is - Jungkook, lounging in the corner couch with casual grace, his hoodie unzipped and a restrained laugh playing at his lips. It's nothing like the unguarded joy you remember from more intimate moments.

But he's not alone. A blonde in a short skirt presses against his side, her fingers trailing his arm with practiced familiarity as she whispers against his jaw. The sight makes your chest constrict. He neither welcomes nor rejects her attention, remaining perfectly still as she continues her advances.

Your grip tightens around your cup while someone - your friend, probably - says something you can't process. Heat rises behind your eyes as you watch this scene unfold, jealousy coursing through you despite having no right to feel it. After all, you were the one who insisted there was nothing between you.

The girl moves closer, her fingers now skimming his necklace with clear intent. But then he turns his head and catches your gaze across the room. Everything freezes - her voice fading to background noise as his eyes lock with yours, intense and unreadable.

You want to look away but can't, knowing exactly what he sees: you in your tight black dress, perfect lipstick masking hollow eyes, jealousy written in every line of your body. After three endless seconds, you break first - turning sharply and walking out into the spring night that smells of cigarettes and missed chances.

When his footsteps follow you onto the porch moments later, you cross your arms tighter and whisper to yourself: "Don't be stupid. Don't turn around. Don't let him be the thing you'll regret."

When he says your name behind you - just once, soft and broken - you already know this night will undo you again.

The cold night air wraps around you as you stand at the edge of the porch, arms crossed tightly against your chest. From here, the party's music feels distant, muffled like memories you're trying to forget. The street beyond the lawn stretches dark and empty, while you remain fixed in place, caught between staying and leaving.

The door opens behind you, followed by his footsteps and then his breath. You stay facing forward as he hovers there, the space between you charged with everything left unsaid.

"I wasn't going to kiss her," he says quietly.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to."

You close your eyes, letting silence settle between you before he speaks again.

"She doesn't matter," he says softly. "None of them do."

A bitter laugh escapes you - not because you doubt him, but because it would be easier if you did. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that."

His voice comes rougher now, raw with honesty. "I didn't even want to be here tonight."

"Then why come?"

"Because I knew you might be."

Something in his words makes you turn. The porch light traces silver along his features - his messy hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

"You think showing up changes anything?" you ask.

"I don't want to change things," he says. "I just want you to stop running."

"Running?" The word comes out hollow.

"Yes." He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You come to me like you need me, then leave like we're strangers."

Your chest tightens. "It was just sex."

"No." His eyes narrow, voice sharp with frustration. "Say it like you mean it."

You stay silent as he continues, moving closer still. "You say that, but you look at me like I've broken something. Like you hate me for making you feel."

"I don't hate you."

"But you don't trust me either."

The truth of it makes your heart pound as he softens, vulnerability bleeding through. "I'm not asking for forever. Just... a chance. I want you to try."

"You don't understand."

"Then help me."

You look down, fingers twisting in your dress as the words you've been holding back finally spill out. "I'm leaving. I got the grant."

His expression shifts subtly - not shock or anger, but a careful kind of hurt. "When?"

"End of term. Three months of research abroad."

"You weren't going to tell me."

"What would it change?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe I wouldn't have wasted time trying to hold onto something that was always leaving."

His words sting more than you expected. When your eyes meet his again, the world seems to pause, holding its breath.

"It wasn't supposed to be anything," you whisper.

"Then why are you still here?"

You have no answer, but he isn't finished. Drawing closer until you can feel his warmth, he speaks again, voice raw with emotion. "If this was just sex, why do I still taste you every time I close my eyes? Why do I check my phone constantly for a name I know won't appear?"

"I've been with others," he continues, "but never like this. Never feeling like I'm losing something I never had the right to claim."

The silence that follows feels heavy with possibility. You want to tell him so many things - not to wait, that he deserves better, that you're terrified. Instead, you whisper, "You shouldn't want me."

"Then stop making me."

His words hang between you like static, making everything else fade away. When he looks away and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betrays his vulnerability. The quiet between you has transformed from tense to aching, filled with unspoken pleas.

"Let me go with you."

The words stop your breath. "What?"

"I mean it." His voice grows gentle but determined. "Wherever this grant takes you - I don't care. I'll follow."

"You can't just-"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not realistic," you say. "This is my work, my life. Not a vacation."

"I'm not trying to make it one."

His gaze holds steady, all pretense gone. "I'll figure it out. Find something short-term, take time off. Get a place nearby."

"You can't be serious."

"I've never meant anything more."

Looking at him now, you see past the facade - beyond the cocky student who once teased you under library desks, beyond the reputation that follows him through whispered conversations. This is him stripped bare, offering something no one else has: the promise that you're worth chasing, worth disrupting a life for, worth not having to face everything alone.

"I can't promise anything," you whisper.

"I'm not asking for promises. Just a chance."

As your arms finally fall to your sides, the tension shifts but doesn't break. He moves closer, voice soft and intimate. "I don't want to be your distraction. I want to be the reason you don't carry everything alone."

You close your eyes, the desire to say yes burning in your throat. But when you look at him again, all you can manage is, "I need to think."

He nods, understanding. "Okay. Think."

Then he steps away and leaves you standing there, your heart beating out of rhythm as the universe seems to tilt on its axis. For the first time, you're not sure if running is what you want anymore.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There's a hidden principle in thermodynamics that textbooks rarely mention: systems naturally resist equilibrium, fighting against stillness until the very end. Like heat dispersing through space and time, energy spreads itself thin across moments and people until everything settles into quiet calm.

But what happens when the natural order breaks? When something you're meant to release keeps drawing you back in - like gravity with too much memory, like a particle defying probability?

Jungkook is exactly that - a force of chaos and warmth, disrupting every calculated decision. He collapses your carefully constructed equations, making you realize that entropy isn't about disorder at all. It's about surrender, about letting go of control and allowing yourself to drift toward the heat that's always been there, waiting.

So this time, you’re not fighting it anymore. Every calculation, every logical path leads to him. And instead of running, you’re finally walking toward what you've been trying to deny all along.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus has quieted into hushed twilight when you arrive at his door, the usual bustle of footsteps and laughter faded to memory. Your heart beats steady and low like background radiation as you stand there, fingers curled at your sides - not urgent or frantic, just persistent.

Neither of you has reached out since that moment on the porch, since you said you needed time to think. But in the silence between then and now, your mind has done nothing but circle back to him, again and again.

When you finally knock - just once, soft - and hear movement inside, you know with certainty that you're not here for closure. You're here for him.

The door opens to reveal Jungkook looking beautifully disheveled - hoodie inside out, chain visible, hair mussed as if he's been running his fingers through it endlessly. But it's his eyes that catch you - they come alive the moment they find yours, filled with recognition and something deeper.

No words pass between you as you step into his apartment. The door closes softly behind you, and you're enveloped by warmth - his cologne lingering on the couch fabric, an open book abandoned spine-up on the table, another hoodie draped over a chair. Everything speaks of waiting, of anticipation.

When you turn to face him, his gaze is both cautious and hopeful in the dim light. The silence stretches between you, heavy with possibility, until you finally bridge the gap - reaching for him with steady hands and certain heart.

You don’t say anything when your hand curls into his hoodie, pulling him forward. You don’t explain when your mouth finds his — soft, slow, shy. He gasps like he wasn’t sure you’d really come. And then he kisses you back.

And suddenly nothing matters but the way his hands cradle your face like it’s fragile, like he can’t believe you’re real. The way he breathes your name between kisses, reverent and raw. The way you slide your hands beneath his sweatshirt and find warmth, skin, muscle — him.

When your clothes hit the floor, it’s not frantic. It’s intentional. His fingers pull your shirt over your head like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His lips brush your shoulder, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He whispers something — too low to catch — but it sounds like finally.

You fall into his bed and he follows. When you wrap your legs around his waist, it’s not for leverage. It’s to keep him close. When he sinks into you, slow and warm and so deep you forget how to breathe, it doesn’t feel like friction — it feels like home.

He’s careful at first. One hand gripping your hip, the other splayed across your lower back as if to shield you from the world while he pushes in, inch by inch, holding his breath like your body is holy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, jaw tight. “You’re so warm… baby, you’re perfect.”

You let your head fall back, lips parting in a soft gasp when he bottoms out. He stays there, not moving, just breathing — buried so deep inside you it feels like he could disappear there, if you let him. And you would. When he starts to move, it’s unhurried — slow, deliberate strokes that drag against every nerve ending, make you arch your back into him, make your thighs shake.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with restraint, as though he’s trying to hold back from letting go too fast. “I need to hear you.”

You meet his eyes, dazed and already drunk off the stretch, the pace, the way he’s looking at you like nothing else has ever mattered.

“You feel…” you start, and the words melt in your throat. You don’t want to say “good.” That’s not enough. Not nearlyenough.

“You feel like I finally exhaled.”

He groans, and it sounds broken, like you cracked something inside him that he didn’t know was still fragile. His thrusts deepen. Not faster or harder.

Just… more. More skin. More closeness. His chest flush against yours, lips dragging across your cheek before his mouth finds the corner of yours.

He doesn’t kiss you, not right away. He nuzzles. Soft. Slow. Like he’s trying to memorize your breath. And then, finally, he kisses you — not possessive, not filthy, but aching. A mouth pressed to yours like a secret, like the beginning of a confession, like if he could live in the space where your lips meet, he would.

You moan into it, hips rolling to meet his. His hand moves to your breast, fingers circling your nipple with the lightest brush, and when you whimper, he does it again — soft, slow, coaxing your body to bloom for him like it never has for anyone else.

Your voice is almost too breathless to be heard.

“Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

You wrap your arms around his back, press your palm between his shoulder blades, hold him like you’re afraid this is all a dream.

He starts to move faster then — a new rhythm building, deeper now, hungrier, but still sweet, still controlled. Each thrust pulls a sound from your throat, quiet, high, desperate. Your nails rake softly down his spine and he hisses at the contact, fucking you harder for a beat before slowing again.

“God,” he pants, forehead to yours, “you take me so well—always. Fuck, I missed you.”

You clench around him and he notices.

“Ohhh,” he moans, voice guttural, “you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You arch into him, voice softer than a whisper. “I missed you too.”

His pace stutters. Something in him gives way. And suddenly, he’s grabbing your hand — the one beside your head — lacing his fingers through yours like he can’t bear to come without holding you.

“I’m close,” he warns, and it sounds like an apology.

“Me too,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He moves faster then. His hips slap against yours. Sweat beads at his temples. His thrusts grow sloppy, raw, needy. Your legs lock around him. You feel it building — low and sharp and inevitable.

Your climax rushes up from your spine and down your thighs, spreading like a slow, golden shatter. You cry out softly, clutching him, your whole body arching into his as you pulse around him, wave after wave rolling through you.

He breaks a second later, burying his face in your neck with a sharp groan as he spills into the condom. His body trembles above yours like a string pulled too tight while you whisper his name into his shoulder until he stills. He stays there, holding you close, neither of you wanting to break the connection.

When he finally lifts his head to kiss you — soft and unhurried and achingly tender — it feels less like an ending and more like the beginning of whatever comes next. The moment calls for words, but you let your body soften against his instead, finding comfort in the silence between you. For the first time, that silence feels full. Not empty. Not scared. Just real.

.

.

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[klausysworld]

(This is the story of Klaus going into Y/N’s room whilst Elijah is out and letting her think it’s Elijah. Please don’t read if you’re not comfortable!!)

Love Bound

Summary: Klaus has been in love with Y/N for years, watching her belong to his brother who barely loved her a fraction of what he does. He can’t help but try to express his love for her, even if she doesn’t know it’s him…but maybe she does know?

Klaus had pined after Y/N for years now, yearned for her with every beat of his heart. And yet it was Elijah who she spent her days with, her nights, her every breath wasted on him.

It drove Klaus to the end of what was left of his sanity.

He loved her so fiercely that it ached to watch her lips brush against his brothers. See his hands graze her body. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

Klaus had seen her first, spoken to her, laughed with her but Elijah got to have her? First Tatia, then Katerina and now Y/N? Klaus couldn't handle it. He knew that she could love him, he saw how she looked at him, smiled at him and would squeeze his arm gently. Offer a hug when things were bad, how her body would press against his and her soft hands would caress his back comfortingly.

Klaus knew Elijah would never love Y/N like he did, make her feel as good as he could. But Y/N was too sweet to 'cheat' on him. The guilt would eat her alive, she'd end up breaking up with Elijah and leaving out of distress. Klaus couldn't let that happen, he'd have to have her some other way.

And so, after a lot of thinking, fantasising, planning, Klaus pushed open the door to Y/N and Elijah's bedroom. Elijah was out, Klaus made sure he had errands to run all night long.

Klaus cleared his throat for the last time, praying that the stupid potion had worked as he made his way inside.

He softened for a moment when he saw her, peacefully asleep and harmless. His own eyes had to squint and focus to see through the dark, Elijah could only sleep in true darkness so he'd made sure everything was completely black-out. Perfect.

Klaus slipped his way inside, shrugging his shirt and jeans off so he was only in his boxers, just like Elijah slept, and pulled back the covers of the bed. The bed shifted under his weight and her body turned toward him, drawing to him like a moth to a flame.

His hand cupped her face, caressing her cheek gently. His top teeth sinking down against his bottom lip as he watched her stir awake.

"Y/N." He whispered, his voice so different yet so familiar at once and she hummed back at him so sweetly it made him soar.

"It's late 'lijah." she mumbled, snuggling up to his bare chest making his heart thud away. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and wrapped his arm round her to pull her close.

"I know, but...I can't sleep." He hesitated, suddenly struggling to know how Elijah would have spoken to Y/N in bed. Did he have pet names?

She grumbled quietly and nuzzled his chest, kissing his skin softly sending a shiver through his body and making him hold her tighter. The blood had already rushed to his cock before he even got into the room, just from the anticipation of what could happen.

"Elijah!" She gasped softly and pressed closer, his cock pressed right against her thigh. Klaus bit back a groan and pushed his fingers into her hair. "Didn't you have enough earlier?" She giggled as her hand gently brushed down his chest. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of Elijah being in this bed, in her, only a few hours before.

He couldn't reply to her, just moved his hips a little to tell her he needed her and she reacted so perfectly. Hand sliding down his abdomen and to the waistband of his boxers, it made his heart leap to his throat.

His mind screamed to grab her wrist, tell her to stop, that he wasn't Elijah and he'd made a mistake but no sound left him and he could only let out a surprised moan when he felt her hand wrap around his length.

"Just five minutes, and then back to sleep." She whispered, her mouth so close to his. The heat of her breath kissing his skin as she gently, slowly stroked him. Her grip lose to begin with, just helping him get fully hard.

"Yeah..." He uttered, eyes fluttering as he used his vampiric vision to see her pretty face trying to look up at him. Those darling eyes of hers not quiet being able to pinpoint him as her pupils dilated to their maximum. "Just five minutes."

She let out the softest of laughs and tightened her hold around him, squeezing from his base all the way up. Klaus let out a grunt and pressed his mouth to hers.

He'd kissed her once before. They'd both been so drunk, she'd been so upset that she'd seen Elijah and Hayley making out on the balcony. He wanted to be there for her, he wanted to ask her to leave Elijah and be with him. But instead all he got was a kiss, a long beautiful kiss but she felt too guilty to keep going, even if Elijah was able to, she couldn't.

This way she could.

His tongue delved into her mouth, he'd remembered her taste so well. She moaned softly against him whilst her hand worked him firmly, wrist rocking a little quicker.

She pulled away slightly, pecking his lips a couple extra times and resting her forehead against his as she stroked him almost methodically. Must've been to Elijah's preference because Klaus needed more.

"You're being so quiet." She whispered, her other hand cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking the stubble. Her brow furrowed slightly and he felt a wave of panic. She couldn't recognise him, he couldn't do that. She'd be so mad at him.

So instead he just let out a groan for her and bucked his hips to her hand making her smile and push on top of him, her legs settling either side of his hips.

Klaus felt like he was going to explode. "I need you." He choked and she hummed, leaning down to kiss his jaw softly.

"You have me Elijah." She uttered and he groaned.

"Don't..." He trailed, he wanted to say 'don't call me that' but it would ruin everything.

"Don't what, baby?" She murmured, still rubbing his cock along her palm, his tip occasionally brushing against her wet cunt.

"Nothing- just-" His mouth was dry and his body trembling. Her head tilted and she sat down on his lap, her hands letting go of him and rubbing his abdomen gently.

"What's wrong 'lijah?" She asked, her tone so gentle that Klaus loathed Elijah for ever making her feel less than perfect. His head shook and he rolled her onto her back, his body sliding between her legs with ease.

"I love you." He declared, even if she didn't know who it was coming from, it meant a lot for her to hear.

Her body welcomed him eagerly, her nails scraping his skin to urge him in. So he did.

Klaus's eyes were barely open as he felt her tight little body wrap around him, holding onto him so tight whilst he edged each inch in. His wolf held back a purr when she whimpered at him.

"You-" She gasped softly, clinging onto him, "You're thicker than- than usual." Klaus could only moan in response, his pride and ego swelling at the knowledge.

"Yeah?" He whispered, pushing the rest of the way in and listening to the cry she let out. God, he didn't know she'd be so vocal. This must be why Elijah had the room soundproofed.

She was perfect, face in his neck and hands gripping his shoulders whilst his hips rolled against hers, his pelvic bone rubbing against her whilst his cock moved snuggly through her surrounding walls.

"Eli..." She whispered, a crack to her voice as her legs lifted to hike over his hips, pulling him closer, deeper.

Klaus grunted and thrust a little rougher. "Don't call me that." He whispered against her ear, his lips hot on her skin. "You're mine," he claimed "not his." In that moment he couldn't have cared if she knew or not, but he couldn't be called Elijah another time or he'd lose it.

She didn't seem to notice much anyway, she still held onto him, whimpering and moaning away. Her soft pussy squeezing around him and soaking his dick. "Please..." She breathed, he could taste her desperation as her body pulsed for his.

"I'm here." He mumbled, kissing her mouth passionately as his cock thrust into her just right, knocking the spot inside her which made her back arch and toes curl.

Klaus moaned out, low and long when he felt her cum around him. His cock throbbed inside her at the sensation and he pushed her head back, removing his mouth from hers to listen to her pant and moan for air.

"Oh, love." He sighed, hips still moving just slower now as her body grew in sensitivity and the nails in his back most definitely drew blood. "You're everything to me." He purred, nothing but affection in his voice as his forehead pressed to hers and he pulled himself out of her, a shuddering breath leaving him as he released across the smooth skin of her stomach.

The warmth made her smile and she tilted her head further to kiss him again. "I love you." She told him, promised him. But was it for him?

Klaus kissed her cheek, her head, her mouth. He'd kiss each inch of her if he could. He needed her. He always had.

"I mean it." She whispered, her hand caressing his face, hesitantly, gently touching his hair. Klaus swallowed thickly, his hair was enough of a give away and yet she did not look alarmed. "I love you Niklaus." She uttered, a kiss to his chin. "Even when I should not."

His stomach flipped, confusion swirling as he stared at her. He could see those sweet eyes of her still looking all over the place to find his face.

"You knew..." He trailed, voice weak as he dragged his gaze down the length of their body and back up.

"Not the whole time." Her head shook faintly against the pillows. He shifted his weight off her and fell to lay at her side, his arm too shaky to catch him as she reached to touch him comfortingly.

"Forgive me."

"Perhaps I can't. Perhaps I already have." She laid her head to his chest. "You must be gone before Elijah's back. He'd be murderous."

"He doesn't love you as I do." He trembled and she nodded solemnly.

"No. But he won't let me go either."

He wanted to offer to dagger Elijah, so they could be together, but she wouldn't let that happen and he wouldn't be able to live with her resenting him. Klaus held her close, hands clasped round her.

"One day I'll set you free." She smiled weakly in response. Perhaps one day he would. But the Mikaelson's were ruthless and they did not let things go. She dread the thought of what Elijah might do to them both if he ever knew what had happened that night.

[rulerofstars]

little miss home-renter

long drabble: your frustration with your dad's best friend constantly showing up in your life takes an unexpected turn when you're forced to call him for help building your bed at midnight.

pairing: dbf! bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, romcom, enemies to lovers... kinda, steve is literally daddy, 1.6k words.

you don't even get the chance to open the door before you hear them bickering, their voices carrying through the hallway like they own the damn building.

"back straight, steve," bucky's voice rings clear as a bell. "you're gonna pull something, old man."

"i'm carrying the lighter box," your dad retorts.

"yeah, because i let you," bucky shoots back, the smirk evident in his voice even through solid wood.

you sigh so hard you might've bruised a rib.

every. damn. time. you invite your dad over, bucky shows up too. like he's glued to your father's side, surgically attached or bound by an oath made in blood. it's like they've never outgrown their glory days, still thick as thieves, cracking jokes and throwing their backs out for fun. you get it, veteran loyalty, lifelong friendship, whatever. but sometimes, you just want your dad. not... bucky.

especially not when you're in sweatpants with a coffee stain on the knee and a ratty college shirt you've had since freshman year. and especially not when bucky looks like he walked off a mechanic calendar—tight black shirt stretching across his chest, jeans that hug in all the right places, that metal arm flexing under cardboard weight like he's deliberately putting on a show.

you pretend not to notice. you're getting good at that.

the door finally swings open, revealing your dad's beaming face and bucky's imposing figure right behind him, box balanced effortlessly on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. the sunlight catches on his metal arm, and you have to squint just to look at him.

"there she is!" your dad exclaims, placing his significantly smaller box down to wrap you in a bear hug. "my little homeowner."

"it's a rental, dad," you mumble into his shoulder, but you're smiling despite yourself.

over his shoulder, your eyes meet bucky's. he gives you that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes you want to either slap him or…

you push that thought away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

the move goes fast, too fast. you barely get a word in before the couch is already set against the wall, your boxes stacked alphabetically (thanks, bucky, you controlling jerk), and your dad's cracking open beers like he just fought a war instead of carrying a microwave.

"to new beginnings," your dad toasts, raising his bottle.

"and to actual furniture," bucky adds, eyeing your mismatched thrift store decor with amusement dancing in his eyes.

you try not to scowl when bucky ruffles your hair like you're still twelve and says, "proud of you, kid. all grown-up and everything."

you bat his hand away with more force than necessary.

"i could've done it without you guys," you insist, chin raised slightly in defiance.

your dad snorts so hard beer almost comes out his nose. "sure, pumpkin."

bucky doesn't say anything, but his eyes say everything, skepticism mixed with something softer that you refuse to analyze.

they leave an hour later, your dad promising to bring extra tupperware because you can't live on takeout forever, bucky making a joke about your fridge being stocked with "fermented oat milk and nothing else."

"i have condiments too, asshole," you mutter.

"ketchup packets don't count as a food group," he fires back without missing a beat.

you flip them both off behind the door once it closes.

the first few hours alone are glorious. quiet. yours.

you open boxes. hang photos. light candles that smell like "urban rainstorm" and "financial stability." you blast music no one can tell you to turn down.

but then you make the mistake of tackling the bedframe.

four pieces in, you realize the screws don't match the holes. seven pieces in, one of the slats breaks with a crack that sounds suspiciously like laughter. ten pieces in, you're sweating and breathing heavily and considering just sleeping on the damn floor forever. you lie there for a full minute, sprawled among wooden planks and screws, trying to will the bedframe to finish itself through sheer female independence.

it doesn't.

you groan. you curse. you dramatically fling an allen wrench across the room like it's personally betrayed your lineage.

then you reach for your phone.

your thumb hovers over your dad's contact, but something makes you scroll down to the "b" section instead.

it's 12:41 am when you open the door, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who has swallowed a gallon of pride and is still choking on it.

bucky leans on the frame, toolbox in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face. he's still in the same clothes from earlier, but somehow he looks even better in the dim hallway light. it's patently unfair.

"you look like you've been through war," he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.

"i hate furniture," you mutter, closing the door behind him. "it's a capitalist conspiracy."

"i told you to wait till tomorrow." his voice is low, amused but not mocking.

"you said that, but you also laughed when i said i'd build it myself."

he shrugs, bending down to examine the wreckage that was supposed to be your bed. "and i was right. you built a modern art installation. could probably sell it for thousands."

you glare, arms crossed over your chest. "less talking. more fixing."

to your surprise, he doesn't say much after that, he just works. efficient. calm. occasionally giving you little instructions like you're his assistant and not the one who dragged him out of bed past midnight.

"hold this." 

"hand me that phillips head." 

"not that one, the other one." 

"no, not—jesus, do you know what a phillips head looks like?"

you sit back at some point, watching him. the way his brows furrow in concentration. the steady pace of his hands, metal and flesh both equally gentle with the wood. the flex of his back muscles under his shirt as he leans forward to tighten a screw. it's annoying, how naturally capable he is. like he was built for these kinds of moments. like he was meant to be there, in your apartment, fixing the things you couldn't.

you cross your arms. "why are you always with him?"

he doesn't look up. "with who?"

"my dad. you never come without him. doesn't it get old? being his... sidekick or something?"

he lets out a quiet breath. almost a laugh. tight and amused. "he's my best friend."

"i know. but still. it's like he can't go anywhere without you. i invite him for dinner and boom—there's bucky. i call him for help, there's bucky. i move out, and who's lifting my couch? bucky."

this time, he pauses. looks up. his blue eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. his expression is unreadable, but something in it makes your breath catch.

"you mad about that?" he asks quietly.

you blink, suddenly unsure. "no. i just... notice."

something shifts in the silence between you. he nods once, like he understands more than you're saying, and goes back to work. his movements seem different now—more deliberate, careful, like he's thinking about something else entirely.

it's 2:07 am when the bedframe finally stands tall and smug in the middle of your room, a testament to his skill and your failure.

"built like a tank," bucky says, brushing his hands together, metal glinting under your cheap overhead light. "you'll sleep like a queen."

you give it a test push. it doesn't creak. not even a wobble. of course it doesn't.

he's walking toward the door, toolbox in hand, when you stop him.

"wait."

he turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

you try not to look too hopeful, too eager. "i baked cookies earlier. i was gonna give them to dad but... you want some? as a thank you."

his brow rises higher, and there's the faintest twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "you baked?"

"yes, barnes, i can bake," you snap, defensive. "i'm not completely useless."

"never said you were."

he accepts one like it's an offering from another realm, bites into it cautiously as if expecting it to bite back. chews. Nods.

"these are actually good," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.

you cross your arms, trying to look offended but secretly pleased. "wow. you sound shocked."

he licks a crumb from his thumb, throws you a look over his shoulder that makes your stomach do something complicated. "you finally did something on your own. i'm proud."

you hurl a pillow at him. he catches it midair with his metal hand, reflexes sharp as ever.

smirking. always smirking. like he knows something you don't.

"thanks," you say, softer this time. "for coming over. at midnight. you didn't have to."

he studies you for a moment. "yeah, i did."

something in his tone makes you look up, really look at him. for a second, you think you see something in his eyes— beyond the teasing, it was warm and genuine and it makes your heart skip.

but then he's moving toward the door again, and the moment evaporates like it was never there.

"next time," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "just call me first. not after you've demolished half the furniture."

"there won't be a next time," you lie, and both of you know it.

he just shakes his head, that infuriating half-smile back in place. "night, brat."

you watch him leave, metal arm glinting under the kitchen light, and wonder if he knows he's the one thing you wouldn't mind your dad bringing around all the time.

maybe someday you'll tell him.

but not tonight.

tonight, you sleep on a perfectly built bed, stomach full of cookies, and the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air.

you're independent. kind of. but you're not stupid.

you know who you'll call next time, too.

[dilfstarr]

Toji x black fem reader

a/n: reader is role playing as a stripper, yummy! Toji is a freak, but we know he gets zownnn. Ignore the mistakes if any. 18+

Speechless by Beyoncé playing silky smooth from the nearby speaker as your hips swayed in figure eights, allowing the fabric of your pink silk nightgown to flow freely. Manicured fingers drag up from your exposed thighs to your perky twins giving them a quick squeeze. Red LED lights complemented perfectly with your bronze shiny skin. The man in front of you sat slouched on the couch with a joint to lips. The hand that wasn’t preoccupied was draped comfortably behind the couch. He twirls his index finger in a circler manner, mutely telling you to turn around. Kitten heels that balanced on the wooden coffee table clinked and clacked as you turned around, per the client’s request. You bend over— hands grasping at your ankles, as you maneuver the muscles in your thighs to make your ass clap. A satisfied grunt of approval left his lips as he pulled the blunt from his lips, tilting his head up and blowing gray smoke to the ceiling. His wet tongue moisturized his bottom lip before he complimented you.

“You’re s’perfect.”

It was a regularish night— Toji counting his money that he made from his earlier mission while the television, that occasionally held his attention, played the highlights from the UFC championship match. The couch and coffee table was scattered with different bills ranging from ones to hundreds accompanied by tan rubber bands. The flickering sound of the money counter and the blaring TV competed on who could be the loudest before he joined the competition— yelling for you.

“BABE!”

Pedicured feet plopped against the wood as you sped walk down the hall. You were oh so happy to get your “allowance” before you groaned at the mess that he made in the living room. It looked like a hurricane and a tornado had beef and settled it in your front room. Per usual, he sat in the middle of it.

“I just cleaned this living room this morning Toji.” Your arms fell in defeat as you explained your frustration. You continue walking around the mess to face him, visibly pouting.

“You act like I don’t clean or somethin’ doll.” He doesn’t.

He hands you four enormous stacks of bills from his pile. You go to grab it from him before he’s snatching it back towards him.

“You better act like you have some manners.”

You stood there confused because what the fuck is he talking about, until he puckered his lips for a kiss. Leaning down to kiss his lips— which wasn’t a kiss, he stuck his tongue out last second to lick your lips. The attempt to lighten the mood was a success as your pout was replaced with a tight grin. You wipe the spit from your face as you accept the money he gave you.

“How much??”

“Twenty.”

“You’re so good to me. I might give you a strip tease.” His ears perk up at your suggestion. His body flopped back on the couch, groaning from the force. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Don’t play, you know I have my stripper outfit on standby!”

“Go put it on then, I’ll tighten up in here a bit.”

“Will I get more money.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Which lead you here.

He reached beside him, grabbing the many stacks of money wrapped in rubber bands that were scattered on the couch that he sat on. He tucked the blunt securely between his lips before unwrapping the bills. The rubber band made a quiet tang sound— wrapping it around his wrist that housed the previous ones. His index and thumb work together to grab a good chunk of money, throwing the fresh hundred dollar bills at your bent over figure. The couch creaked under the weight of Toji as he leaned forward to smack your ass. He took the money that he didn’t throw to money spread up your leg, across your ass, and down the other leg. Obviously the cash couldn’t stay balanced so it all fell due to gravity. Your ass had him in a trance, he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Finally finding his words he asked, “How much for a lap dance pretty?”

“Depending if you want my clothes on or off.” You purr, standing upright.

“On. Then we can can see from there.”

He reaches beside him to grab three huge stacks of bills, sitting it beside your shoe. You have a small nod of understanding as his hand reaches for yours, helping you off the coffee table so you didn’t trip or worse— fall. The floor was littered with cash and rubber bands, having to shift your shoes so you didn’t stand in an awkward manner. His beautiful gray eyes were low and tinted red as he watched and awaited your next move. His bottom lip was glossy from just licking it before bringing the smoke to his pink lips.

The song concludes and fades into Poison by Brent Faitaz.

Your heel covered foot rose above his crotch before gently bringing it down. He grunt at the sensation, hand ghosting over your leg before handing the blunt over in your direction. His hands gently caress your ankle before sliding the shoe off, throwing it aimlessly behind him. His warm mouth found comfort in the arch of your foot as he flooded it with kisses. He placed your leg down gently back on the wooden floor, reaching for the other one with the motion of his hand. He repeated the same gesture with the second foot.

“Take a hit.” He mumbled into the heel of your other foot.

Looking down at the joint, you bring it up to your glossed lips. Inhaling deeply— allowing the drug to flood deeply into your lungs, letting the smoke float freely out of your mouth.

“You so fuckin’ sexy when you do that shit.”

You giggle at his words before handing it back to him. Now you don’t know if it was the weed or his words, but a wave of confidence flowed through your body like blood. You climbed on his lap, hands finding comfort on the back of his neck. Your hips moved in a back and forth motion as you grind on his lap. His cockhead becomes more pronounced as he got aroused, rubbing deliciously on your clit. His bottom lip was tucked behind the top row of his pearly whites as he watched your hips in amazement.

“Does your wife know you come here to see me?”

“Wha-”

This dude completely forgot that y’all were role playing and was about to ask what the hell you were talking about before catching himself. He hums as if he was thinking before replying, “Nah. I’ll like to keep it between us if you don’t mind pretty.”

You giggle at his response, giving a small nod.

The slightly upbeat tune of Labios Rotos by Zoé plays next. Immediately after hearing the intro, you rise up to the tips of your toes rocking your body up and down to the rhythm— ass clapping to the beat of the song. The new profound movement cause your gown to rise up— completely showcasing your ass from behind. Toji places the smoke on the nearby ashtray before smacking your ass to the beat. You snickered at his doings, continuing your dirty dancing. His hands trace up from the sides of your ass, meeting in the middle of your breast. He tugs down the silk fabric, exposing your pierced brown areolas. They bounce in circles growing his hunger for you to an unbearable state. The rest of the dance had to wait. Without a peep, he lifted up off the couch, holding you firmly in his grasp as he walked to the bedroom.

You found yourself in doggy— your arms holding tightly around your leg. Your puffy tear stain cheek was squished against bed, drooling spilling out of your lips.

“You fuckin me sho’ fuckin goood! Don’t stopuhh!”

His hand was wrapped around the silk of your gown and used it as momentum to bring you back to him. With each connection of your bodies, there was a nasty plap behind it as his steady pace increases. Yea he was a cocky ass nigga, we already knew. Once you start stroking his ego he had to show out. Just a lil bit.

“It feels good don’t it baby?”

“Yeaaaah!”

“Yeaaaah?” He mocked you— his voice in an almost whisper. His hands ditched your dress and reached for hips— pushing them into the bed. Your arms unwrapped from your legs reaching under to grab both of your ankles.

“Where you feel me baby?” The question was followed by a stinging smack to the side of your ass cheek.

“Y-you’re sho’ deep- In my stomach!”

“Like always.”

Incoherent undecipherable nonsense left your lips as you talked into the comforter. The pulse of your tight hole became more pronounced indicating that you were about to cum. Waiting Toji to finish with you, your hand left you ankle reaching upward—soft hands cupping his balls. His dick instantly throbbed inside of you as he groaned into the air.

“Fuuuckkk! Y-you want me to cum, huh?”

“Uh huuuh. P-please I love it. I… I want your nut please.”

“You’re so fuckin good. My good fuckin girl. Let it go princess.”

A gasped squeak erupted from your vocal cords as you came on demand. Your finger braced around Toji’s muscular thighs. One of your legs shook significantly harder than the other slightly vibrating the bed underneath. You came so hard you didn’t even notice Toji pumping his warm seed into you until his deep groan filled the atmosphere. He cussed your name— slowly pumping in and out of you. He regrouped himself minutes later— slipping out from your warm embrace.

“Push it out princess.”

You contracted the muscles in your stomach to push out his release. The warm goodness leaked out of your hole, sliding down to your clit before splattering on the bed.

“Mhm. There you go pretty.”

His wet tongue traced around your enlarged clit up to your sopping hole. He hummed at the combination of the juices, slurping it effectively out of you. Holding it in his mouth, he grabbed your face bringing you into a headed kiss. The cum that he held captive in his mouth dripped carelessly down your chin.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Don't Wanna Think Anymore

Summary: Sub Timo after losing a game and he doesn't wanna think anymore

Warnings: Upset! Timo, Encouraging! Reader, Sub Timo x Dom Reader, Pet names, Hand and blowjob, Slight nipple play, Bondage, Dirty talk, Overstimulation, Marking, Riding him, Praise

Word Count: 3.1k

Timo stormed into his penthouse apartment slamming the door behind him. He had just lost a crucial game due to a costly mistake, and he was feeling frustrated. His mood wasn't improved by the sound of the rain outside, as if the world was mocking his defeat. He leaned against the door, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down. Then, he heard a soft, welcoming voice behind him, "Bad game?" He turned and saw you waiting for him in the living room. Your kind, comforting presence was like a balm to his wounded ego.

He walked over to you and slumped down on the couch next to you. "Yeah," he said with a sigh, "We played well, but they just…I just made some careless mistakes. God, I can't believe I let the team down like that. I'm supposed to be one of their best players…" You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "Hey, hey…it's okay. We all make mistakes. You're human, after all. And it's not like you cost the game all by yourself. It's a team sport, and everyone makes mistakes." Timo leans into your touch, appreciating your words. "I know, but…I can't help feeling like it's my fault. Everyone counts on me. The team's struggling and the fans are relying on me to turn things around. And I just…I just keep failing them…"

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, "You're too hard on yourself. You've been playing great this season. You're just having a bad game, that's all. You'll bounce back. I have no doubt about it." He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of gratitude and desperation. "Do you really think so?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. You nodded your head, running your thumb gently over his cheek. "Of course. You're one of the best players in the league, Timo. You've proven yourself time and time again. This is just a blip in your career. You'll get through this and come back stronger than ever." Timo let out a deep sigh, the weight of his defeat and frustration settling heavily on his shoulders. He then looked up at you, his expression a mix of vulnerability and need. "Can I ask you for something?" he asked softly. You nodded, encouraging him to go on. "Of course. What is it?" you replied, gently stroking his shoulder. Timo took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I…I need something from you…something specific," he whispered. You could sense the hesitation in his voice. "What is it, Timo? You can tell me," you said softly, your fingers still tracing gently patterns over his skin.

Timo was silent for a moment, his body tensing as if he was wrestling with himself. He then looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and hesitation. "I need you to take control," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I want you to…to dominate me." A slow, sensual smile spread across your face as you listened to Timo's request. You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke in a low, husky tone, "Oh, I'd be delighted to take charge, baby boy." Your hands slid down to grip his thighs, squeezing gently. "But first, let's get comfortable, shall we?" You stood up and pulled Timo along with you, guiding him towards the bedroom. Once inside, you pushed him onto the bed, crawling on top of him. Leaning down, you captured his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, your tongue exploring every inch of his warm, wet cavern. Breaking away, you gazed into his eyes, your own burning with lust and authority as you thought over how to best help him in the moment and figured you'd start slow.

As soon as Timo felt your dominant energy wash over him, a shiver ran down his spine. He melted under your intense gaze, surrendering completely to your will. When your lips claimed his, he moaned softly into the kiss, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. He responded eagerly, his own tongue dancing with yours, craving more of your taste and dominance. When you broke the kiss, he was left panting, his heart racing in anticipation of what would come next. He watched you with wide, eager eyes, ready to submit fully to your desires. "Please," he whispered, his voice trembling with need, "Show me how to let go completely." A wicked grin spread across your face at Timo's plea, and you purred, "As you wish, handsome." You started by trailing your fingers down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. Continuing lower, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly dragged them down, exposing his throbbing erection. You wrapped your hand around it, giving it a firm squeeze before starting to stroke in long, deliberate motions. "Focus on the sensations," you instructed, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. "Let your mind quiet and just feel what I do to you."

Timo gasped as your hand closed around his aching cock, a jolt of pleasure shooting through him. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking more of your touch. As you began to stroke him, he threw his head back, a low groan escaping his throat. The sensation of your skilled hand working his length was almost overwhelming, sending waves of heat coursing through his veins. He focused intently on the feelings, letting go of his worries and doubts, allowing himself to become completely immersed in the pleasure. "Ah, fuck…yes," he breathed, his voice thick with need. "That feels incredible." He reached up to thread his fingers through your hair, holding you close as he surrendered to the blissful torment of your ministrations. You continued to pump Timo's shaft with increasing intensity, your other hand roaming over his body to tease and stimulate his nipples and sides. As he grew more responsive, you leaned down to capture one of those pebbled buds between your teeth, sucking and nibbling until he cried out in delight. "Mmm, such a good boy, getting so worked up for me," you murmured against his skin, your hot breath sending shivers down his spine. You released his nipple with a pop and returned to stroking his cock, applying just enough pressure to hit that sweet spot inside him with each thrust of your fist. "Come for me, Timo. Let go," you commanded, your voice low and seductive.

Timo's entire body trembled as you lavished attention on his sensitive nipples, the dual sensations of your skilled hand and teasing mouth pushing him rapidly towards the edge. "Oh god, oh fuck…!" he gasped, his hips jerking erratically as you found that perfect rhythm. The commanding tone in your voice sent a thrill straight to his core, and with a final, desperate cry, he came undone. His cock pulsed in your grasp, spilling hot ropes of cum across his stomach as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over him. "Yes, yes, ah!" he shouted, his body convulsing with the force of his orgasm. As the aftershocks subsided, he collapsed back onto the bed, panting heavily, his skin slick with sweat and satisfaction. You smiled down at Timo, pleased with the result of your efforts. "Glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart," you purred, releasing his spent cock and wiping the excess cum from his abdomen with a gentle touch. You crawled up his body, pressing kisses along his jaw and neck as you went. "But don't think we're done yet. I have plenty more in store for you tonight." With that promise, you captured his lips in another kiss, your tongue delving deep to claim his mouth once more. As you kissed, your hands roamed his body, mapping out every curve and contour, stoking the embers of his arousal back to life. "Now, let's see how well you can follow instructions when I tie you up and make you beg for release."

Timo's eyes widened at your words, a thrill of excitement mixed with a hint of trepidation coursing through him. The idea of being tied up and at your mercy both terrified and thrilled him, sparking a renewed sense of desire. "I-I trust you," he stammered, his voice laced with nervous anticipation. "Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just…please be gentle with me." He offered up his wrists submissively, already imagining the sensation of being bound and helpless beneath your skillful touch. "Make me yours, baby," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours with a pleading intensity. "Use me however you want." A satisfied smirk curled your lips at Timo's willing submission, and you leaned in to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, pouring all your desire and dominance into the embrace. Breaking away, you reached for the silk restraints hanging from the bedside table, wrapping one around each of Timo's wrists and securing them to the bedposts. "Look at you, so beautiful and vulnerable," you praised, running your fingers along the lines of his bound arms. You descended upon his body once more, kissing and nipping a trail down his chest and abdomen until you reached the apex of his thighs. You paused there, gazing up at him with a hungry look in your eyes. "Tell me what you need, Timo. Beg me to give it to you."

Timo's breath hitched as you fastened the restraints, a delicious shiver running down his spine at the feeling of being secured and at your mercy. His heart raced with anticipation as you trailed kisses lower, each touch igniting sparks of pleasure throughout his body. When you paused between his thighs, he couldn't help but arch his hips upward, silently pleading for more. "Please," he whimpered, his voice strained with need. "I need you on my cock, use me like a toy…make me yours completely." He looked down at you with pleading, lust-filled eyes, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "Fuck me, I'm yours to claim." A chuckle rumbled in your chest at Timo's desperate pleas, and you licked your lips, savoring the sight of him spread out and exposed, begging for your touch. You leaned in to brush your mouth against the head of his cock, relishing the salty tang of his pre-cum. "Such a greedy little thing, aren't you?" you teased, your hot breath fanning over his sensitive flesh. You wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked gently, swirling your tongue around the crown before taking him deeper into the warmth of your mouth. As you bobbed your head, you reached between his legs to fondle his balls, rolling them in your palm while continuing to work his shaft with your mouth and tongue.

Timo cried out in ecstasy as your mouth enveloped him, his back arching off the bed in a wordless scream of pleasure. The sensation of your lips and tongue on his aching cock was pure heaven, and he tangled his fingers in the sheets, trying to ground himself amidst the storm of sensations. "Oh fuck, yes! Just like that, please…don't stop," he begged, his hips bucking involuntarily as you brought him closer to the edge. The dual stimulation of your mouth and hand on his testicles was driving him wild, and he could feel his climax building rapidly. "I'm gonna…ahh, I'm going to cum!" he warned, his voice high and strained. "Please, let me fill your mouth!" You hummed around Timo's cock, the vibrations adding to his pleasure as you quickened your pace, determined to bring him over the brink. Feeling his warning signs, you pulled back slightly, leaving only the tip of his shaft in your mouth as you looked up at him with a sultry gaze. "Go ahead, baby," you coaxed, "give me everything you've got." With that encouragement, you took him deep once more, swallowing around him as he erupted, his hot seed flooding your mouth. You milked him through his orgasm, suckling gently as you savored the taste of his release. Finally, you released him with a soft pop, licking your lips clean as you gazed up at him with a triumphant smile. "Delicious," you purred.

Timo lay panting and spent, his body still quivering with the aftershocks of his intense orgasm. He watched you through hooded eyes, a dazed smile on his face as he tried to process the incredible pleasure you had just given him. "Wow," he breathed, his voice hoarse from crying out in ecstasy. "That was…incredible. You're amazing." He struggled slightly against the restraints, a playful glint in his eye as he easily fell more into a clouded headspace. You chuckled at Timo's struggle, shaking your head in amusement. "Easy there, big guy," you said, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. "You're not going anywhere just yet. We're far from done." You leaned in to capture his lips in a tender kiss, soothing him with your touch and affectionate caresses. After a moment, you pulled back and gazed into his eyes, a mischievous spark igniting within you. "Time for round three," you announced. "Get ready to serve your purpose properly."

Timo's eyes fluttered open, his mind foggy from the aftermath of his climaxes. But at your words, a flicker of awareness sparked within him, and he focused on your face, a lazy, contented smile spreading across his features. "Round three, huh?" he murmured, his voice heavy with satiation. "I suppose I can manage that." He shifted slightly, his cock already beginning to stir again at the prospect of pleasing you further. "Just tell me what you need, and I'll do my best to make it happen." His gaze met yours, a mix of devotion and eagerness shining in his eyes as he prepared to offer himself once more to your desires. You grinned at Timo's willingness, impressed by his endurance and adaptability. "Very good," you praised, sliding your hand down his chest to wrap around his half-hard cock. "Since you're so eager, why don't you show me how much you appreciate my dominance?" You pumped his shaft a few times, watching it grow firmer in your grip. "Beg me to use you, Timo. Tell me how much you crave me using you, filling me up and claiming you as mine."

Timo's breath caught as your hand closed around his cock, a surge of renewed arousal coursing through him at your touch. He bit his lip, his eyes darkening with lust as he considered your command. "Please, baby," he whispered, his voice trembling with need. "I need you to use me. I need to feel inside of you, stretching you open and claiming me as yours. Let me fill you up, make me yours completely." He arched his hips, offering himself to you, his cock throbbing in your hand. "I want to serve you, to be your toy, your plaything. Use me however you want, just please…fuck me." A low, approving growl rumbled in your chest at Timo's impassioned plea, and you tightened your grip on his cock, stroking him firmly as you positioned yourself over him. "Such a good boy, begging so prettily for me," you purred, aligning your entrance with his waiting shaft. Slowly, deliberately, you sank down onto him, relishing the feel of his thick length filling you up. "Mmm, yes…you feel so good inside me," you moaned, settling into a comfortable rhythm as you rode him. You reached up to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his head back to expose the column of his throat. "And now, I'm going to mark you as mine," you declared, leaning in to bite and suck at his skin, branding him with your possession.

Timo's vision blurred as you lowered yourself onto him, the sensation of your tight heat enveloping his cock making his head spin with pleasure. He groaned loudly, his hands fisting in the sheets as he struggled to maintain control, wanting to focus on the exquisite feeling of being buried inside you. But as you began to move, setting a steady, sensual pace, he lost himself entirely to the experience. Each roll of your hips pressed him deeper, stimulating his sensitive nerves and sending jolts of electricity through his body. "Ahh, fuck…yes, just like that," he gasped, his voice raw with need. When you pulled his head back to bite and suck at his throat, he shuddered, a primal moan escaping him as he submitted completely to your dominance. "Mark me, claim me, make me yours." Your teeth sank into Timo's throat, marking him as your own as you continued to ride him. The combination of his thick cock stretching you and the power of dominating him sent you spiraling toward your own peak. "You're mine, Timo," you growled against his skin, punctuating your declaration with another sharp bite. "My toy, my good boy." Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his shaft as you chased your climax. "Fill me up, baby," you urged, your movements becoming erratic as you neared the edge. "Give me everything you've got."

Timo's world narrowed to the intense sensations of being used and possessed by you. Your bites and marks only heightened his arousal, fueling his desire to submit completely. As you urged him to fill you, he felt his own climax approaching, his balls drawing up tight against his body. "Yes, I'm yours, all yours," he chanted, his voice broken with pleasure. With a final, powerful thrust, he spilled himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied his load. "Take it all, baby, every last drop," he moaned, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm. As the waves of ecstasy subsided, he collapsed back onto the bed, spent and utterly satisfied, knowing he had fulfilled his purpose as your willing plaything. You rode out the aftershocks of your climax, your inner muscles massaging Timo's softening cock as you basked in the afterglow of their shared pleasure. Finally, you lifted yourself off him, a satisfied sigh escaping your lips as you gazed down at his flushed, exhausted form. "Excellent performance, my dear," you praised, running a gentle hand over his chest. "You served me very well indeed." You helped him untie his wrists, then pulled him into a tender embrace, nuzzling his temple affectionately. "Rest now, love. You've earned it."

Timo nestled into your embrace, a contented smile curving his lips as he savored the warmth and security of your arms around him. He felt utterly spent, physically and emotionally drained from the intense encounter, but also deeply fulfilled. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "That was…more than I could have hoped for." He yawned widely, his eyelids growing heavy as fatigue set in. "I think I might actually sleep now," he joked weakly, already drifting off. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he clung to you, grateful for the comfort and acceptance you provided, knowing he could always count on you to guide him through whatever desires or bad games ahead.

[mariwritess]

Winter Warmth - Itoshi Sae

Content - fluff, occ Sae (?), no angst or smut, not proofread, fem-bodied reader (mention of a skirt) but no use of pronouns for reader.

Author's Note - Hello again! With exam seasons coming up, I have not gotten the opportunity to write as frequently as I would have liked to :( I wasn't satisfied with my draft and kept rewriting it, but I finally have something to post. Anyhow, I hope I haven't made too many grammar mistakes, please enjoy!

You hate the winter. You’ve always hated it, and always will. At least that’s what you’ve told yourself during every previous excruciatingly uncomfortable period of cold weather that gnaws at your bones and numbs your lungs upon inhaling the crisp frigidness of the air. This year was no different, you grumbled to yourself as your frozen fingers found refuge in the scarce warmth the pockets of your jacket could provide. Sure, you could’ve dressed warmer, added another layer, put on a proper scarf… but as you did so every time, you’d succumbed to the nagging urge to replicate an outfit from your Pinterest board. So what if it was full of clothing far too thin for such icy temperatures? A proper look and overall distinguished appearance was definitely worth the dreadfully long soon-to-be-over moments of suffering mild discomfort. You hugged your arms to your chest as you continued to make your way across the pavement, a small sigh of relief escaping past your lips and fogging into the air as his apartment comes into view— the tall, unassuming building a beacon of hope amidst the growing desperation to escape the permanent tremble in your muscles and the constant chatter of your teeth clashing together. Cars rumbled past your side, engines sputtering and groaning against their confines, and other passerby — clearly more appropriately dressed for such weather — shuffled along with their chins tucked into the neckline of their coats, noses buried into the fluff of their scarves. You hurried your step, eager to escape Winter’s icy nips.

Finally, you pressed your shoulder against the glass door of his building’s lobby and used your weight to shift it open, the sudden wave of warmth upon your entrance forcing an audible sigh of relief from your lips. He’s going to kill me when he sees me… You shudder at the thought, rubbing your palms up and down your arms in a naÏve attempt to appear less… half-frozen to death. The echoing clicks of your soles against the floor trailed behind you, the faint smell of cleaning products lingering in the corridor you traversed, habit guiding you past the many apartment doors you knew weren’t his. 27A… 29A… 31A… 33A— you come to a halt, facing the wooden door you’d opened and closed countless times before – the sight a familiar landmark in the midst of neighbours you’d never met. You pause for a moment, an odd sense of self-awareness overcoming you as your hand lifts to flatten your hair and readjust your shirt. You had half the mind to turn around and make up some kind of excuse– you woke up late, your (nonexistent) dog died, you had last minute plans with the President– any possible excuse to escape the earful you were about to receive from your fretful boyfriend. Ultimately deciding against it, you shook your head to rid yourself of any ridiculous theories before lifting your hand up and letting your knuckles fall repeatedly against the polished wood. A moment passes, silence drowning out the shuffling of your shoes against the doormat before a muffled sound emerges from within – and soon enough, the door swung open.

He looks at you for a beat, his eyes judgingly raking over your choice of clothing as he raises an eyebrow. Ever the sassy man, he was.

“I didn’t know summer was in the middle of January.” Sae hums, pulling the door open a little wider as he leans against the doorframe, almost as if awaiting whatever excuse you’d made up this time.

You sigh, giving him a sheepish grin when your brain fails to back you up on your poor decision skills. “I know, I’m sorry. I won’t get sick, though, I promise.”

He exhales, clicking his tongue in disapprovement before moving forward, laying a gentle hand on your lower back to guide you into his apartment. “You better not, or you’ll only have yourself to blame.” he huffs, knowing full well he’d be at your beck and call to nurse you back to health, but he’d never admit that. Not to your face, at least. He frowns, albeit lacking any real frustration as he watches you remove your shoes and make your way to the living room. “Not that you’ll listen, anyway…” he murmurs, pressing his thumb to the control panel to turn the heating up before joining you on the sofa — the plush fabric dipping under his weight as he sinks his way down beside you, his arm outstretched over the back of the sofa.

You let yourself lean into him, a force of habit hard to shake off – not that either of you would want to, anyway. A gentle sigh slips past your lips as you bask in the warmth of his apartment. It was all so warm, so comfortable, so… homely. You supposed, in a way, that you could remain like this forever; nestled against the world– your world.

Maybe winter wasn’t so bad after all.

[erwinsvow]

oh and sammy!!!! can't forget about him. thinking about sammy and the girl he rescues—maybe he just happens to be driving by and sees you maybe getting your purse stolen or interrupts a robbery or a shooting and when he shows up he yanks you down and yells at you to stay down while he gets up to find the suspect. maybe he had body blocked you, covered you completely at the risk of getting shot himself and you could feel all his weight on top of you before he got up to chase them. and then afterwards they’re getting statements and you’re shaking like a leaf so he puts his suit jacket around you and you stare up at him with wet eyes and say thank you detective. he notices the cute dress you’re wearing under his jacket and that expression he hasn’t seen in a while like he hung stars rather than just pulling you down to make sure you didn’t catch a ricocheting bullet. and then maybe he leaves after everything’s done and you have a friend pick you up and you kind of stare at him before getting your friend's car, and both of you forget about the suit jacket until he's back at his desk reaching for it and you're hanging it up in your apartment. so then later that day he tells nate some excuse, right, that he needs to verify this other witness statement and on his way home he uses the information they got earlier and knocks on your door.

he looks a little different than earlier, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up and you're still in your little dress from earlier because it's not that late—the day's just ended. and you apologize profusely, telling him you're so sorry about his jacket and that it was a mistake and you must have just been really out of it and flustered to forget something like that, hand it back to him and the two of you hold onto it for a little too long. just seconds too long, because he can feel your warm fingertips brush against his. and then he sees it—the bruise on your forearm, shaped remarkably like his hand, and he doesn't realize how hard he pulled you down. and now he's apologizing and you're thanking him for saving you, giving him that dazed, glassy stare that makes satisfaction roll into his veins everytime you blink up at him. and maybe he comes in just for like twenty minutes, sets his coat down on your couch and drinks the cup of coffee you make for him very sweetly in a pink mug. stares around your little one-bedroom, takes in the decorations which can only be described as cute. you live in a shit neighborhood which is why you almost died at the bank this morning but you've done the best you could with the place—it's homey and warm with candles burning and a puzzle on the dining room table. he heads out because he can't stay too long and you don't ask questions or press it, just thank him again and tell him you hope he liked the coffee. and then he leaves, and when he puts his jacket back on, it smells like you. and he thuds his head against the steering wheel because man if it's not enough to make him hard.

the next night, around the same time, there's a knock on the door. this time you're in pajamas, cute but the kind you don't think anyone's gonna be seeing, shorts that are a little too short, a top that hangs off your shoulder. and sammy's at your door. thought i should check on that bruise. how's it doin' today? and you don't say anything for a moment. and then you invite him inside for another cup of coffee.

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (OC)

Chapter I | Chapter II: Wounds and Kisses

Gif by @iamasaddie Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Chapter Summary: As Y/N begins to heal the wounds of her dark past through the trust she places in Joel, he silently burns with the truth that he killed her father. While their closeness deepens into a passionate love, the devastation beneath that bond draws nearer as they approach Jackson.

Word Count: 10k

!Warnings!: +18, Fluff (Romantic softness, emotional moments), Hurt/Comfort dynamic, Oral Sex to Female, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Soft!Joel / Protective!Joel, Angst, Slow-burn romance with emotional conflict, Age gap dynamics, Post-apocalyptic setting (violence implied, survival context), Sex with Stranger, Mature Themes (Emotional intensity, implied intimacy), English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

The day hung heavy, like a lament falling eastward.

The sky was cloaked in rust-colored clouds. On the horizon, it wasn’t the sun that seemed to rise—it was the smoke of a past still burning. The wind wandered down Redhill’s dusty roads, licking the wooden walls of old houses as it passed. It wasn’t just the people saying goodbye; the earth itself seemed ready to let go.

Your horse was ready.

A broad-shouldered, gray mustang. A heavy saddle on its back. Ammunition pouches hung at the sides, a sack of dried meat, an old canteen, a few syringes and bandages—all packed with care. A rifle slung over your shoulder, a knife at your hip, a silenced pistol strapped to your thigh.

Not preparations for survival—but for killing.

You stood in the heart of Redhill, beside your horse. An old but sturdy leather jacket hugged your frame, maps and notes tucked into its lining. Your hair whipped in the wind, your eyes fixed on a single point: the horizon. That was the road that led to Joel Miller.

Nico appeared beside you. He was young. His eyes still held hope. He had fought beside you the night Cutter fell, escaped that hell with you. Now, his shoulders bore the weight of worry.

“Don’t go alone. Let me come. I’ll carry the map, help set camp... Every day someone takes that road, and they never come back, Y/N. Think of us.”

You silently checked the cinch strap. Stroked the horse’s neck. You didn’t answer. Because the answer was a storm inside you: I have to do this alone.

Reuben stayed silent, at first. But in the end, he couldn’t hold back. He stepped toward you, his eyes laced with that familiar wounded fury.

“This isn’t a search anymore. It’s an obsession. Joel Miller... what will you do when you find him? Just kill him? What if he tells you why he dropped the watch? What if that night wasn’t what you think?”

Your eyes locked onto his. Your words cut between you like a rusted blade. “That man killed my father. The reason doesn’t matter. The story doesn’t matter. There’s only one moment that needs to be made right, Reuben. And I’ll carve it in his blood.”

Reuben’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His eyes welled up. Still, he stepped back. Because he knew you. And in your gaze, he didn’t see a decision—he saw a vow.

Rory stood further off. He didn’t come forward from the crowd. He simply bowed his head. He, too, knew that some roads had to be walked alone.

You climbed onto the saddle. The horse snorted gently. The crowd around you fell quiet. Children swallowed their words, women averted their eyes. Everyone knew they were witnessing a moment—the leader of Redhill riding out alone. A story to be retold for years.

You secured your backpack. Checked your weapons. Then you pulled out the most important item from your pocket: a watch with a cracked face.

You had found it beside your father’s corpse, lying in blood and dust. Two initials carved into the back: J. M.

Now, those letters rested between your fingers.

Time had stopped that day.

But for you, it would begin again now.

You stared at the watch’s face. Your vision darkened, your heart clenched. Joel Miller.

You whispered his name, softly, yet with resolve. “I will find you. And I’ll take everything from you.”

Then you pulled the reins. The horse neighed, reared up. Dust rose, the shadows of the past fell behind you.

And you left Redhill.

No song played at that moment.

But if one had, it would’ve been a dirge written in death, rage, and vengeance. Because this was no longer a journey.

This was fate.

And at the end of the road, either Joel Miller would die…

Or you would.

One Year Later...

The sky was split in shades of gray, like a cracked bone.

A cold, dry wind blew from the east, clinging to your horse’s mane and your hair like a banner of vengeance. The ground hadn’t seen rain in days; it had cracked open. You galloped without stepping on those cracks.

Each strike of your horse’s hooves sent a shiver through the earth,

Every step, a bullet to the past.

Every breath, a challenge to the future.

You rode with your chest held high, pushing against the wind.

The rifle slung over your shoulder was not a burden but a reminder: of who you were, and why you were on this road.

A silenced pistol strapped tight to your belt, a slim steel blade at your left hip. They had become part of your body with every step. The way you sat in the saddle was like a warrior clad in armor. You were alone, but never incomplete.

Your eyes were sharp, your jaw locked, your mind sealed with one name:

Joel Miller.

As you rode, you tried to paint his face in your mind.

How old was he now? Was he tired, or still a ghost trailing death?

What were his eyes like? Cold and gray, or dark with regret?

And when he saw you, what would he say?

Would he remember that night? The gun pointed at your father, the blood spilled on Redhill’s soil?

Or would he try to kill you before saying a word?

But in your mind, he said nothing.

Because your fury had already pressed a blade to his lips.

“My name is Y/N. I’ve come to settle a score.”

That sentence echoed in your head with every gallop.

Days passed.

At night, you camped alone. You didn’t light fires—flames attracted both infected and the living.

Instead, you tied your horse quietly to a tree and slept on edge in the dark.

You followed the trail. Abandoned outposts by the roadside, dried bloodstains, places where civilization once existed...

And danger, of course, waited in ambush.

A gang started tracking you.

While searching for water at an old gas station perched on a ridge, you noticed them.

They weren’t just scavengers. They were coordinated, signaling each other.

But you were a hunter who had caught their scent.

Before stepping into the station, you noticed tire marks on the ground.

The twitch of dry branches beneath the trees.

A glint of a blade behind a rusted fridge to your left...

It was a trap.

But you thought faster than they did.

You crouched, left your horse behind the trees.

Your hands went to your ammo box. Silently, you screwed on the suppressor.

The first one—a lookout with only one eye—never saw you. A bullet opened a hole in his forehead.

The second and third shouted. But it was already too late.

As you ran toward the station, you lit the Molotov you’d left on the ground.

Glass, gasoline, and fire came together.

As the gang scattered, you slipped in through the back door.

You stabbed one, shot another in the throat with his own gun.

But that wasn’t all, because inside, you found a map.

Dirty, bloodstained, old paper.

A small settlement marked in red: Jackson.

Below it was scribbled: “Eli’s guy. Ex-smuggler. J. Miller???”

You felt your heart stop for a beat.

Jackson...

Eli’s guy...

Joel Miller.

It wasn’t confirmation, but it was a trail.

If it was real, it was your first step toward the target.

But you hadn’t reached a star yet.

The darkness was still thick. You were still at the beginning. You didn’t know if Joel was even still in Jackson or alive.

But now, you had a place.

A direction.

And a hope that fanned the fire inside you.

“Found you, bastard...”

Your whisper disappeared into the silence of the night.

You called your horse, mounted the saddle again.

You rode toward the horizon, but this was no longer a journey. It had become a hunt.

As you tucked the map into your belt pouch, only one sentence crossed your mind:

“I haven’t forgotten you, Joel Miller. I can’t rewind time, but I’ll be the one to mark your final hour.”

Snow was not a silence—it was a threat.

Each flake drifted from the sky not to soothe, but to sear, its chill sinking not just into your skin, but into your bones.

This was nature’s final warning: this far, you may come. Beyond this, a price must be paid.

The mountain passes leading to Jackson were now only lines on a map. In reality, they were icy trails skirting cliffs, rope bridges replacing collapsed ones, and cemeteries buried under snow.

One night, during a blizzard so thick you had to set up camp, you heard the sound.

First, a rasp. Then, a scream.

When you grabbed your weapon and rushed out, it was already too late.

A stalker, with infected flesh hanging from its eye, was tearing into your horse’s throat.

You burned them both.

But when you looked at Cobalt’s lifeless body, your breath caught for the first time.

Your horse’s corpse had taken both a loyal friend and the silent shadow that carried your burden.

Days passed.

Now, you had only a backpack, two weapons, and a steel knife.

Food? A few cans, a piece of dried meat.

When you reached a town, it was rubble: houses burnt down, signs toppled, windows shattered.

But something caught your eye behind a toppled bus in the middle of the street. Bodies.

Rotting—but recent.

This was the work of a gang.

Man-made horror.

You stayed in hiding. Scanned the area with your eyes, finger on the trigger.

Two men, crouched behind cover, were speaking.

Their voices tangled with the howling wind, but one word stood out:

“Jackson.”

One of them was holding a map in his lap. You waited. Patiently.

Despite the dagger of cold, you stayed motionless for hours…

When night fell, you moved silently.

You took the first man out with a suppressed bullet lodged in his throat.

The second you silenced with your knife.

When you grabbed the map, your hands trembled.

Whether from cold or a rekindled hope you didn’t know.

The map was old. But there were a few notes scrawled on it:

“Jackson, last confirmed.”

“Ex-Firefly? Dangerous. Avoid.”

You dragged your finger over that name.

You were one step closer to the trail of Joel Miller.

But you were at your limit.

Your shoulder was bruised, your feet swollen with infection, your stomach screaming in pain.

As you walked, your head would sometimes spin, your ears ringing.

But still, you stood tall. Because this wasn’t just a walk—it was a vowed journey.

And at the end of this path stood a face whose name you knew: Joel Miller.

When you collapsed beneath a tree, the sky above was thick with snow.

You stared into the void with dulled eyes, and slowly, your eyelids fell shut.

The cold was no longer gnawing just at your body—it was devouring your soul.

As you collapsed beneath the tree, your legs barely carried you anymore. The cracks on your hands were bleeding, your fingernails darkened with rot. Your feet were swollen; the cold mixed with infection, and in places your skin was riddled with open wounds, oozing pus without even the mercy of a scab. The trembling in your knees wasn’t just from fatigue—your body was giving out.

You were giving out.

Since your horse died, sleep had become nothing more than the act of closing your eyes for a while. But this time… this time was different.

When you shut your eyes, it wasn’t just darkness.

There was a voice.

“End this road… my girl… that man is still breathing…”

The voice was familiar. It came from deep inside, from somewhere that crushed your chest. It was your father’s voice. That earthy tone mixed with tobacco—the one you used to hear every morning, long forgotten until now.

“Don’t let him live… not before you die…”

The wind turned to a moan. The whispers grew louder.

Branches thrashed, the earth beat with a pulse. Your eyelids grew heavy. Your breath faded into the dark.

CRRKKK!

A twig snapped.

When your eyes opened again, the cold was no longer in your bone. It was pounding in your ears. You shifted. Your hand accidentally knocked over a snow-covered tin can.

Clink.

You froze. Your breath halted. Something, no, several things, moved. The silence broke into groans.

“HRRRkk, kkkrrhhh…”

They were getting closer. Creatures that found their prey by sound, with no eyes. Clickers.

Three of them. Maybe four.

One of them creeping between the trees had a face split down the middle. Its teeth jutted out from its throat. It wasn’t human. It was death, walking.

You tried to stand. Your knees collapsed .You pulled out your gun. No suppressor. Bullet count: Seven.

The first clicker, shot straight in the head. The sound drew the others. They snarled and turned toward you. One got so close, you could feel its breath. You pulled your knife and drove it into its lower jaw. But the other one… was faster. It lunged. Threw you to the ground.

Your shoulder slammed into stone, stars burst in your vision. You screamed. It tore through your throat. “HELP ME!”

No one came. No one would. You were alone. Alone again.

Your scream was muffled by the snow, mocked by the mountain’s echo. The clicker had you pinned.Its claws reached for your throat…

You fired your last bullet. Right into its mouth. It exploded. Blood and flesh spattered your face.

A moment of silence. But your body couldn’t keep going. Your shoulder bled, your chest heaved with pain. There was nothing left.

You slowly leaned back against the tree. The cold blanketed you like a shroud. Your eyes dropped shut.

One more click, no. A footstep. Heavy. Steady. Leaving prints in the snow. Approaching with an unbroken rhythm.

Your eyes half-opened. You saw through a haze.

A face… Half-covered in beard. Eyes full of history. Eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it. A leather jacket, dusted with snow. A rifle over his shoulder. A pistol at his hip, worn but well-maintained. Pain written in the lines of his face.

He stepped closer. He was looking at you. Just as you reached out a hand toward him, your breath turned to mist, and your eyes closed.

Darkness came again.

Cold…

It wasn’t just the cold of the earth or the dry snow brushing your skin—it was stubborn, silent, and unfamiliar.

You felt suspended somewhere between dream and death, perched on the edge between consciousness and oblivion. Your chest rose and fell, but your soul had buried itself deep, waiting motionless in a body too tired to carry its own weight.

And then a shadow fell over you.

A heavy, deliberate step, carrying the weight of a life long lived.

The crunch of half-frozen leaves and mud merged with the low howl of the wind.

When the man knelt beside you, he made no sound.

He scanned the area, holding his rifle at throat level. His eyes—caught somewhere between gray and brown—shifted from your face to the tracks in the snow, like peering through a mist.

Soon, his attention locked onto the shards of glass embedded in your body, the bruises blooming beneath your skin, and your frostbitten fingers stiff with cold.

“Goddamn…”

His voice was taut and weary, like wind groaning through the branches of a dead tree.

As he examined your wounds, his brow furrowed. He hesitated before touching you. He reached out. He pulled back. His face tightened. He closed his eyes.

It was as if long-buried graves inside him had begun to stir from years of silence.

Then, as he was trying to turn you around, something small and metal slipped out of your backpack.

It hit the frozen earth with a faint chime that rooted the man in place.

He sank to his knees. With cautious fingers, he reached for it. It was a watch—small, round, and familiar. He turned it in his palm. On the back… “J.M.” Two small letters.

It stared back at him like a wound in time.

His pulse quickened. His throat dried. His eyes returned to your limp, nearly lifeless body. He inhaled deeply, but the weight in his chest wasn’t the kind you could breathe through.

“How... how is this possible?”

The watch didn’t tick anymore, but the memories inside it were still turning.

He had lost it years ago—maybe during a firefight, or in the ashes of a burned-out camp.

Maybe buried with a body. And now, it was in the hands of this girl.

Who was she? Why did she have this watch?

And why had this silent curse from Joel Miller’s past suddenly crawled this close to him?

His gaze drifted off. He didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to leave either.

“Just walk away,” he muttered.

“Everyone carries their own damn grave on this road.”

But even gravestones have names carved into them.

And this girl didn’t deserve to be buried with a name that wasn’t hers.

He clenched his jaw. Sank into the snow beside you and slid his arm beneath yours.

Your body was so heavy—not just with your weight, but with the curse of the road you’d walked.

A weak moan escaped your throat.

But you didn’t wake. Your eyes remained cracked open, lips pale, fingers near frozen.

He turned to his horse.

Lifted you onto the saddle, holding you in front of him.

Your head collapsed against his chest. But his eyes weren’t on you—they were gazing into the distance, through the snowfall, into the past, into a life long gone.

And as he tugged his horse forward, boots sinking into the snow, he whispered a sentence—barely a prayer, not quite hope.

Just the echo of a burden too old to shed:

“Jackson’s far… but not as far as you.”

And then he rode into the unknown.

The sky darkened. The snow swallowed every trace.

And you… you no longer heard the ticking of the watch in your ears.

You carried it now—inside the heartbeat beneath your chest.

The shelter used to be a Ranger outpost. Hidden deep in the forest, tucked beneath a winding mountain path, it had become nearly invisible over the years. The logs were moss-covered, the roof partially collapsed, but the door stood firm. The walls were thick enough to block the cold wind outside. Inside, the air reeked of dampness—mold and the rot of forgotten times seeped from every splinter of wood.

When the man took you into his arms, your body was nearly frozen. Your fingers were purple, your skin dry, your lips cracked. The deeper wounds hadn’t even had time to scab over—pus had seeped into them. A long infected gash from a claw ran down your back, a bullet had grazed your right thigh, and your wrists were cramped from exhaustion. You were so weak that even the arms carrying you trembled with guilt.

He laid you down on the broken-down bed inside the camp. Threw a dry blanket over you, then spread an old medical kit on the floor.

Inside were a syringe of antibiotics, clean bandages, a scalpel, needle and thread. He had nothing else—just years of experience and the instinct to survive.

He disinfected his hands. Heated a small metal bowl on the stove. He started with the worst of your wounds—the claw mark on your back.

Each time he tried to clean the wound with gauze, your body flinched involuntarily. You were murmuring in delirium.

The same word, over and over again. “Daddy...”

Your voice, in that moment, was like a child’s. Vulnerable, broken, filled with longing.

Joel’s hands paused. His eyes locked onto you. He brushed back the dirty hair stuck to your forehead. That restless sleep flickering beneath your eyelids reminded him of his own daughter.

Someone who had once laid her head against his chest, mumbling in her sleep in the dark...

But time was cruel. Now it was your head resting against his chest. You were a stranger, but the curve of your body, the rhythm of your breathing, the pain you carried—somewhere in the rusted corner of his heart, it stirred something.

After cleaning your wound, he warmed the needle and injected the antibiotic into your muscle. Every movement was silent. He carefully cut your pants with the knife. Examined the bullet graze, removed the dead skin, then pressed antiseptic on it. Your skin burned like fire.

Joel placed a cold compress on your forehead, kept your lips moist, and occasionally lifted your head to help you drink water.

One day passed. Night fell.

There, the watch he had just slipped into his pocket...

The wood crackled in the small stove, and you were still asleep.

With his thumb, he touched the back of the watch again. “J.M.”

He slowly took it out and held it in his palm.

He paused. Something stirred in his mind.

Like opening the lid of a dusty chest… memory first wandered through the fog, then began to sharpen.

Redhill.

A small settlement. Once full of traders and sentries.

Joel had gone there with the Vultures.

Back then, the job was to “clear” enemy territories—either drive the people out, or silence them. Redhill’s leader... he was a strong man. There had been a confrontation. Blood was spilled. Y/F/N... Joel had shot him himself. At close range.

The man must’ve been Joel’s age. There had been no surrender in his eyes.dı. Gözlerinde teslimiyet yoktu.

And that watch had been on Joel’s wrist.

His breath caught. He clutched at the ache that ran down to his wrists, as if trying to suppress it. He put the watch down. Raised his head. Looked at you.

Your skin still pale, your eyes still closed, your breath shallow. But your pain was etched clearly on your face.

“Was that your father?” he whispered, only to himself.

“Did I kill him?”

And in that moment, he understood.

The woman lying before him was the very sin he had carried on his back for years. The watch was in his hand.

Your words, the voice in his dreams, the cries for help… they all pointed in one direction.

You were looking for Joel Miller.

And he had saved you. Slowly nursed you back to life. That warmth he had felt when he first held you against his chest—it was the herald of a disaster.

But now it was too late. Because in that moment, it was as if fate had already begun to write its story.

You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, but Joel Miller was looking at his enemy with compassion for the first time.

For the first time, someone who didn’t deserve forgiveness... wanted to be forgiven.

Your eyelids felt like lead. Amid the muffled hum echoing inside your mind, there was a voice—one that reminded you to breathe. But that voice was always there, like a patient morning. Like a tone pulled from fire.

When you finally opened your eyes, you stared at the ceiling under a dim light. The beams were veiled with cobwebs. The scent in the air... wood, antiseptic, and a faint sour trace of burned skin.

Then, when you turned your head to the right, you saw the man in the shadows. He was silent. Cleaning a knife in his hand. Slowly, carefully. His face, caught between shadow and light, was etched with lines carved by time and regret. His hair was slightly unkempt, his beard darkened.

But his eyes... In his eyes was the solitude of another era.

When you stirred, he flinched. He set the knife aside. Came closer.

He asked only with his eyes: “How do you feel?”

Your throat was dry. Your voice barely came out. “Water…”

He touched your lips with a piece of cloth. Even a few drops helped you cling to life.

As you laid your head back onto the pillow, you saw he was still watching you.

As if he was trying to memorize every contour of your face, every wound.

“Why did you save me?” Your voice was clearer this time. It was part defiance, part search for meaning.

He said nothing. Then bent his knees and sat in the chair beside the bed.

“It had to be done,” he said. His voice was deep, rough, yet soft.

You frowned.

“What’s your name?”

He paused. His eyes lingered on you.

Then he looked away. Calmly, he cut the word like a blade. “Stranger.” No more, no less.

Silence settled into the room.

The fire in the stove crackled and sparked. Each pop flung the unspoken between you into the air.

“And you?” he asked then. “Do I need to ask who you are, what you’re looking for?”

You turned your head back to the ceiling.

A smile tried to push through your throat, but it felt more like pain.

“I’m someone who’s lost,” you said. “I’m looking for someone. But… I’m not so sure why anymore.”

This time, he said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

The vein beside his chin grew more defined.

Fragments of dreams that reminded you of that night slammed into your mind. Flames, screams, your father’s eyes, and a bullet from within the darkness. A silent vow.

But now, in this man’s eyes, there was something that made you more than a stranger. Not just a saved soul…

He was a spirit tired enough not to judge, yet observant enough to see the darkness you were hiding.

Joel Miller… acted as if he didn’t know you. But in the depth of his heart, he recognized you—from the shame he buried years ago. The watch was still in his pocket.

His hands kept going to that pocket, as if to check it. He couldn’t give it to you. Not yet. He didn’t have the courage.

The stove’s dim orange light timidly illuminated the dark corners of the shelter. The wind brushing across the roof occasionally made the wooden walls tremble. In the snow-covered mountains, this little world existed only through your shared breath.

You, leaning against the pillows in the bed, saw Joel approaching with narrowed eyes. In his hand: a roll of bandages, a small metal box, a bottle of disinfectant—and a muffled silence.

“This is going to hurt a little,” he said in a low voice. “All you need to do… is endure.”

He carefully unwrapped the bandage on your shoulder. He examined the dried blood, the cracked skin, the edges of the wound filled with pus. When he reached your torso, he pushed back the torn edges of your shirt. When the warmth of his hand touched your skin, you felt something different for the first time.

Not pain. A pull. You realized your body was focusing on that contact independently from you.

"Your hands aren’t cold," you whispered.

"You seem used to this."

His eyes -carrying all the shades of brown- met yours.

There was something in his gaze. As if what you said echoed a voice he remembered. But still, he frowned and looked down.

"Getting used to something usually means it’s not good for you," he said.

"I’ve seen too many wounds. Ones that never closed… and some I caused myself."

That last sentence hung in the air.

You held your breath. Joel poured antiseptic on a cotton swab and pressed it to your wound. The pain burned through you, but you didn’t make a sound. You only clenched your teeth. And when Joel looked up, there was a hint of respect in his eyes. A silent admiration for something unbroken.

"I still don’t know your name," you said, your voice soft but cautious.

"Stranger... does that still apply?"

He shrugged. Avoiding your eyes, he replied,

"It does. Anything more... might be dangerous right now."

There was shelter in that sentence. A desire to protect himself... not from you, but from what he might hear from you. And you knew that.

Because you were doing the same thing.

"Do you think," you asked, "a person can choose not to know certain things?"

Joel stayed silent for a while. He carefully wrapped the bandage around your arm. Every movement was slow, measured. As if touching you required not just physical, but emotional distance too.

"Because once you know," he finally said,

"everything changes. Sometimes... there’s no going back."

Your eyes lingered on his. You were about to say something, but his hand settled on your shoulder.

"Now... I need to get you on your feet," he said.

"You need to take a few steps before your muscles atrophy."

You nodded. Slowly, with his help, you stood. Your knees trembled, your scars ached deep inside. But you were standing. Leaning on him.

You took a step together.

The shelter was small but wide enough; despite the snow-covered, leaking roof, it was still breathable in here. Your steps were heavy and unsteady; as your feet touched the ground, it wasn’t the pain of your bruises you felt the most... but the warmth of where he held you. Joel’s hand on your waist wasn’t just support. That hand... was like a memory reaching out from the darkness to keep you alive. And you, in the palm of a stranger… were trying to walk in the warmth of a man you didn’t know, but somehow had no choice but to trust.

You paused every five steps. Your chest tightened. Joel immediately slowed down. He matched his pace to yours. He leaned toward your shoulder.

"If we need to stop, we stop," he said quietly, almost a whisper.

"This isn’t something to rush. You’ve lost blood."

"No…" you said, breathless. "I can walk. At least… I have to try."

Your eyes… every time they met Joel’s, you found a deep emptiness. Not emptiness, maybe... a repressed pain. There was a collapse inside him. And strangely, you saw your own grief in that collapse.

When you reached the broken mirror in the corner of the shelter, Joel stopped.

So did you. Your breath was fast, your skin trembling. Joel turned his head slightly. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

"You’re alone," you said suddenly.

"I feel it… when I look at you."

There was a moment of silence. That typical, stony expression on Joel’s face… but a tiny fracture appeared between his brows. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked off into the distance.

"I needed to be alone," he said.

"This... is a mission. If I weren’t alone, it would draw attention. Being alone is sometimes the safest way to survive."

A mission...

Your hand instinctively reached for the edge of the bandage on your arm.

"What mission?" you asked, curious. But deep inside, this was a test. Not one to force a confession, but a truth you would weigh yourself.

Joel didn’t look away. His jaw clenched slightly. He clearly considered not answering. But then, he made a decision. He didn’t lie.

As if he owed you something...

"I was sent from Jackson," he said.

"One of the border surveillance outposts, Northpoint, lost contact two weeks ago. We thought it was the weather. But when the second week ended... someone had to check it out. I had to go alone. I know the area… and how to track."

Jackson.

Something stirred inside you. But you didn’t show it. You looked away.

Swallowed hard.

So he was there. He really lived in the same place as Joel Miller. But you couldn’t ask that. It had to stay hidden.

"Surveillance outpost," you said, nodding slightly. "Tracking… missing teams… radio cuts. So that’s why you were alone."

Joel had narrowed his eyes. He was observing you closely. You knowing too much made him uneasy.

"I... can help," you said suddenly.

Joel frowned immediately. "No. You can barely walk in this state."

"I’ll be fine," you said, locking eyes with him. "And this kind of stuff… radio systems, signal loss, technical things… I can handle them. Back then… when I worked with my dad, we used to repair these kinds of systems. Antenna connections, power supplies, frequency matches… If the system is broken, I can either fix it or help you collect backup data."

Joel was silent. He narrowed his eyes. He was weighing you inside. That offer was both a gift and a threat.

"Stranger," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You brought me here. You healed me. Now I owe you. And… if we want to survive in this world, we also have to learn not to stay alone."

Joel tilted his head slightly. His gaze swept over you. For a moment… his lips trembled. As if he was trying hard not to say "no."

But then he nodded. "Then focus on healing," he said. "We leave at dawn."

And you… for the first time, felt that this man truly trusted you.

You didn’t know what you were yet.

But something had begun.

You were the one who cracked Joel Miller’s heart for the first time. And that crack… carried both light and darkness within.

Then Joel guided you back to the bed. He pulled up the blanket.

As you closed your eyes, he was still watching you.

And in his pocket, the watch still remained. The initials J.M. echoed in his mind. The flames of Redhill danced before his eyes.

He knew he had killed your father.

But now, for the first time, he realized, none of the things he’d ever killed had hurt him this deeply.

Early in the morning, while the sky was still leaden gray, the cold that rushed into your eyes as you opened the shelter door seeped into your bones. But you had no other choice. While Joel packed up the supplies, you remained wrapped in the blanket. Your fingers were still numb, and you couldn’t feel your feet. Your body was dealing with wounds that had started to heal but were still fragile, while your mind… was fighting a different battle.

Joel. The man whose name you still didn’t know but whose presence you felt in your very flesh. He had called you “Stranger,” yet he had cleansed the poison from your veins with his hands, held your face during feverish dreams, and let you rest your head on his chest at night.

And now… you were leaving together. To Northpoint.

When Joel brought the horse out from the grove next to the shelter, you were still shivering at the door, wrapped in the blanket. A thin layer of snow had gathered on the animal. Dark steam rose from its breath, and it pawed the ground restlessly. Joel stroked the animal first. He spoke to it in a low voice. “Alright, girl… you’re not alone today.”

Then he turned to you. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hands from inside his gloves.

“Enough,” you said. When you lifted your face and met his eyes, for a moment… there was no difference between them and the sky. Cold, gray, misty… but those eyes held a glimmer of hope that surrounded you.

When Joel lifted you, your breath caught. The stitches on your arm stretched. You clenched your teeth. But at that exact moment, like a father, he gently placed his arms around your hips, leaned your body lightly against his, and helped you onto the horse’s back.

When his hand touched your back, its warmth reached your very core. You held your breath while he tilted his head slightly and asked without looking away, “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you said quickly. But it did hurt.

And somehow, it wasn’t the pain itself—but the way he asked—that caused a deeper ache inside.

When Joel mounted the horse behind you, you were now in front of him. His arms encircled you from the sides. When he took the reins, his hands brushed against your waist. His fingers were gentle.

But inside… storms were raging.

And you set off.

As you moved through the trees, in the silence echoing among the snow-covered branches, there was no sound except the horse’s hooves. The cold had numbed your hands. Your body still hadn’t recovered. And you couldn’t help yourself.

Your head tilted back… you rested your shoulder against his chest.

Joel paused for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t push you away.

On the contrary, he held the reins tighter.

And you, nestled in his embrace, on that broad chest… found peace in your exhaustion for the first time.

His heartbeat… slow, steady, and oddly reassuring. His warmth spread all the way to the nape of your neck. And Joel began riding the horse carefully, as if he were carrying you inside him, despite the freezing air .But Joel’s heart… wasn’t like yours. As you drifted into sleep or a dream, he kept his eyes fixed on the road, searching for shadows behind every tree.

Tracking… while holding you. And while holding you… he was feeling you.

The weight of your injured body leaning against his ribs… the soft breaths rising from the nape of your neck… your fingers, unconsciously brushing against his thighs… These things stirred another truth within him. His interest in you. The desire he had denied since the moment he found you.

But this desire… was dirty. Because he knew. You may not have known who you were, but he… he now knew that you were the daughter of the Redhill leader, whose name echoed in his mind every night.

He had killed your father. And now you were in his arms. In Joel Miller’s embrace. Silent, innocent, fragile.

And Joel… wanted to protect you, and run from you at the same time.

He narrowed his eyes. His brows furrowed as he looked toward the horizon. Northpoint…

If any remaining team member there recognized him… said his name…

If they said “Joel Miller”...

You… would understand everything in that moment.

And this quiet, sacred yet cursed bond between you… would be drenched in blood.

Joel thought to himself: I need to find something.

Logs, broken radios, or… if no one from the team survived…

Only silence.

Only darkness.

And you… slowly drifted to sleep against his chest. Your cheeks were pink from the cold. Your eyelashes trembled.

And Joel, driven by a sudden instinct, brought his cheek close to yours. He didn’t touch. But you felt his breath. As you slept, he suffered the pain of falling in love with you.

...

As the wind clawed at your face like a predator sinking its sharp teeth into flesh, Joel slowed the horse. The reins slackened, and the animal's breath rose into the gray sky like vapor. Northpoint Station loomed ahead; its rusty roof quivered with the wind, ice crystals scattered against the walls… and silence.

It was indeed far too quiet.

Without releasing the reins, Joel said in a low voice, “We’re getting off.” Each word escaped his lips as a misty breath.

As you swung your leg over the horse, Joel immediately stepped beside you to offer support. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he placed a hand on your back to steady you. His fingers seemed to carry the last remnants of tenderness after a long war against darkness. In that moment, you felt protected.

The outer door hung ajar on a sagging hinge. Wind crept inside and howled through the empty hall. Joel crouched, eyes scanning the ground. He searched for footprints—none. Only a mess smeared with mud… but old. No signs of recent activity.

“Stay sharp. Even if it looks clear... I’ll follow my instincts.”

You nodded, hand going to your knife.

Joel stepped inside with heavy footsteps. Each step echoed on the wooden floor. You followed close behind him, down the corridor dimly lit by flickering light. The metal hooks on the walls were empty. Most of them still swung slightly, as if someone had left in a rush.

“No blood.” you whispered.

Joel turned his head slowly, catching you in his peripheral vision. “That’s worse.”

As you moved further in, the temperature dropped abnormally. Your chest tightened; the tip of your nose stung like ice. As you struggled to understand why the cold was affecting you so deeply, Joel pushed open a door. The communications room.

It was in chaos. Radios shattered, wires cut, some equipment missing. But what stood out most was the word scrawled across the wall: “TRUST NO ONE.”

Joel entered without hesitation. He aimed his flashlight at the ground—footprints. Small, mixed with snow, some barefoot. Joel knelt, studying the traces on the frost-covered metal.

“Humans did this,” he said, voice low and sharp. “The radio was sabotaged. Entry logs wiped.”

You looked closer at the wall. Fingerprints, scrape marks… there had been a struggle, but the traces were old. And above all, something didn’t add up:

“Why aren’t there any bodies?”

Joel stood. His gaze lingered on you for a moment. Concerned, though he hid it well. “Either they ran... or were dragged out.”

In that moment, a shiver ran through you, cloaked in the intoxicating silence of the cold. But giving in to comfort wouldn’t help. You’d come here to repay a debt to a “stranger”—and because it was the only gate you saw toward Jackson.

“Give me a few minutes,” you said.

You knelt. Opening the radio panel revealed a chaotic mess of circuits. Some cables had been torn out, others burned by a short circuit. But what was interesting was that someone hadn’t just broken the system—they’d reversed the battery connections inside.

“Whoever did this knew electronics,” you murmured to yourself, but Joel heard you.

“So... this wasn’t an accident?”

“No. It was deliberate sabotage.”

Joel found a repair kit from a small supply cabinet inside the room.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out the kit. Inside were a few spare cables, a mini soldering pen, a battery tester, and a voltage meter the size of a lighter. You kept your gloves on to protect from the cold, but your movements were practiced.

Joel stepped back slightly, watching you. At first he looked like a guard… but in that moment, something else was in his eyes.

As you wrapped your fingers around a cable, Joel thought those hands were meant for more than just helping someone. Then, as if ashamed of the thought, he looked down. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line.

“You… really know what you’re doing,” he said, voice husky.

You turned your head slightly toward him. “I learned from my dad. He liked old systems. I mean… before he was killed.”

You paused. “That’s why I can tell what’s wrong and why it doesn’t work.”

Joel was silent for a while. His fingers tightened around his rifle strap. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he said, “I don’t think we should stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze swept every corner of the room, but you were what held his attention.

“This place… it’s too quiet. Too tidy. But something’s wrong. I need to understand what.”

He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself. When he looked at you again, his eyes had softened.

“Being this close to you… is a bad idea.” he said suddenly. A cold, honest confession.

You turned your head away, continuing to connect the wires. As the soldering pen touched the battery slot, your hands trembled with the words inside you.

Joel turned, walking to the door, but raised his voice. “I’ll do a quick sweep inside the building. Maybe I’ll find a journal. We need to know what happened.”

“Are you going alone?”

“This time, yeah.”

And he left.

Joel took a cold breath as he stepped into the corridor. His breath rose like mist. He walked through the empty halls, keeping his steps as silent as possible. He slowly placed his hand on the wall. The wall... was soaked with moisture. Snow and ice had seeped into the building, but still, something didn’t add up. It shouldn’t have been this cold inside.

He gently pushed one of the doors open. A small dorm room. Three bunks. Blankets messily tossed on them, but one thing caught his attention: under one of the bottom bunks, a small silhouette. He bent down and saw it—an empty pill bottle. No date on it. Completely emptied. Could it have been a sleeping pill?

He quickened his pace. Moved to the next room. One of the bulletin boards had fallen. Beneath it, a scratch—no, not a scratch, nail marks.

His throat tightened. His instincts screamed: You’re being watched.

He turned around quickly. No one. The corridor was empty. Only the wind slamming against the walls from afar. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

He brought his hand to his shoulder, gripped his rifle. Took a deep breath. The sweat on his back mixed with the cold, and he shivered. As if... someone had already been here. And was still inside.

...

The panel was still warm. One of the temporary connections sparked slightly, but the circuit was still holding. On the radio’s speaker, a soft static, then a voice crackled through the interference.

“…—ckson… this is Jack…son. Listening... Are you there?”

A shiver ran down your spine. You carefully pressed the button as you picked up the radio.

“There’s someone here. I’m from Redhill. I… Y/N.”

The reply came a few seconds later, still filled with static. As if it were speaking to you from a distant memory, not from the present but a dream from the past.

“Y/N… is it? I’m… Tommy… one of the team… El… Elroy… is he there?”

You tried to raise your voice, but the radio felt like it was suffocating even you.

“There’s no one here. It’s abandoned. Looks like sabotage.”

One of the wires sticking out of the panel crackled again. Your eyes immediately flicked to the power gauge. The signal wasn’t stabilizing.

Tommy’s voice came back, more muffled, more broken.

“Y/N… is someone with you? Is he… the one they sent… J… Mil…”

A burst of static in the middle of the sentence.

Then silence.

Did you really hear what you thought you did? “Joel”…? Or was it just interference from the failing radio?

Your hand slowly lifted from the radio. Your heart beat faster, harder. That name, lodged like a splinter in your mind… now brought a new question:

Had he asked about Joel Miller? Or was this just another reminder that you hadn’t let go of your father’s story?

You couldn’t answer.

Before the radio fell completely silent with a dull crackle, Tommy’s voice returned one last time:

“Miller…? …Y/N…”

The system went dead.

You looked at the panel. Some of the live connections were still lit, but the frequency had shifted. You’d have to work harder for more. But your hand wouldn’t move. Because your mind was already stuck on another name.

Joel.

But this time, not just the name.

It felt like you wanted to know what lay beneath that name.

The signal was completely gone.

A soft “click”… followed by a dull “thud”. As if something had scraped against a metal surface outside.

You turned your head. Focused for a moment on where the sound had come from, but it didn’t repeat. Maybe it had come from the radio’s broken frequency. Maybe…

No. It was real.

Another sound. This time louder. Like a footstep. But it was… dragging. Not human. The floor scraped beneath it. Your heart tightened like a drawn wire.

You reached for the pistol beside your shoulder. Your trigger finger instinctively flipped the safety off after so long. You leaned back, exhaled slowly. Moved silently toward the door.

You wanted to call out to Joel. ‘Stranger,’ but your lips couldn’t speak his name.

When you stepped into the dark hallway, your eyes met a shadow right in front of you.

Half-human… but not. At first glance, you’d think it was a Clicker. But the fungal tumors on its head didn’t click—they hummed with a faint vibration. Its shoulders trembled. Bits of damp skin still clung to its eye sockets. But no, this wasn’t a Clicker. This was something else.

Just then, a gunshot rang out.

Bang! Bang! You flinched as the bullet ricocheted off the wall.

Joel.

You turned toward the direction of the sound and saw him in the corner of a side hall, kneeling with his rifle, aiming at another creature.

It was fast like a Runner, but its movements were wavy.

Part of its face had opened like a flower; but the bloom extended halfway down its neck. As if it had lost its sense of smell and now responded only to sound and vibration.

Before Joel could turn around, a third infected—silent, sneaky—leapt from the wall.

“Watch out!” you shouted. Time bent. Your trigger finger acted on reflex, and with the crack of your gun, the creature’s shoulder shattered. But it didn’t fall.

It staggered, then charged again.

Joel’s knife flashed like a star in the dark. After a short struggle, he brought the creature down, but his face showed something beyond exhaustion:

Disappointment. Not in himself. In you.

Because he hadn’t wanted you in danger.

But you were there. And you helped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Your breath was short.

“I don’t know what they are. This… This is something new.”

Joel turned to you. The anger in his eyes mixed with a need to protect.

“Why did you leave the room? I told you to stay inside.”

“The connection was lost. I heard the voice. And…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted to help you.”

Your words floated away like mist, but in that moment, despite the weight of your weapons, the space between you felt lighter than ever.

All the fighting, all the fear… was now distilled into those two seconds of eye contact.

You no longer felt like you were fighting just to survive—but for each other.

Joel looked away. Reloaded his rifle. “We have to go. If there are more… I can’t keep you here. We already know what this is.”

“I can fight,” you said quietly.

“Not like you, but… this is my fight now too.”

Joel studied you carefully. There was fire in his eyes, but he held it back. The lines on his face deepened. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“But I’m already broken, Joel. And in this broken state, I want to stay with you.”

At that moment, you were both full of words unsaid. Your weapons were empty, but your hearts were full.

As you turned back toward the station door, Joel placed a hand on your back—not just to guide you. That touch… wasn’t just protection. It was sanctuary.

Snow was seeping in. Through the cracks in the doors, the broken window frames… The storm that had started outside was now being inhaled inside, too.

In the darkness, the corpse Joel had laid over a toppled table was different from the others.

Not just in appearance… but inside as well.

You stood a step behind, holding your breath as you watched him. Joel Miller worked with care. His back slightly hunched, brow furrowed; his hands experienced, slow and patient. He used a shaving razor with almost surgical precision to begin slicing under the creature’s jaw.

“Look at this,” he muttered to himself.

“No spore spread. Head area partially opened, but… the fungal spread isn’t directly linked to the nervous system.”

With his fingertips, he grasped a piece of tissue and slowly lifted it. “This... is a new evolution. Probably a regional mutation.”

Your breath tightened. “So... does that mean this infected is something else entirely?”

Joel lowered his head. His eyes locked on the tear in the corpse’s throat. “They don’t hear… but they’re good at sensing. Their walk is unsteady but fast. Reaction time is short. Spontaneous aggression is high.”

Then he turned to you. “Write this down.”

Your eyes widened.

“Uh… what exactly?”

“Our observations.” He reached out. “The notebook in the saddlebag. There’s a pen too. Go!”

You obeyed. With trembling hands, you stepped just outside the door, reached into the spare gear by the horse’s side. You found the black notebook wrapped in soft leather. The cover was a bit wet, but the inside was intact. The pen still worked.

When you returned, Joel was watching you.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “Knowledge is stronger than fear.”

You knelt and began to write.

“New type of infected… Hearing ability reduced.

Head region has underdeveloped fungal structure. Sharp reflexes. High aggression. Extremely quiet. Reacts spontaneously.”

As you wrote, your hands adjusted. Expressing it through scientific language calmed you a little. Joel eventually straightened. His face grew more severe. “We can’t stay here any longer.”

He spoke briefly and firmly. He turned his head toward the door. “I still don’t fully understand what’s going on, but… if this mutation started here, everyone here is either dead or mid-transformation. And part of this station was sabotaged. By human hands.”

You looked up. “So… this new type… might’ve been spread intentionally?”

Joel paused. That familiar darkness flared in his eyes. “We can’t say yet. But we can’t linger.”

He threw his coat over his shoulder, grabbed his backpack, slung his rifle. “Let’s move. We’ll share this data in Jackson. Maybe Ellie too…” He stopped for a moment. Swallowed. Things would be very different there between you two. “... the science side is stronger there.”

You stood up.

Carefully tucked the notebook into your pocket.

As you walked to the door together, Joel placed a hand on your shoulder. “Still, you did good,” he said gently. “Facing that thing… I won’t say you weren’t scared, but… you were brave.”

“With you around,” you whispered,

“… the world doesn’t feel quite so dark.”

Joel looked at you. A moment of pause… then he turned his head. “Let’s go. If night catches us here, we won’t make it to morning.”

Behind you: a deserted, silent station.

Ahead: an unknown reality.

But one thing was clear now. You were not alone.

Not against the infected, not against the past, not against the future…

ONE DAY LATER — WYOMING MOUNTAIN PASSES

The cold cut to the bone.

The wind felt like knives against your face; every step in the snow became more difficult. The horse was tired, and you were even more so. But you kept moving. Northpoint was behind you now; quiet, dark, like a grave. And the road, as always, was not safe. It never was. The day darkened under a dirty white sky.

Joel was in front, you right behind him.

Your posture on the horse was slackening; your body still not fully recovered. The pain in your back sometimes stabbed into your left shoulder; the cold burned your lungs.

Joel had been watching you like a mirror for a while. When he noticed you slowing down, he pulled the reins and stopped his horse.

“Hey.” His voice was stern but concerned. “You’re out of breath. You didn’t say it, but I noticed.”

You tried to deflect. “I’m fine.”

The lie came easy, but it was one Joel knew all too well.

He frowned. “We’re not going any farther.” He scanned the area.

He leaned forward, spotting a half-snow-covered dip among the trees on the side of the road.

“There’s a hollow over there. Like a cave.”

After a short silence, he looked at you.

“We’re spending the night there.”

You didn’t argue. You barely had the strength to stand.

Mağara dışarıdan sıradan bir kaya çıkıntısı gibi görünüyordu. Ama içeri girdiğinizde sizi soğuktan koruyacak kadar derin ve kapalıydı. Joel birkaç dalla küçük bir ateş yakmıştı. Alevlerin titrek ışığı taş duvarlarda dans ediyordu. Joel'in o ışıkla yıkanan yüzü daha yaşlı, daha yıpranmış görünüyordu.

You had your back against the rear wall of the cave. Legs stretched out, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The silence was long, but not tense. Fatigue had settled between you, as had the weight of words.

Joel took a sip from the metal cup in his hand. The faint smell of coffee he'd mixed into the hot water reminded you of home. For a moment, you remembered your childhood kitchen. But the memory quickly faded with Joel’s gaze.

His eyes wandered over you.

Your hands were clasped in your lap.

Your lips were dry.

"You're shivering," he said softly.

He opened the front of his jacket, then hesitated.

Then he offered you one side of it.

"Come on. The fire's not enough. We need to share."

You accepted silently. When your shoulder touched his chest, it felt like your heart stopped for a moment. The warmth wasn’t just from his body—it radiated from his heart. Joel’s body was worn by years of war, but somewhere inside, something had stayed human.

You sat like that for a while. Then you spoke, in a voice no louder than a whisper:

"You don’t have to take me to Jackson. I know that. I… I’ve been a burden."

Joel turned his head. His gaze was deep.

"No." He cut off the thought with a single word. "You’re not a burden. I don’t remember carrying anyone this willingly."

A smile escaped your lips.

Your eyes lit up. "Stranger..." Saying his name echoed inside the cave.

It wasn’t just a word—it was a calling.

Like a secret whispered into the heart of silence.

Joel averted his eyes. A shadow fell over the stubble on his chin. He sighed.

"You don’t know me," he said. "You shouldn’t. Jackson… it’s a good place. Safe. And someone like you… should be there. Not with me."

You tilted your head slightly. Your cheeks glowed in the firelight.

"I… I’ve been alone for a long time. People… out there, in this world… they either kill you or forget you." You paused. "But you… you saved me. You healed me. You fought for me. Knowing someone like you still exists in this world made me feel like I wasn’t alone."

Joel closed his eyes. A muscle twitched at his temple.

A storm was raging inside him. He wasn’t ready to admit he fought for you—but he wasn’t ready to let you go either.

"I…" His voice caught in his throat. "I’m not a good man."

"I didn’t love you because you were good, stranger," you said, your voice warm and hazy. "Just because… you were real. And because you were there."

In that moment, you felt Joel place his hand on your knee. It was rough.

Protective. But at the same time… it trembled.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You listened to the crackle of the fire. The snow pressing down on the earth outside the cave… and your hearts pressing down on your chests.

The fire was dying.

Charred branches crackled; the glow was now just a flicker of warm red light. Joel was still leaning his back against the cave wall. His knees were pulled close, his head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. He carried the weight of everything — the past, the sins, and the hope in your eyes.

You were staring at him.

In the fracture of darkness and light, his features looked softer. Joel had entered your life as a stranger. But now... you didn’t care who he was anymore.

"You know," you said, your voice almost a whisper. "I still haven’t asked your name."

Joel lifted his head slightly. His brows were furrowed, his expression tired. "You haven’t." There was unease in his voice, because he felt the inevitable question finally arriving.

But you said something else. "It doesn’t matter." Your words echoed off the stone walls of the cave. "Your name, who you are… I don’t care anymore. When I’m with you... nothing else matters."

Joel’s gaze was hard. But the armor inside him had begun to crack.

"You don’t know me," he said again.

His words were sharp, but trembling. "You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve lived through."

"Who you are, what you did… what you became… I don’t care."

There was a slight movement on Joel’s face. Perhaps a bitter smile, perhaps a warning. But you didn’t stop. "When I saw you, in that bed… when I first opened my eyes… I was in darkness. I was dying. But you… you brought life back into me."

You leaned forward. When your knees touched Joel’s, he slightly pulled his head back — but didn’t move away.

"I’m here. I’m not running. Don’t try to push me away, stranger. Why are you still trying?"

Joel’s eyes welled up. A vague mist clouded his iris. "Because…" His breath faltered. "Because I love you." His voice was low, almost like a confession to himself. "And when I love someone like you… that person dies."

Your eyes shimmered. "It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault." Your hand slowly reached for Joel’s. "You saved me, remember? I was dying in that bed. When I opened my eyes… you were there. I was in the dark, and you were the first light. Joel…"

Your hand reached for Joel’s face. When your fingers touched his cheekbones, he closed his eyes instinctively. His face was hard, but he was melting under your touch.

He was a man who had battled time. But with you… he surrendered to the moment.

Your voice trembled. "In this world, for the first time since my father… I trusted someone. I felt strong beside a man. And that man is you."

Joel lowered his head slightly. His cheeks touched your forehead. For a moment, only your warmth passed between you.

Your breaths mingled.

But then…

"Y/N…" He said your name in a way that was both a warning and a prayer. "This… is wrong."

"No," you said. Your voice was firm but fragile. "This is the only right thing."

Joel’s fingers closed around your hand.

His gaze was dark but open, conflicted but honest.

Silence. Breaths. Inner war.

Then Joel spoke. His words were trembling, uncertain — but surrendered:

"…I can’t resist you."

And you kissed.

The first touch made you forget the chill of the rocks. His lips were rough, but when they touched yours, they softened. Your wet, warm breaths mingled. As he tilted his head slightly while capturing your lips, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was an attempt to memorize you. As he kissed you, it was as if every fracture inside his chest began to speak. When your tongue first touched his, Joel’s body shivered slightly. That brief exploration between your lips suddenly turned deeper, hungrier. When your tongues met, your breath caught. His fingers reached your nape, pulling you closer. The air between you—in that icy cave—was suddenly warm, burning. Your heart raced but felt at peace. His was crumbling slowly, sinking deeper with every kiss.

Your lips were moist, his worn but full of passion. It was a passion that carried confessions he never dared to say aloud. As his tongue danced with yours, time felt like it had stopped. This wasn’t just a physical connection—it was your souls speaking, ending years of silence with a single kiss.

When Joel’s hands gripped your waist, the kiss intensified. Your breath tangled in your throat as his lips moved down to your chin, making your skin shiver. He kissed there first—slow, patient. The warmth of his lips touched that sensitive spot beneath your chin, and you felt a twist deep in your chest. Then his lips, wet and warm, trailed down gently, sealing that place like a secret.

But he didn’t stop at kissing. As his breath caressed your skin, he pressed his lips harder and let the tip of his tongue briefly trace the line of your jaw. It felt like that line was the boundary between you, and Joel was crossing it—with fear, longing, and desire. Then he returned to your lips. Now, there was nothing to stop you—only a thirst for one another, growing with each kiss.

To you, this was a refuge—found at last, with the man you loved.

To him, it was like stumbling into a heaven he didn’t deserve.

When the kiss ended, Joel leaned his forehead against yours. Your breaths mingled. Silence settled in the aftermath—not frightening, but heavy.

As your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar, Joel held his breath with you. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said again, but there was no conviction in his voice. He didn’t pull away. His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders, and when his fingers felt your warmth, he closed his eyes. “You’re too... pure. Something this world didn’t make.”

You smiled. “I’m not pure. Just... not lost. Like you.”

That sentence broke him completely. His fingers slid to your cheek, then under your chin. He kissed you again—hungrier, more honest, more tender. When he wrapped his arms around you, your body fit into his perfectly. His firm chest, war-forged hands, breath heavy with years of sorrow—they all wrapped around you.

Battaniyeyi omuzlarınızdan indirdiğinde, ellerinden önce bakışları titreyen teninize dokundu. "Eğer istediğin buysa... ama söyle bana. Bunu gerçekten istiyor musun?" diye sordu, sesi boğuk ama yine de koruyucuydu.

You nodded. “I just want to be with you. No matter what.”

He embraced you again. His fingers slid to your waist, his lips to your neck. You closed your eyes, and your heartbeat matched his. Joel began to explore you with care and slowness—as if every touch was an apology. As if every kiss was a prayer to forget the wrongs he’d done. And every breath you took was a silent pardon.

Time stood still. Outside, the world was still plagued and dark with the past. But that night, inside the cave, there was only the two of you. Quietly, slowly, and with deep feeling… you were touching each other’s forbidden places.

You pressed your chest against Joel’s, rising to your knees. Now you were much higher than him. As you put his weight on him, Joel couldn’t resist it. Maybe at that moment, all that was left in the world was this dark cave, the wind outside, and two souls clinging to each other.

Joel was lying down on the ground now. His back was leaning on the stones beneath him, but his eyes were only on you.

Placing your knees on the sides of his hips, you sat on his groin and climbed on top of him. The pink on your cheeks shone in the shadow of your face, in the dark. Your palms were pressed against his chest. He was carrying your weight, but also your emotions. Joel’s hands were lost in you. As if he were holding you for the first time, he slid carefully and slowly down to your waist, then your back, then your hips. Every movement of his fingers seemed to memorize you as you were. Your sighs mixed with each caress of your hips. You shouldn’t have done this. You both knew it.

You first unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Then followed the salty sweat trail down his neck with your fingertips. You began to recognize his neck and ribcage with your lips. Your skin felt its warmth first; a slight shiver ran down Joel’s spine at that moment. The rough texture of his areola, the balance of salt and heat as it spread across your tongue, lit a small signal of pleasure in his mind. With each lick, your tongue traced the curves of his chest and then his abs. Joel leaned his head back. He whispered your name with a muffled sigh, but then his tongue hit the roof of his mouth; this genuine closeness frightened him. In that moment of colliding guilt and desire, he thought about all the danger that came with wanting you.

Your trembling breath brushed over Joel’s chest, your hands roaming his body like a hero marching in triumph. Your fingertips recognized the lines of his muscles, the rhythm of his veins.

Your breath mixed with his lips as you carefully moved your hips toward his groin. When your eyes met, you both felt the same thing inside you: passion, lust, and love. Your breaths mixed. You were now standing over Joel’s penis, with only the fabric between you and the warm pressure of your vulva. He could feel you much more now as you undulated your waist rhythmically but in a controlled manner. Your touch made him more sensitive with every movement. Joel’s eyes closed for a moment, his lips falling to your neck again. He found a spot under your jaw that burned your skin. When he stopped there and let out his breath, you felt him shiver.

He whispered breathlessly. “I shouldn’t want this… but hell if I can stop.”

You locked eyes at Joel with such intensity that your voice was barely a whisper, coming out of your lips with a tremor. “Then stay. Here. With me. Just for tonight, be mine.”

He wrapped one arm around your back, the other around your hips, wrapping your body like armor. He wasn’t just holding you, he was hiding you. Your heartbeats mingled as your chest pressed against Joel’s; each breath that passed between your lips was drawn into you like the last oxygen in the air.

“Goddamn…” Joel whispered, his voice almost husky and deep. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You looked up. There was a gleam in his eyes—a light of both triumph and surrender.

“Then let me end you slowly,” you whispered, pressing his forehead to his.

Joel smiled. Tired, painful, but real. And he kissed you again. As if kissing was as natural as fighting. Every kiss was a memory. Every touch a vow.

“Now it’s my turn,” Joel said. His voice was firm and determined, but underneath it was a pent-up desire ready to explode.

You tried to smile, but the curve of your lips was as threatening as a challenge. “So,” you whispered. “Let’s see if you’re as good at it as you are at fighting the infected.”

Joel’s muscles tightened in response, and he grabbed you by the waist, holding you beneath him. The speed of his turn took your breath away, but you didn’t resist, you couldn’t. Because there was fire in his gaze now, deep, intense, and unbridled.

The bandage on your shoulder had taken a slight pressure from the fall; your face tensed for a brief second, and your breath caught with a flicker of pain.

He immediately leaned in. Placing one hand on the ground, he brought his face close to yours. His eyes were filled with concern—and something else, something he was trying hard to suppress: desire.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his voice hesitant and gentle, but his gaze still lingered on your lips.

You nodded slightly. "It hurt… but not too bad," you said, your voice as thin and trembling as your breath. When your eyes locked with his, unspoken words danced silently between you.

Your back was still touching the cold ground. The bandage on your shoulder still left a shadow of pain on your face, but Joel’s presence was slowly erasing that shadow. His hand gently reached up to hold your back, gently lifting you up and placing the blanket under you. When he laid you down again, his fingers slid into your hair, holding it under your head as if to support it.

“Damn it… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled, his voice almost muffled as a sigh.

You couldn’t respond because Joel’s hand slid across your cheek, his fingers holding your chin with trembling tenderness. When his lips leaned down, he kissed your forehead first. It was light, but it resonated in your heart. Then to the corner of your eyes, then to your cheek… And finally, to your lips.

His kiss was cautious at first. But when your lips returned it, Joel’s kiss deepened again, but he still took his time. Joel Miller never rushed anything. He loved like he was walking across a battlefield—carefully, carefully, but eventually, inevitably.

As your breaths mingled, he carefully moved his fingers to the top button of your shirt. As if he might break the magic of the moment if he hurried. His eyes stayed on yours as he undid each button; he was searching for confirmation, approval, but also affection. When the fabric of his shirt parted, there was only silence between him and your skin. Joel’s fingers parted the slightly exposed fabric on either side, then his eyes fell on the bruises and scratches just below your breast. Time seemed to freeze in that moment. His eyebrows furrowed; not in anger, but in sorrow. Joel leaned down, never taking his eyes off you. He touched one of the scars with his lips. Gently at first, almost a whisper. Then to another… and to another. Each touch felt like an apology. His fingers trailed down your arm, as carefully as if he were stroking a shard of broken glass.

When you were out of breath, Joel moved his hand to your breasts. He began to play with your nipples, crushing them between his fingers. You felt a tingling and arousing sensation at your nipples. The dampness he left on your skin cooled your flesh, and that only excited you even more. Your face was much calmer and more relaxed than before. You moaned softly, closing your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joel said, his voice a little harsher this time.

You nodded slightly, your lips parted, your eyes now on Joel’s. “Only hurts when you stop,” you whispered, your lips trying to smile.

That sentence broke something in Joel’s gaze. Then he leaned down… to your neck. Slowly, warmly touching your skin. The first kiss went to your collarbone. Then to the curve of your neck. He lingered there a little longer—as if he wanted to release his breath into your skin. His hand continued to caress your breasts. Each caress was like a silent oath saying, “I’m here.”

When your fingers grabbed hold of Joel’s muscular arm, it wasn’t to stop him, it was to feel him more. Joel knew that too. He leaned his body over you, careful not to hurt the wound on his shoulder, carefully distributing his weight—enveloping you without crushing you, as if his body were your shelter.

Joel reached out slowly. He touched your waist first, firmly but reassuringly. His fingers traced a path from your stomach to your belly button. But as his hand slid down to your groin, he paused when he got close to the wounds. His fingertips hung in the air. He couldn’t touch them.

His hand continued down your body. He made small, meticulous circles to avoid the wounds. His breathing became ragged, because the guilt that was gnawing at him had settled into his chest. When he reached the button of his pants, he took a deep breath; he held his hand there. The mechanical sound filled your ears as he undid the metal button. Then he grabbed the zipper, his fingers lingering briefly on the fabric, pausing. His eyes never left yours. Then he pulled the zipper down: the worn metal teeth opened with a sharp “zzt”. The fabric gave way. He squeezed his fingers between the fabric and your skin, pulling down.

Joel felt how wet you were when he wrapped his fingers around your outer labia over your panties. He began to rub, applying gentle pressure. The wetter the fabric became, the more tactile it became. He conquered the folds from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina.

Then Joel carried himself down. His hands were supported by the stone floor on either side of your waist. He lifted one hand up and brought it to your groin. He placed his index and middle fingers between your vulva and panties. Using his powerful muscles, he pushed the fabric aside hard, squeezing it where it met your inner thigh and groin. Now you were right there in front of him, shining brightly. The surface of your outer labia shone like crimson glass, reflecting light from every angle. It was as if you were holding yourself together to tempt Joel’s lips. Joel placed his calloused hand behind your knee and spread her legs apart. Now he could see your clit between them. He leaned in a little further. His lips touched your skin, first gently, then with a more passionate hunger. He stuck his tongue out and placed it on your clitoris. The capillaries inside it had dilated, the blood flow had increased. This caused your clitoris to swell and you to taste the pleasure more deeply, so you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. Your chin lifted that neck tensed. Your fingers gripped the blanket tightly. The knuckles in your hands were white, the muscles in your outer thighs were trembling. The groan that escaped your lips gave Joel the green light to continue.

“Your color is as shiny and unique as satin, I can’t take my eyes off you,” Joel said, gently pulling his lips away from yours. He wanted to make you feel good and gain your trust. But he wasn’t lying either. When he dipped his tongue into your inner lips, they were so sweet, so juicy… Delicate like the thin skin of a sweet peach, yet deep and tempting like the flavor it held inside.

He began to move his tongue slowly around your clitoris. He began to latch onto you with big, slow strokes at first. The tongue movements moving from the entrance of your vagina to your clitoris... He was using the top of his tongue as he went up from the entrance of your vagina, and rubbing the bottom as he went down. Then he started to stroke faster with smaller circles with the tip of his tongue. This change of rhythm surprised you, made your moans longer, and made you gasp. There was nothing to say, you just wanted to say his name over and over again. But he was just a stranger. "How do you do this... I'm losing myself..." you said, your moans mixing with his words.

Joel said growlingly, "I'll show you how much you can take, Y/N..." Then he gently took your clitoris between his lips and started sucking. Your nub continued to swell and become sensitive inside his mouth. As he gently crushed it between his teeth, the capillaries inside were stimulated and the pleasure he was giving you caused a buzz in your ears. He continued to repeat it rhythmically, slightly increasing the pressure. You opened your eyes, feeling like you couldn't take it anymore. You lifted your chest. Your hands gripped the blanket tightly, straining the fabric as if they were going to tear, and your legs involuntarily closed. Joel suddenly grabbed your legs, which were squeezing around your head, and he forced them open wider than before, applying force to your inner thighs.

You pulled your hands away from the fabric and ran your fingers through your hair. You forgot all your pain as your body writhed in pleasure. You pulled your hair roots hard. "Oh, please! This is too much!"

Joel was vibrating your clitoris with quick and light vibrations. At the same time, he was increasing the tingling sensation by blowing out light breaths. He breathed through his teeth. "Are you giving up so easily? We've only just begun..." he buried his head harder into your vulva. His tongue continued to hungrily lick the pre-cum flowing from your vagina, he was drinking the colorless and thick fluid that had accumulated on his tongue with pleasure.

Your vaginal fluid felt like wine to him. The moment the slippery fluid met his lips, he made a delicate touch on his tongue; the sweetness of the peach fruit, the hidden depths of cinnamon and spice. As the fluid slid down his throat, each drop turned into an explosion of pleasure, the warmth instantly enveloping his body.

Joel suddenly pulled his head away from your vulva and rose to his knees, making eye contact with you. "I will give you everything. My soul, my heart... because you are not just part of my life, you are everything."

The blanket was rumpled unevenly, the smell of scorched bushes wafting around you.

His body was shaped by the maturity of his age; it was neither exaggerated like the insanely muscular bodies of young men nor did it show the signs of aging completely. His shoulders were broad, his stance confident. Life had taught him how to carry his body; he did not try to show his strength, but it was felt in every movement. But what was most striking was the experience that lay beneath his skin and muscles. A natural charm worked by time, experience, and life, something most young men lacked. He had a raw, masculine grace; the years had not aged him, they had only made him more apparent and impressive.

The attraction between you was so intense that neither of you wanted to let the distance widen even for a moment. He slowly placed his hands on your sides and slowly crawled between your legs. There was a look in Joel’s eyes that wanted to possess you, yet at the same time worshiped you. He slowly lifted himself onto you. Joel’s weight, combined with the reassuring warmth of his presence, made you feel as if you were out of breath.

“You know what?” Joel whispered, placing his fingers on your jaw and turning your face to his. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”

Your heart raced. His touch was gentle yet authoritative; there was a hidden possessiveness in every movement. His hands slid down your waist, and you brushed your lips over the edge of his. Your breaths mixed, and you shivered as your skin touched.

Then your fingers reached Joel’s leather belt. You wanted to feel him inside you now, your body no longer had the strength to resist. You could feel the warmth hidden behind that thick fabric. That metallic click of the metal buckle turning was familiar, just like the sound of the knife you had been carrying with you for years. When you loosened his belt, the soft hiss of the leather rubbing and undoing filled your ears. Joel was helping you now. He could see that you were ready for real intercourse. While you were unbuttoning his button and belt, he was busy with his zipper. Your fingers were touching each other hard and urgent. Joel pulled his pants down from the curve of his hips. His cock, hard as iron inside his boxers, was suddenly pressing against your vulva with a swift waist movement. Your pupils were dilated and your chin was lifted when your sensitive womanhood was suddenly aroused. Joel was aroused when he heard the moans coming from your lips.

He hooked his fingers into the elastic of your underwear and pulled it down. Very slowly, slowly, which fueled your impatience. His cock was exposed as the fabric slid down, showing prominent veins. It was big. And when his cock was completely free of the fabric, it swayed slightly. You were excited to think about how you would be ecstatic under Joel when he saw this big cock about to enter your vagina.

Joel placed his hands under your knees and made you stretch your legs. This way, he could easily slide between your legs, allowing your slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely soaked in precum, to be able to place his cock between them. You gasped when Joel’s vein-throbbing cock pressed completely against your inner lips, and you punched the ground with sudden force. You moaned loudly. Joel laughed with pleasure. He rubbed the tip of his iron-hard cock against your vagina to excite you, while he breathed out, “It drives me crazy to hear you make such noises…” he said, his voice fierce and mocking. Your vagina was so wet that the fluid leaking from your legs was starting to spread on the blanket fabric.

Joel was forcing the entrance to your vagina, first grabbing his penis with your hand and flicking it towards your clit, then stroking it from side to side a few times, inserting a few millimeters of his tip into the entrance of your vagina, but never entering. This was starting to drive you crazy. “Oh, please!” you moaned. “I want you inside me now.”

Joel was aroused by these words of yours. “I'll give you my love to night.”

You were aroused by these words. It was interesting that Joel was treating her differently than the other men. “Yes,” you moaned, “I want to be yours.”

When Joel pushed his cock into your vagina, it completely enveloped your vagina. It was too tight for him. You threw your head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of your vagina wrapped around Joel’s smooth manhood. “Oh, Y/N, it feels so much better.”

Each time he pushed his large cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped against your ass, stimulating both your g-spot and your clitoral, making you almost cry.

“You like that, don’t you?” Joel asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, that you love me.”

Your flesh slapped together with each thrust as he thrust into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically.

You were both on the verge of peak pleasure. Your tight vagina could feel Joel’s hardness and veiny surface down to your smallest cell. His cock twitched, wrapped around your gnarled walls.

You were at the peak of your orgasm now. Even though the penis filled your vagina completely, the pleasure juices continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. Joel closed his lips on your lips. He kissed you passionately. "Be patient a little longer. It's almost time." Your body was shaking up and down. The muscles in his hips were now contracted, he was almost about to pour his sperm into your womanhood. But he held himself back and suddenly pulled out of you and ejaculated on your groin, out of breath. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your pleasure juices had spread, wetting the blanket. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry as snow from pleasure.

Joel suddenly grabbed your arms, straightened you up and placed you on his lap so that you were sitting on top of him. There was a mixed expression of surprise and happiness on his face. He looked at your face between his hands and looked at you with eyes half full of affection and half full of love.

The cold had settled over the world like a silence that gnawed through bone. But within the curved walls of the cave, there was still warmth. Shadows cast by breath, skin, and a fire that still held the pale glow of minutes past lingered. The sky felt distant, the earth endless. But as you sat in his lap, the bloody, sharp edge of reality faded into a blur.

Joel’s thick, calloused hands gently cradled your face. His fingertips moved slowly across your cheeks as if memorizing your face, his thumb grazing the corner of your lips with a hesitant kind of affection. His gaze lingered on you—dark and weary, yet somehow still strong enough to carry you toward the light.

“I... I’ve never felt anything like this before,” you said, your voice cracking. “Feeling this safe. Just existing with someone, without having to say anything. Like breathing.”

As you leaned against his shoulder, Joel’s throat tensed like he wanted to say something. But he only swallowed. His hand moved to your hair, then back to your face. It felt like he was trying not just to hold you—but to atone.

You were smiling. Soft, fragile, like a flower slowly opening in the morning light. “No matter what happens. My heart is already with you.”

But Joel knew your heart was balanced on the edge of a blade. The truth sat in his chest like a tumor, pulsing. He remembered pulling that trigger. Watching your father fall. And now, that man’s daughter was resting in his arms, breathing love into him. Giving him her heart.

“I’m here for you,” you whispered again. “And no matter what happens, I don’t want you to let go of me. Not the past, not the pain. I don’t want to be alone anymore, okay?”

In that moment, Joel’s world split in two. On one side, your warmth, your voice, the endless trust in your eyes… On the other, the moment that awaited in Jackson. When the truth would break free. When his name would be spoken. When his face would be recognized.

He knew that after that moment, you wouldn’t be able to stay in his arms. That forgiveness might never come.

But leaving you now would be its own kind of betrayal.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours. Closed his eyes. I can’t do right by you, he thought, but didn’t speak.

The tremble on his lips was the silent cry of a man caught between pain and tenderness. He clasped his hands behind your back. Tight. Like it was the last time.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, there were only two people. One bearing the weight of truth. The other yet untouched by it. But it was clear now: the road to Jackson would crack not only the path ahead, but both of your hearts.

[witheredwritings]

Blooming Rot

previous part <- -> next part

Summary: In an AU where joel never met Ellie, he shows up one day to his brother’s town, unannounced, unwanted. Though he keeps to himself, you seem to have caught his attention.

Word count: 2.9K

Warnings: Blood, gunviolence, stalking, creepy!joel, kidnapping, stalker!joel, AU!joel, age gap (reader is in her early 20s and joel in his late 50s)

A/N: No, Joel will not get sane. Yes, the reader is slowly becoming a replica of the freak that Joel is in this. Dinner is served x

He left you alone.

Not freedom—just absence. A permission wrapped in silence. Joel had sent you to the bathroom with an empty pack and a nod that felt too heavy to carry. Told you there were things in there you might want—might need—and said it without looking at you. His voice was low, almost gentle. He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stood with his back turned, one hand gripping the door frame like it hurt to let go.

Like he was trying to make mercy look like distance.

Inside the small room, the air is stale. The kind of stillness that clings to corners after something’s died there. You don’t breathe too deep.

It’s there that you make your first real mistake.

The mirror is fractured—cracked like old teeth—and your reflection spills out in pieces. You catch yourself only in shards: the bloom of a bruise beneath your jaw, blood dried in a trail from temple to cheek, and your eyes—

Too wide. Too dark. Too gone.

Not your eyes. Not anymore.

What stares back is something emptied out. Hollowed. A marionette with the strings torn loose and her face still painted sweet. A shell in a girl’s shape.

And then the cabinet.

The shelves inside are lined. Careful. Clean. Toothbrushes still in their packaging. A razor. Pads and tampons sealed tight in Ziploc. As if waiting.

As if meant.

Joel hadn’t found these here. You know that.

He’d brought them.

He'd stolen them. From Jackson. From Maria, likely.

Your gut turns, sharp and sour. You sink down onto the toilet seat, hands trembling on your knees. You want to throw up. Or scream. Or claw at something until it breaks.

And that’s when you see it.

The window.

Not quite sealed. Nailed, yes—but loose in the frame. One corner shifts if you push just right. It’s small. But you’ll fit. You'd make it work.

You don’t think. You move.

As you walk up to it, you shove your shoulders against the frame, slowly trying to open it. It was small, but not impossible to think you could fit through and escape this place.

Hands wedge against the frame, arms braced. The cold hits your face and it tastes like freedom, bitter and thin. You grunt, push, drag yourself through—but the wood groans beneath your weight, and before you can even lift your legs—

He’s behind you.

No sound. No warning. Just there.

One arm catches your waist, the other braces your wrist, too tight. You twist, push, shove—but the world tilts and suddenly you’re on the floor, gasping.

Pain lashes through you—sharp, twisting. The bandages tear open, and blood slithers out slow, curling across the gauze like a snake waking in the cold. It coils red against the white, deliberate and mean.

Your scream is ragged. Pain and rage and shame braided into one torn sound.

Joel kneels. Not over you. Beside you. Quiet.

“I told you it was safer here,” he says. Not shouting. Not angry. Just… tired.

Resigned.

He doesn’t touch you now.

Just looks at the blood.

“Look what you did.”

He says it like you did it to yourself.

He takes you back into the main room. Shirt gone, chest half-wrapped in a bloodstained towel. Your arms tremble from the cold—or maybe something colder. Joel crouches in front of you, dragging the first aid tin open with reverent fingers, like he’s handling the last relic from a ruined chapel. He pulls gauze from its curled ribbon like it means something.

Like it’ll fix what’s already rotting.

He pours moonshine into the bowl, the harsh scent thick and bitter in your throat. The fabric soaks in it, limp and heavy between the rough pads of his fingers.

Then—he just sits there.

Staring at the wound like it’s mocking him. Like it speaks for you.

You want to scream. You want to claw at his face, rip into his quiet like it might bleed. You want to make him look at what he did.

But your body won’t obey.

When he touches you, it’s with unnatural care. Like he’s afraid you’ll shatter under him. Like you already have.

The burn hits slow, then sears deep. You flinch, hiss through your teeth. Joel’s hand clamps gently but firmly over your shoulder. “I ain’t gonna hurt you more,” he mutters.

It sounds like a lie he’s told before.

You hate how delicate he is. How his hands, capable of breaking bones and splitting skulls, move like he’s threading a needle. How he won’t meet your eyes, as if you’re too bright or too ruined.

It’s worse than cruelty.

It’s pity.

You’re frozen. Hollow.

"You did this to me," you whisper, voice raw with pain. I lose a shaky breath, fingers digging into the dusty couch cushions.

"You say you care—but how do you hurt someone you care about? Do you get off on shooting those you care about? Does it make you feel righteous?"

It doesn’t land the way you hope. The pain drains your voice, leeches the venom. The sting in your side steals your breath and with it, your rage.

I look down to his kneeling form. Watch how his face twitches and his eyes become troubled. Something bothers him. His grip on my arms became more rigid, fixed.

“We're heading to Idaho,” he says finally, voice low, gravel thick with something that might be regret or just memory. “Small town there, Swan Valley. ’Bout sixty-five miles west. Empty. Safe.”

He shifts his weight, knees creaking like old timber, but doesn’t stand. Doesn’t leave.

You listen to the sounds around you instead. The low creak of his boots against the floor. The scrape of fabric. His breath.

“We walk fifteen miles today,” he continues, quieter now. “Snake River Canyon. We’ll rest near the ridge.”

"...Why are you telling me?" you murmur. "I could run."

He looks at you for this time.

"You can try." His voice flattens. “But you won’t last long. You’re safer with me. You're better off with me. That’s just the truth.”

His voice has an edge to it, like the burden of his choices is being grounded into the rumble of his voice. His grip stays tight—just tight enough to remind you he could make it worse. Just tight enough to remind himself he hasn’t let go.

Still, when he’s done, you’re bandaged tighter. Cleaner. Warmer.

When he’s done, the bandages are tighter. Cleaner. You can feel your blood staying where it’s supposed to.

He stands, back turned. Like that means anything.

“Put your shirt on,” Joel mutters.

And you do.

Slowly. Fingers stiff. Mind numb.

Like a dog trained to heel.

The road west is bone-white with dust. Asphalt cracked and buckled, like the earth itself has been trying to tear free of what humanity left behind.

Fifteen miles. That’s what he told you. What he promised.

A day’s hike, he said.

What he meant was suffering.

Joel watches you limp across broken gravel, one arm still wrapped tight against your ribs. He keeps close, too close—his shadow swallowing yours up whole. Your boots are too big, a pair he scavenged from a dead man’s truck. The laces flap like tongues. You haven’t spoken since the shed.

But you haven’t tried to run, either.

That’s something.

He thinks about this morning. The quiet way your eyes didn’t meet his as you buttoned your shirt. The way your skin flinched under his hands while he cleaned the wound again. So careful. Too careful.

There was a moment—brief, ridiculous—where Joel thought you might have looked at him like he was human.

He tells himself it was guilt. That’s all. Remorse twisting his gut into something like love.

But the truth is meaner: it’s because your skin felt warm under his fingers. Because when you hissed in pain, he felt something ancient rise in his throat. Not pity. Not even shame.

Possession.

He pushes the thought away like smoke in his eyes.

By midafternoon, the road curves through the corpse of a collapsed gas station. Highway 26 stretches long ahead, a line of sun-bleached cars and rust-choked semis. Joel glances at the horizon—nothing. Still.

Too still.

He carves a path ahead of you like he’s done it a hundred times—through the rustbone skeletons of cars, the ivy-strangled bones of the old world. Every step he takes is certain, deliberate. He moves like a man made for this ending. Like he was waiting for it all along.

You trail behind him in silence, eyes tracing the loaded stillness in his shoulders, the way his boots land without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He doesn’t need to.

This is his domain. Ruin. Collapse. The death of things.

You move like a ghost behind him, quieter now. Watching.

And then, abruptly, he halts. One foot on a crushed bumper, body gone still as stone. He tilts his head—not to listen, but to scent. Chin raised like a hound in thick woods.

He confuses you. Everything about him is contradiction: brute and caretaker, executioner and guide.

Then it hits.

The stench.

Sour. Metallic. Copper under the tongue. And something else—something sweeter, wronger. Like fruit left too long in the heat.

Rot blooming open.

He doesn’t turn to you, but you already know. They’re near.

And something in him is waking up to meet them.

Not a second later, you hear it shriek. Something between a scream and a howl, bone-dry and furious. You don’t even have time to speak. They're already coming.

They pour from the ruins of the diner across the street—four, six, nine of them. One missing half a jaw. One dragging its entrails like a wedding veil. One with a child’s shirt stretched over its bloated, man-shaped form.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes.

Joel doesn’t.

Then chaos swallows you.

He moves first. Quicker than you’ve ever seen. Not like a man—like something torn loose from restraint, all sharp edge and intention. One shot cracks through the air, and the first infected drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

But the others keep coming.

You stumble back instinctively, ribs screaming with every jolt of movement. The pain knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t get time to cry out. Joel’s already dropped the rifle. The machete flashes in his grip, gleaming wet.

He doesn’t fight clean.

He doesn’t fight like someone trying to survive.

He fights like someone trying to erase the world.

You watch the blade bury in one skull, then rip free with a wet snap. The body folds. Another infected lunges from the side—you don’t even see it until it’s too close. You flinch, too slow, but Joel’s there. His boot shatters its knee backwards and the machete takes its jaw clean off.

Blood hits your face.

You gasp. Choke. Stumble. The cars around you blur—windows flashing sun and shadow, broken glass underfoot.

Something grabs your arm.

You scream, flailing weakly, but your body won’t hold you up. You hit the ground hard, head swimming. Another infected barrels toward you, shrieking, face split by fungal rot.

Then Joel is there again—behind it, not in front.

He grabs a handful of its hair and slams its face into the fender of an old truck.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until there’s nothing left but wet noise.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Everything rings.

Joel stands over what used to be a man, panting, the machete dripping gore like it’s crying. His shirt clings to him with blood and sweat. His jaw is clenched, eyes scanning, wild, animal.

He turns toward you, panting, chest rising like a man possessed.

Not rushing—just watching.

Like checking if you're still real. Still breathing.

The sun glints off the wet edge of the blade.

He looks like something made for this. Not a protector. A punishment.

And yet—

You don’t back away.

You look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are blown wide, but not wild. His hands twitch, but they’re not reaching for you.

Something shifts. In you. In him.

Not safety.

Something worse.

You’re not as afraid now.

Joel sees it. Feels it like a heat in his ribs.

You’re watching him not like prey anymore—but something else. Something new. Something confused and dark and dangerous.

You stand still as he wipes blood from his face with a trembling hand.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

But the thought is there.

Whatever’s left of you, it’s his now. And whatever’s left of him— He’ll give it.

Even the rot. Especially the rot.

The Snake river murmurs beside you like it’s trying to forget something.

It’s late. You reached your destination for today without any other suprises after the previous infected attack.

The trees lean in overhead, black silhouettes with fingers for branches, and the moon cuts its way through the dark like a knife. Smoke curls from the fire Joel built, thick and fragrant, clinging to your clothes like grief. The rabbit he caught hisses in the pan, skin crisping, flesh pale and steaming. He doesn’t speak as he cooks—just watches the flames. Always watching something.

You sit across from him, legs curled under you, your bandaged side aching with every shift. The ache reminds you you’re still here. That you're still his.

He offers you the first bite. You take it.

Warmth spreads in your belly. It feels strange, to be fed like this. Not just handed food. Fed. Looked after. It unsettles more than it soothes.

You swallow, then ask, quiet, “That thing you did. Back on the road.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

“The way you… fought.”

Joel chews, slow. He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the fire, reflecting back red.

You keep going. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the firelight, maybe it’s the fatigue. Maybe it’s the twisted thread tightening between you, pulled taut since that first shot. “I’ve never seen someone kill like that.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like being seen through. Like you’re a pane of glass and he’s measuring the cracks.

“I’ve had practice,” he says.

“That’s not what I meant.” You shift closer, slowly. Testing the heat of him. “You weren’t scared.”

Joel doesn’t blink. “Didn’t have time to be.”

“Is that who you are?” you whisper. “The man with the machete?”

He’s silent.

But his hand flexes near his boot, where the weapon lies clean now, wiped and resheathed. Reverent, almost. Like it’s earned a rest.

“No one in Jackson knew anything about you,” you murmur. “Not really. Tommy talked like you were a shadow. Even he didn’t know where you’d been.”

Joel lifts his eyes again. “And now you want to?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

That’s true. You don’t. But you know you’re colder when he’s not near. You know his violence didn’t frighten you—not really. Not after he stood between you and those things like it meant something.

He thinks you’re bending.

That the blood softened you. Cracked you just enough for something else to leak in. He watches you differently now, like he’s waiting for the moment your mouth stops curling in defiance. Waiting for the shift. Like it’s inevitable.

Maybe it is.

Maybe it’s already happened.

You stare at him across the fire, and for one sick second, you can’t remember what it felt like to hate him without question. That fury—bright and raw and righteous—now sits dulled in your chest, like a weapon you no longer remember how to wield.

He shifts, just barely. A small thing. But it makes your stomach turn.

His voice is sandpaper when he speaks. “Thought if I kept quiet long enough, you’d never ask.”

Your throat tightens. “Ask what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. His gaze drips down to the fire, where the flames chew on a blackened log. “Because if you knew who I was, you wouldn’t be here.”

Something in your chest twists.

You should scream at him. You should run. You should throw the half-eaten rabbit into the dirt and claw your way back to Jackson with your bare goddamn hands. But your legs won’t move. Your arms are dead weight. And the words just… don’t come.

You look at him—really look—and he seems smaller. Not physically. Something else. Like a man hollowed out from the inside and walking around wearing his own skin like a disguise.

You should be afraid. And you are.

But not of him.

Of you.

“I am here,” you whisper, slow. “You brought me here.”

His head tips just slightly, like he heard something in your voice he didn’t expect. Like a crack spreading through ice. His face doesn’t change, but something flickers underneath it. Something old. Something rotten.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t reach for you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you’re still sitting there. You haven’t moved.

And that silence between you—it isn’t peace. It’s surrender, dressed up in stillness.

You chew slowly. Taste nothing.

The rabbit goes down like ash.

When he lays out the blankets later, he places them closer. The gap is smaller now. Measured in inches, not feet.

And when you lie down, facing the wall of trees, you don’t move away.

You tell yourself it’s to stay warm.

You tell yourself it’s survival.

But when your eyes close, it’s his voice that you hear in the dark— low, steady, and too close to the place where your hatred used to live.

A/N: I love these two freaks aaahhhhhh

Thank you so much for reading xx Leave a comment if you want!!

[an-established-butt-dent]

Dragon age: the Veilguard

What I imagine the cover of a comic about the Dreadwolf looks like.

[machrealgirl]

arthur and john's relationship is built on codependence and working together because there's no other choice, but it's also a lot about arthur projecting onto john. arthur considers himself a failure as a person, but now he has a chance to prove that someone evil can actively choose to be better. he believes that if john can be saved, so can he. if john can be redeemed, so can he. that's why he tries, at every possible turn, to push john to be better. that's also why, whenever john takes a few steps back in progress, it has such an intense effect on arthur. because he wants to save john.

because if he can save john, he'll finally have proven to himself that he can be saved too.

[bizlybebo]

Dakota and Williamcore

KILLS YOU.

[frogaroundandfindout]

Vienna but make it about dick grayson talking to Tim so he doesn’t end up like Jason

[freakalot]

"toji, you're gross." ☆

your oaf of a lover, toji fushiguro, lays with his weight all-but crushing you into the couch. what was meant to be a relaxed movie night has somehow ended up with your panties pulled to the side, toji's cock reaching inhuman depths inside of you, and your face wet with his spit.

he won't stop fucking licking you.

"hell you mean 'gross?'" toji squishes your cheeks together, forcing your lips to stick out like you wanna kiss him. "you're the one with my cum all on these pretty lips."

okay, so what if you let him cum in your mouth before sticking his dick in you. and so what if you practically made out with the head of his cock after said blowjob? he was a mess and you're oddly addicted to the taste of his release. it's all that good food you've been bulking him up on. that good food is also why he's so fucking heavy on top of you, and why he's got that extra bit of meat on his bones for you to grab onto while he leans down and licks your lips clean. you ignore the way your pussy tightens around him at the act.

"oh god you're like a dog," you try to turn your head, which turns out to be a mistake when toji licks a stripe up your cheek instead. "down boy. git' off."

"mmm, careful," toji nips at your earlobe. "this dog bites."

you roll your eyes, "this dog begs," you correct him. "and drools."

"you wanna put a collar on me or somethin'?" toji laughs when you clench down around him again. "now shut up and let me taste you."

he catches your lips in this awful sloppy kiss that you're ashamed of enjoying. his tongue rolling over your lips and tracing the row of teeth behind, just to push onwards and try to map every crevice of your mouth in the name of explorative innovation. his hips roll forward into you and, not for the first time since your movie started, toji brings you to a leg-shaking orgasm.

he stills his cock inside of you as he follows you through and cums as well, deep inside of you where he insists it belong, before giving you only a second to catch your breath before meeting your gaze in something that makes you pull a face.

"ew, toji, don't you dare—"

"i'm gonna lick you clean," toji grins, pressing his first gentle kiss of the night to the corner of your lips, before pulling out and trailing his tongue down your neck, chest, stomach... "like a good boy."

"i'm gonna start telling your friends you call yourself a good boy in bed."

toji nips at your thigh, and then delves his practiced tongue between your legs to lick you clean of himself.

"go ahead," he says, mewling like a fucking cat at the taste of your releases mixed together. "no one will believe you anyway."

[kthologue]

the end times — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo satoru thinks he’s going to die because you’re giving him the silent treatment. (aka your first big fight with gojo).

contents. hurt/comfort, ooc, lovesick!gojo, you give him the silent treatment and he goes crazy, he is so pathetic in this one, tw obsessive behavior (he makes it EVERYONE’S problem), gojo’s pov

notes. loosely inspired by that one scene from yakuza fiance. not proofread whats new

Gojo knows he’s screwed up the second he steps into the common area of Jujutsu Tech’s dormitory. The air feels thick, wrong. And then there’s you, curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes aren’t moving.

His grin falters for half a second before he masks it with his usual bravado. “I always knew you had a little freak in you, but reading your erotic books out in the open? Who knew my girl was such a perv.”

The joke usually earns him a laugh, a shove, maybe even a teasing retort. But tonight, the silence that follows is deafening.

The pit in his stomach grows.

“Sweetheart?” He tries again, waving a hand obnoxiously close to your face.

You finally react, swatting his hand away, but there’s no playfulness in the motion. Your eyes don't even meet his.

“You’re late,” you say flatly, still staring at your book. “Again.”

Gojo scoffs, irritation bubbling. Not at you, never at you, but at the damn book that’s getting more attention than him.

“Ah, you know how it is. Got held up in Kyoto,” he says with a shrug.

The words leave his mouth too easily. He doesn’t realize his mistake until you finally, finally look at him.

And it’s nothing like usual.

There’s no warmth in your gaze, no sparkle of amusement or exasperation. Instead, you pin him with a look so sharp it strips him bare, leaving nothing but the hollow weight in his chest.

“You missed our date.”

His breath catches. His throat goes dry. “I–”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Relief floods him too fast, too soon. His shoulders sag as he leans down, tilting his head for a well-earned kiss. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

You pull away before he can touch you.

Gojo freezes.

“[Name]?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You know, it’s funny.”

There’s nothing funny about this moment.

His pulse thrums as you continue, voice eerily steady. “That your mission was in Kyoto. I mean, we have a whole sister school there, full of sorcerers ready to handle a first-grade threat. So why would they need you, specifically?”

His stomach drops.

He’s never been good at guilt, not when he’s spent his whole life believing he’s untouchable. But now, standing before you, unable to meet your eyes, it sits heavy in his gut.

And you don’t let up.

“Of course, I asked around. Thought maybe I was overthinking it.” A humorless scoff escapes you. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my boyfriend was too busy meeting with his future bride.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say.

“That’s–” he starts, then stops because, shit, you’re staring at him like he’s a stranger. Like he’s someone you can’t trust. The realization makes his stomach churn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” you say bitterly, arms crossing as you lean back into the couch. “I mean, I’d love to hear how you were going to explain this one, Gojo Satoru.”

Full name. That’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

“It’s not–It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, voice unusually hoarse. His usual bravado, his charm, none of it is coming to him. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I wasn’t–I wasn’t hiding it. I just–”

“You just forgot to tell me that your clan is arranging a marriage for you?” you cut in sharply. “That slipped your mind?”

“No! Yes—Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s scrambling for footing on uneven ground. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter, sweetheart. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. You know that, right?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Do I? I mean, Suguru seemed shocked when I didn’t know that these were recurring dates set by your clan.”

Gojo falters.

“You didn’t even think to tell me, Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, but somehow even more devastating. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His heart clenches. That’s not–God, that’s not what this is.

“Of course you deserve to know! But I—” he exhales sharply, trying to gather his words. “I just—Fuck, I thought it was stupid. I thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

You shake your head, looking almost tired now. “Right. Because I’m just supposed to assume you’d never go through with it. After your multiple dates with her. Because I’m supposed to read your mind, just like always.”

The weight of your words crashes into him, and Gojo suddenly realizes that this isn’t just about Kyoto. This isn’t just about one lie, one mistake. This is about every time he’s brushed things off, every time he’s let silence speak for him, every time he’s sat through those excruciating meetings, knowing he would never go through with it, but never once thinking about how it would feel for you to find out this way. This is about every time he’s expected you to just get him without him ever having to say a word.

This is about how, even after everything, you still don’t know how much he loves you.

And now, looking at you, Gojo is terrified that he’s already lost his chance to prove it.

“I’m going to sleep,” you stand up from your place on the couch. 

Gojo tries to follow you, “Listen, baby–”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I need some space.” you turn around to send him a teary glare and that stops him in his tracks. He had never seen you cry. And it tore him apart knowing that he was the cause. 

The sound of your door slamming echoes in Gojo’s mind. 

Gojo Satoru is the first one in class the next day.

He drums his fingers against the desk, restless in a way he can't explain, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that he spent the entire night not sleeping. His mind was too busy replaying the way you had looked at him, no, the way you hadn’t looked at him.

He had left you alone and upset. He had made you feel like you were second to someone else. And worst of all, he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

“This must be a first.”

Gojo glances up as Suguru enters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Gojo Satoru, on time? It must be the end times.”

He knows it’s a joke, but it might as well be the end times. Gojo doesn’t respond, just presses his lips into a thin line as he goes back to mentally reciting the apology speech he’s been revising in his head all night.

Then the shoji door slides open again.

You walk in with Shoko, your head tilted slightly as you whisper something to her, something he’ll never get to hear because you don’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, you take a seat at the farthest desk, as if he isn’t even there.

A part of him withers away.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up.

If words won’t get your attention, he’ll just have to be Gojo Satoru about it. He leans back in his chair and stretches obnoxiously, before loudly exclaiming, “Yaga-sensei! Are those grey hairs from your recent divorce?”

He grins, waiting for the familiar sound of your laugh, for that little shake of your head, for you to scold him like always.

But you don’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s met with Geto and Shoko’s twin expressions of abject horror, and before he has a chance to register what’s happening–

BAM!

Yaga’s palm collides with his head, sending him face-first into his desk.

Even through the throbbing pain, he can only think about one thing.

You didn’t even react.

“And how exactly is she ignoring you?”

Shoko’s grumpy voice echoes through the morgue, where she’s been attempting to practice her technique. She’s clearly unimpressed that Gojo Satoru has decided to spam-call her instead of dealing with his own problems.

“She’s ignoring me, Shoko,” Gojo groans dramatically from the other side of the Jujutsu Tech campus, rubbing the fresh bump on his head as he stands in front of your door. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. She’s in there. I know she’s in there, but she won’t answer.”

“Maybe she finally got tired of your bullshit,” Shoko says dryly. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took her this long to hold you accountable. She’s let your bad behavior slide for way too long.”

“Why are we talking about me like I’m some kind of dog?!”

Shoko ignores him.

“From the sound of it, you really messed up. I mean, who keeps a marriage a secret from their girlfriend?” She pauses, then adds with a smirk in her voice, “Oh, right. You.”

Gojo groans, pressing his forehead against your door. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. But she doesn’t. And she won’t even give me the time of day to explain.”

Shoko sighs. “Give her time to cool down.”

“And what, let her decide she wants to run off and marry some other guy? Move to a cute little beach town in Enoshima, start a family, have three kids, and leave all Jujutsu sorcery behind?”

There’s a long pause before Shoko makes a disgusted sound. “O-oi. Keep your weirdly detailed fantasies to yourself.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he insists, clutching his flip phone dramatically.

Shoko promptly hangs up on him.

Gojo stares at the device for a moment before slowly lowering it, exhaling hard.

Then he rests his head against your door again, defeated.

But Gojo Satoru was never one to admit defeat, so he tries again. He returns to your door the very next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“[Name]!” he chirps. “I bought us some parfait! Let’s talk things over, yeah?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of movement.

But Gojo Satoru is not easily discouraged.

So Gojo Satoru comes again the next morning.

“[Name]!” he knocks again, this time balancing a slice of strawberry cake in one hand. “This is all my fault, so come out and let me apologize properly!”

Nothing.

Gojo sighs, leaning against the doorframe, about to knock again when—

Your phone rings.

His breath catches as he presses his ear to the wood.

“Hi, Suguru?”

His heart stops.

“Yeah, we’re still on for the movie. I’m just about to leave right now.”

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru understands what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been punched in the gut.

Because you’re going to Suguru.

You’re not just ignoring him, you’re choosing someone else.

His fingers twitch at his sides as a feeling he doesn’t like at all creeps into his chest. It’s something ugly, something unfamiliar. Something that feels a lot like jealousy. Was that how you felt?

He wants to knock again, wants to demand that you open the door, look at him, let him fix this before you walk away from him any further.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself to step away from your door.

Forces himself to give you the space you deserved.

You don’t know why you relent so easily.

You shouldn’t. Not after the way he lied, the way he kept something so important from you.

And yet, when you hear him pacing outside your door, his nervous energy practically seeping through the walls, you feel something crack.

He’s been outside your room for the nth time this week. Every day, like clockwork, he’s knocked. Brought your favorite snacks. Talked to you through the door, filling the silence with his ridiculous banter, even when you refused to answer.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your blanket a little tighter. You should stay angry. But you can't.

You sigh, pressing your forehead to your knee.

Maybe it’s time to stop punishing the both of you.

With a deep breath, you stand, crossing the room to the door. When you open it, Gojo nearly stumbles forward, mid-step in his pacing.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and filled with so much desperate hope it makes your chest ache.

And the way his face lights up like you’ve just handed him the entire world tells you that, maybe, you were never going to be able to stay mad at him forever.

But you’re here, leaning on your door frame with your arms crossed, your nails digging into your skin as you glare at the man who has spent the last ten minutes tripping over his words, looking wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. His hair is messier than usual, lips are parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Finally, you scoff, breaking the silence. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going back into my room.”

“No!,” Gojo steps forward instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. And after everything, he is. “I screwed up.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Oh, really?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, I really fucked up.”

Silence.

You should say something. You should demand an explanation, yell, maybe even cry, but you’re so tired. You’ve spent days twisting yourself into knots over this, convincing yourself you never meant as much to him as he did to you.

And then Gojo says it.

“I should’ve told you.” His voice is hoarse. “I should have told you after the first meeting. After the first second they brought it up.” He swallows hard. “But I was stupid. I thought if I ignored it, if I went through the motions, if I waited for the right moment… then it wouldn’t matter. That it would be over before you ever had to know.”

You shake your head, letting out a hollow laugh. “Satoru, do you even hear yourself? Do you get what it was like for me to find out from someone else? To hear that the person I–” you cut yourself off, but the damage is done. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you.

“The person you what?” he asks softly, pleading.

You clench your jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

Your shake your head. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” he says, and the sheer brokenness in his voice makes your throat tighten. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear to you that I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.” he exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear on everything, I was never going to go through with it. I never even showed up to any of the dates, so they kept ambushing me under the guise of missions! I sat through every single one of those goddamn meetings thinking about how ridiculous it was, how there was only ever one person I wanted.”

He stops himself, inhaling sharply.

And then, quieter, almost afraid:

“How there’s only ever you.”

The words hit you like a fist to the chest.

Gojo watches you carefully, breathless, waiting. Hoping. He’s given you the truth, raw and unfiltered, and now it’s up to you.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world that makes you believe him.

For the first time in a week, your lips find his, and Gojo swears he can finally breathe again. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers curl slightly as if grounding yourself in him. It’s enough to make him melt.

"You’re so insufferably cheesy, Satoru," you murmur against his lips, your breath warm, teasing. "It makes me so angry that I love it." A pause, a soft exhale. "But I forgive you."

His grin is instant, smug and shameless. "That was good, huh?" He tilts his head, cerulean eyes twinkling. "I’m willing to bet your heart skipped a beat."

You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again, slower this time, because, damn it, he’s right.

extra!

“I demand some extra loving!” Satoru sprawls dramatically across your bed, limbs hanging off the edge like a defeated king.

You barely spare him a glance, flipping a page in your book as you lie comfortably on your stomach. “And why, exactly, do you deserve that?”

He lifts his head, pouting. “I deserve it after a week’s worth of psychological trauma. Don’t think I forgot that you ditched me for Suguru.”

“Oh… that.”

“Yeah. That.” His voice is thick with exaggerated betrayal.

You finally look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “It was a fake phone call, Satoru. You were just so insufferable camping outside my door that I had to make up an excuse.”

His jaw drops. “Huh?!”