#SO MANY THOUGHTS TOBI DO YOU UNDERSTAND

[funnyjokespunperson]

HI OOMF. I'M HERE TO AGREE WITH YOU. they both got have soooo much potential for growth with one another and people ONLY FOCUS ON MITHRUN'S. kabru has so much going on and the potential for him to find a support system through helping find one for mithrun (or even just them helping one another) is one of the most important parts of their dynamic to me PERIOD, ROMANTIC OR PLATONIC.

expanding more upon kabru's struggles ironically opens up growth for MITHRUN TOO. i don't understand why so little of it is explored because it's so INTERESTING. i could literally write a whole essay about it if i got my mind screwed on right.

I love kabumisu, but yall focus on mithrun's development too much. What about kabru. What about the things mithrun helps kabru with. What about the things kabru realizes about himself through his interactions with mithrun. He people pleases so hard he accidentally starts thinking about himself, that's such a funny concept. why aren't there more pieces around it.

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 4

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

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

All my work here :)

NEXT PART HERE

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

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

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

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

But nothing about today felt simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The demand hung in the air, sharp and immovable.

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear of what might happen out there.

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

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

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

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

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

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

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

When you looked up, Joel was watching. His gaze lingered, flickering with something that disappeared too quickly for you to catch, before he dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the dirt with a thud that seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness, and he reached for his pack, already untying supplies from the saddle.

Sliding off your horse, your legs hit the ground stiff and aching from hours in the saddle. You stretched briefly, then sank down against the nearest tree, your back pressing into its rough bark. As you settled, a soft groan slipped free, the ache in your muscles easing just slightly. The earth beneath your boots felt unfamiliar, solid and strange after so long riding, but the air here—cooler, gentler beneath the shade of towering oaks—was a quiet relief. You closed your eyes, leaning fully into the tree, letting the hush of the woods settle over you.

When you opened them, Joel was close by as he sorted through supplies.

“Water.” His voice broke the quiet, low and rough as he held a canteen out toward you without looking up. The canteen was cool against your fingers as you took it, your throat burning with relief as you drank. “Thanks,” you murmured, handing it back. You had your own water in your pack—he knew that—but still, he offered you his, as if yours were somehow too precious to waste, as if the effort to keep you going outweighed his own needs.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He capped the canteen and stood, his gaze moving over the clearing with that practiced vigilance you’d come to rely on. And then, just for a moment, his eyes landed on you.

“You cold?” he asked suddenly, his tone flat but edged with something softer. “Too hot?”

You shook your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine,” you replied softly, though your chest felt tight at the way he was watching you, like he needed to see the answer, not just hear it.

He’s sweet, you thought, the words catching on something tender and fragile inside you, something you couldn’t quite name. It was the way his care came without flourish, without asking for anything in return, that made it linger—made it ache. It wasn’t fair, the way he did this, leaving pieces of himself in small gestures that stayed with you long after.

Joel’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The woods were quieter here, almost serene. You stood, brushing the dirt and stray leaves from your pants, and let your gaze wander. The afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and green. It was breathtaking in a way that made your chest ache—a fleeting moment of untouched wilderness, fragile and rare. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen something so still, so utterly removed from the chaos of survival.

Joel was nearby, crouched low, fussing with his rifle. His brow was furrowed in that familiar look of concentration, the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fall away. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his attention entirely consumed by the task at hand, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him—drawn to the way his hands moved, precise and practiced, the lines of his face set in a look of quiet determination that you knew well.

Your attention drifted, though, drawn to something else—a cluster of dark, plump berries growing just a few feet away. They stood out against the underbrush, rich and inviting. Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer. You wandered over, crouching down and plucking a small handful, the berries cool and smooth as you rolled them between your fingers.

“Hmm,” you murmured, holding them up to the light. A smile tugged at your lips, you raised one halfway to your mouth, your tone light as you added, “Yummy.”

“Stop.”

Joel’s voice cut through the stillness like a gunshot—sharp, commanding.

You froze, the berry hovering inches from your lips. His head snapped toward you, his rifle abandoned as he stood, moving toward you with a purposeful stride that made the leaves crunch like brittle glass beneath his boots.

“What?” you asked, blinking up at him, startled by the intensity etched into his features.

“Show me.” His tone left no room for argument.

You sighed, shooting him an exasperated look before opening your palm, the berries resting innocently there. Joel crouched slightly, his shadow falling over you as he inspected them, his sharp gaze narrowing like they were a threat to be neutralized.

“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You pulled back slightly, incredulous. “Seriously?”

His glare flicked to yours, and you realized he was serious.

“Fine,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out in a dramatic show of obedience. “Ahh,” you said, exaggerating it, hoping it might earn you some amusement.

It didn’t. Joel just stared at you, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking as though he was fighting to keep a lid on something darker, something far less restrained. His gaze lingered a beat too long on your tongue, the way you’d held it out for him without hesitation, obedient to his command. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that left his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t—where they couldn’t—imagining that same mouth, soft and ready, offering him something far more intimate. His hand twitched at his side, as if warring with the urge to reach for you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.

“Good. Now throw ’em out,” he said, the gruffness in his voice doing little to disguise the way he avoided looking at you as he turned away.

“What?” You gawked at him, utterly indignant. “Joel, they’re blueberries. They’re not gonna kill me.”

His arms crossed over his chest, his stare harder than stone. “Could be poison berries. They look the same. You don’t know the difference, so don’t pretend you do. Toss ’em.”

You held his glare for a moment, your fingers curling defensively around the berries, but there was no arguing with Joel when he looked at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you dropped the berries, watching them tumble unceremoniously to the ground.

“Happy?” you muttered, brushing your hands off against your pants.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly to the trees before landing back on you. “Stay close,” he said, his voice gruff, tinged with that familiar note of exasperation. Then, quieter, muttering more to himself than you, “Do I gotta put a leash on ya or somethin’ to keep you outta trouble?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you snorted, the laughter escaping before you could stop it. A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned against a nearby tree, playful mischief alight in your eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice dipping low, your tone laced with challenge. The insinuation hung there, bold and undeniable, a spark igniting the air between you.

Joel froze, his body going rigid. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and frustration. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding faintly as he glanced at you, then away, then back again—like he was trying to find words that refused to come.

And then, it happened. The faintest flush crept up his neck, blooming at the collar of his shirt and spreading up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like the answer might be buried there.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl.

You watched him turn sharply, shoulders squared as he moved back to his things, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. The corners of your mouth curled up as you pushed off the tree, following after him with a bounce in your step that hadn’t been there before.

Joel didn’t look back, but his ears were still red.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed steadily beneath you, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heartbeat. The trail had narrowed as the hours dragged on, with Joel riding ahead of you, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dimming light. The trees on either side stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching longer and darker as the sun dipped lower. The sunlight, once warm and golden, now barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting everything in muted shades of green and gray.

Every rustle of leaves or sudden snap of a branch had your hand twitching instinctively toward your weapon, your gaze darting into the underbrush as if the trees might shift and reveal something waiting there. Unease clung to you, winding tight in your chest and mingling with the steady rhythm of the ride.

“You’re quiet,” Joel’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, low and rough, like gravel against steel.

The sound startled you, yanking you sharply out of your thoughts. You blinked, your grip on the reins tightening for just a moment before your gaze lifted to his back. He sat tall in the saddle, his movements steady and sure as he guided his horse down the narrow path.

“So are you,” you shot back, your tone light but edged with something defensive. It was easier to focus on the banter than to acknowledge the gnawing knot of anxiety that had been building in your chest.

Joel huffed out a sound that was almost a chuckle, low and dry, the faintest tug of a smirk visible as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the bite, “I’m not the chatterbox.”

Any other day, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed a sharp quip back at him—something to tease out that rare flicker of dry humor.

But today, the woods felt heavier.

The isolation pressed too close, the silence too vast. Laughter felt out of place. Even the air seemed thinner, harder to pull into your lungs. You didn’t smile. Didn’t even try.

Joel noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Without a word, he tugged gently on his reins, slowing his horse until it fell into step beside yours. The sound of their hooves merged into one rhythm, steady and constant, but the quiet between you was anything but still.

He looked over at you then—really looked—his gaze dark and probing. Joel had a way of watching people that made it feel like he was peeling them apart, pulling back layers you’d much rather keep to yourself. His eyes flicked to your face, studying every shadow, every line of tension, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

His voice broke through the suffocating quiet, softer now, gentler in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the reins until your knuckles turned white, the leather biting into your palms. You didn’t want to look. Didn’t want him to see whatever it was clawing at the edges of your composure, threatening to spill over. But Joel’s voice—steady, unrelenting—left no room for refusal.

“Look at me.”

So you did.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

His eyes weren’t just steady—they were heavy with something raw, something stripped bare and unguarded that settled deep in your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. There was no mask this time, no shadow of distance in his expression. It was just Joel—staring at you, open and unhidden, and for once, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. Worry. Frustration. Something deeper, sharper, that you couldn’t name.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that wrapped around you like armor. “You hear me? We’re fine. You’re fine.”

You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to—but the creeping shadows in the trees, the silence that stretched too long, whispered otherwise. They sank their claws into your chest, cold and unshakable. “You don’t know that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze hardening, though not at you. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he looked past you, scanning the treeline like he might fight off the invisible threat himself.

“I promise,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less steady, each word deliberate, like he was forcing them out against his better judgment. His eyes met yours, unrelenting in their certainty, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that look—like nothing else mattered but the weight of what he was saying.

Joel Miller didn’t make promises. Not like this. He knew better than anyone that the world didn’t care about promises, that it didn’t hesitate to tear them apart, leaving nothing but regret in their place. He’d learned that lesson too many times, carried the scars of it. Promises were dangerous—they were traps, liabilities in a world where survival demanded detachment.

But this wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about the world’s cruelty. It was about you. About the way fear clung to you, raw and unspoken, written in the tightness of your shoulders and the way your hands trembled just enough to make him notice. He couldn’t bear to let you sit in that fear alone, to let it eat away at you when he could say something—do something—to make it stop, even for a moment.

So he broke his rule. For you. Because you needed to hear it, even if he couldn’t control what came next. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he said again, the quiet steel in his voice daring the world to prove him wrong, daring himself to make it true.

Your head shook instinctively, the words a hollow comfort, because the truth—the real, aching truth—had already slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

“I’m not worried about myself, Joel.”

His expression shifted, like you’d reached inside and knocked the breath out of him. The words sat heavy between you, tangled with everything you hadn’t said before now. Joel stilled, his fingers flexing against the reins as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

And for a moment, the silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick—with fear, with understanding, with something else.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice softened, a quiet plea that pulled your eyes back to his. He leaned forward just slightly, his presence grounding you as he held your gaze like it was the only thing keeping you both steady. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me either. You hear me?” He let the words settle, his brow furrowing like he was daring you to disagree. “Neither of us.”

The quiet stretched again, but it felt different this time.

Safer.

Joel watched you, his eyes searching, patient, waiting until you gave him even the smallest nod, until the tension in your grip loosened just enough for him to see the edges of your fear start to soften.

“I’ll make you dinner when we’re back,” he said suddenly, his tone quieter now, almost teasing, the rough edges smoothed by something gentler. He leaned back slightly in his saddle, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—small, but real. “How’s that sound? I’ll even let you pick what I make. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, the movement small but feeling monumental, like handing over a piece of yourself. Joel didn’t look away, his gaze holding yours, dark and steady. It wasn’t just a look—it was a promise, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft it was almost lost to the stillness.

The words hit you like a spark catching fire, sudden and uncontainable. Your breath faltered, catching in your throat as heat flooded your cheeks, spreading like a slow, uncontrollable burn.

You felt it down to your bones, something raw and visceral that left you stunned, reeling. Joel must’ve noticed—how could he not?—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered for one beat longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he nudged his horse forward.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, rough in that familiar way that grounded you, even now. His horse moved ahead, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth filling the quiet he left behind.

You nudged Winnie forward, falling in line just behind him, your gaze lingering on the back of his broad shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his frame as he rode. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, the shadows still thick, the danger still lurking unseen—but for the first time, it didn’t feel so close.

You couldn’t explain it, not even to yourself, but it was there. The safety. The trust.

The quiet understanding that as long as Joel was there—this close—you would be ok.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The dense forest finally opened into a clearing, the trees pulling back to reveal a lodge at the edge of the horizon. The last rays of daylight stretched thin and golden across the landscape, pooling in the long shadows that crept toward the building. The lodge loomed, weathered and tired, its sagging wooden frame darkened by years of rain and neglect. It stood like a forgotten relic, its emptiness heavy, as if waiting for something—or someone—to disturb its silence.

Joel pulled his horse to a halt first. The shift in him was subtle but clear—the way his shoulders squared, his spine went ramrod straight, his jaw set in that way you’d come to know so well. He said nothing at first, his sharp eyes sweeping the clearing in a calculated rhythm, scanning for threats like he could feel something lurking just beyond the edge of sight. The air around you seemed to thicken, every rustling branch and distant creak amplified by the stillness.

“We’ll walk the rest,” Joel said finally, his voice low, the gruff edge leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for your response, he swung off his horse, landing in a crouch with a practiced grace that belied his size.

You followed suit, sliding down from Winnie’s saddle. Your legs wobbled slightly, stiff and sore from the hours of riding, but you steadied yourself quickly, reaching for the straps of your pack. Before you slung it over your shoulder, your hand lingered on Winnie’s mane, your fingers brushing through the rough strands in slow, absent motions. There was something soothing about it—the rhythm, the warmth, the small bit of comfort she offered without knowing it.

“Bye, girl,” you whispered, the words hushed and raw, like you were leaving more behind than just your horse. Winnie let out a soft whinny, her dark eyes meeting yours with a quiet patience that settled somewhere deep in your chest, even as it made your throat tighten.

When you turned back, Joel was watching you. He stood a few steps ahead, the rifle slung across his back, his pack heavy over one shoulder. But it wasn’t the readiness of him that stopped you. It wasn’t the rifle or the sharp lines of his posture or even the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his side. It was his eyes.

There was something in them—something unspoken, unreadable, but unmistakably there. Worry, maybe. Or caution. Or something deeper. The amber light caught in their depths, softening the edges, but his gaze remained locked on you, unmoving.

Joel stepped closer, closing the space between you in an instant. The shift was so deliberate, so him, it made your breath catch. His hands came up to settle on your shoulders, grounding you with a steadiness that you didn’t know you needed until it was there. His grip was firm but not harsh, his palms rough against the fabric of your jacket, calloused from years of work and survival.

But it was the way his thumbs brushed the material—soft, fleeting, almost unconscious—that sent a shiver through you. A gesture so small, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him.

“Yes, Joel,” you said quickly, the frustration already seeping into your voice before he could even open his mouth. “I’ll do what you say.”

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His lips pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studied you. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you became heavy, dense. His shoulders shifted just slightly, like he was bracing himself, and his eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something closer to disbelief.

Like he didn’t trust you to listen. Like he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

He shook his head, the smallest motion, full of resignation. “Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, a steady edge that made it clear he wasn’t giving you room to argue. “You follow me. You stay quiet. If I say run, you run. You take Winnie, and you leave. You don’t look back. Got it?”

You blinked, unable to speak, the weight of them clawing tight at your chest. Run. Leave.

The very thought of it felt like ice splintering through your veins. You couldn’t picture it—couldn’t imagine a world where you turned your back on him, where you left Joel behind in the dark while you ran ahead.

Your throat tightened painfully, and you shook your head, your voice cracking as you whispered, “Joel, I—”

“Got it?” he pressed, his voice soft but edged with steel. He stepped closer, close enough that the fire in his eyes became undeniable, that the space between you disappeared entirely. Joel had always been unyielding, but this? This was something more. A desperation failing to hide beneath the surface.

You swallowed hard, the words scraping against your throat like they didn’t belong there. “I’ll run,” you said finally, though it felt like a betrayal to even admit it aloud. “I’ll take Winnie. I’ll… leave.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, his eyes locked on yours with a searing intensity that made it hard to breathe. His gaze wasn’t just searching—it was prying, deliberate and unrelenting, peeling back the walls you’d built to keep yourself steady. And under it, you felt seen—exposed in a way you didn’t quite know how to protect yourself from.

Because he wasn’t looking at the stubborn mask you wore, the one you threw on when the world demanded you be strong. No, Joel was looking deeper, into that part of you that screamed a truth you refused to say aloud: You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Not ever.

“Promise me,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but quiet, threaded with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Something that cracked at the edges, barely holding together.

“Joel…” you started, your voice faltering, thin and soft like you might shatter right there.

“Promise me,” he said again, firmer this time, though it trembled just faintly at the edges. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

The ache in your chest deepened, spreading through every inch of you like a poison. He was breaking his own rules, showing too much, and it was undoing you piece by piece. Joel didn’t let his guard down. He didn’t falter. But here he was, standing in front of you like this—raw, exposed, and asking for something he needed.

Joel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled his hands from your shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his eyes—steady and unrelenting—gave him away. He didn’t believe you, not fully. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to etch your promise into something solid, something he could hold onto when the time came.

You stayed rooted in place, frozen as you watched him move toward the lodge. Every step he took was deliberate, every turn of his head precise as he scanned the tree line, his hand hovering near his rifle. Ready for anything. Always ready.

And that’s what gutted you—truly gutted you—because you knew, with a clarity that scraped against your ribs like glass, that Joel wouldn’t hesitate. If it came down to you or him, he’d throw himself into the fire, step in front of the bullet, let his body be torn apart before he’d ever let harm come to you. And he’d do it without question. Without pause.

As you began following him, the words echoed in your head, unspoken but deafening. Don’t ask me to run, Joel. Don’t ask me to leave you behind. Each step felt heavier, the thought pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. Because I won’t. I can’t.

You knew he felt it, even if neither of you said it aloud. He felt it in the way your pace never strayed, your steps falling in line just behind his, close enough that he could hear the faint crunch of leaves beneath your boots. He felt it in the way your breaths synced with his, steady but strained, like you were holding something back. He felt it in the moments you lingered too long when his gaze flicked over his shoulder to check on you, your eyes locking with his for a beat too long before darting away.

He felt it in the way your fingers clenched the strap of your pack, white-knuckled and trembling, as if anchoring yourself to the promise you hadn’t meant to make. In the way you hovered just behind his shadow, always there, always ready, like you were silently daring the world to try and take him from you.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t look back to meet your gaze.

Because he knew. Knew what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Knew the truth that tore at you with every step closer to the lodge—that no promise, no command, no amount of pleading would ever change it.

You’d rather die than leave him.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The lodge emerged from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette jagged against the fading sky. Joel crouched low, signaling for you to do the same, his movements fluid and deliberate as he wove through the underbrush with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You mirrored him without question, your weapon clutched tightly in your hands, though the prickling sensation crawling up your spine refused to settle.

The building was a monument to ruin—ivy clawed greedily at its sides, creeping through splintered boards and shattered windowpanes. The roof sagged under the weight of neglect, and its walls seemed to lean in on themselves, like they couldn’t bear the burden of holding anything upright anymore. Every creak of the structure, every shift of the wind, sent your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Joel moved closer, crouching low to inspect the ground near the lodge’s entrance. His fingers brushed over the dirt, scanning for prints or disturbances, but there was nothing—just layers of leaves and twigs undisturbed by anything more threatening than the wind. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable but wary, before tilting his head toward the lodge.

You both edged forward, your eyes darting to the windows for movement, though the shattered panes reflected only the fading light. Joel stopped by a section of the wall, brushing aside ivy to check for signs of tampering or recent use, but the wood was damp and untouched.

He raised a hand, the gesture sharp and commanding, and you froze mid-step, holding your breath as his gaze swept the clearing with hawk-like precision.

Nothing stirred—not in the shadows, not in the lodge, not in the quiet woods that stretched around you like a living trap. Still, Joel’s hand hovered near his weapon, his muscles taut as he nodded for you to follow.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, your breath shallow as you fell into step behind him.

The front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, groaning in protest as Joel nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. The sound scraped through the silence like a knife, too loud, too exposed, and you couldn’t stop the way your fingers tightened around your weapon.

Joel stepped inside first, his silhouette a wall of quiet strength against the dim light leaking through the cracks in the boards. You followed, forcing yourself to move with the same care, though your heart thundered loud enough that you swore he could hear it.

Inside, the lodge was a shell of its former self. Dust blanketed the warped floorboards, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot. Furniture lay upturned and broken, a chair leg splintered like a bone. The stillness was oppressive, a silence so deep it felt wrong.

Joel stopped, raising his hand again—split up, the flick of his fingers said. Be careful.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as your eyes locked with his. You didn’t want to split up—he could see it, clear as day, in the way your gaze lingered, pleading silently even as your jaw set with determination. But you were a big girl. That’s why you were here. You were his partner, and partners pulled their weight, even if the fear inside you threatened to tear you apart.

Joel’s expression shifted, his own hesitation flickering just beneath the surface. For a moment, it looked like he might say it—that you could stick together, that he’d shoulder this for both of you. But before he could, you forced yourself to speak.

Joel held your stare for a second longer, his eyes sharp and searching, as if making sure you were ok. Finally, he gave a short nod and disappeared down the far hallway, his boots making the faintest creak against the wood.

Then he was gone, and you were alone.

You turned toward what looked like the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. Every movement felt amplified, the sound of your boots on the floorboards bouncing off the walls like a warning. The cabinets hung open, their hinges rusted and warped, shelves stripped bare save for a few unidentifiable cans buried under layers of dust. Drawers yawned empty, their contents long since ransacked, and the grime clinging to the countertops filled the air with a damp, sour tang that made your nose wrinkle.

You pressed on, your breathing shallow as you opened door after door, each creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a threat. Each room you entered felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce the moment you let your guard down. But all you found were shadows and decay.

When you stepped back into the main room, your heart thudded as Joel appeared from the opposite hallway, his rifle still raised, his shoulders squared and tense. His sharp gaze swept the room first, scanning every corner, lingering a second too long as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Finally, his eyes found yours.

“Clear,” you whispered, your voice tight but steady, the tension in your chest easing just slightly under the weight of his presence.

Joel nodded once, his reply a low murmur. “Same here. No signs of infected or raiders.”

The stiffness in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but it was enough for you to catch. He lowered his rifle, the grip of his hand softening, though his gaze stayed sharp, cutting through the dim light as he glanced toward the darker corners of the lodge. The faint furrow in his brow lingered, betraying the quiet calculations still turning behind his eyes.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “Grab what you can. Then we move.”

You didn’t argue. There was no room for debate, just the quiet understanding that lingered between the two of you. With a sharp nod, you turned back toward the shadowed remnants of the lodge, splitting up again, each step deliberate as you scoured opposite sides for anything that might help you survive.

The finds were sparse but not useless. In the back of a closet, buried beneath a heap of moth-eaten fabric, your fingers brushed over something cool and familiar. You pulled out a small, dusty box of bandages—the edges frayed, but the contents inside still sealed and intact. “Bingo,” you murmured, though the sound barely broke the silence. In a drawer, you found a small box of ammo, the label faded but legible, and a pair of rusted scissors, their edges dulled but still functional with some effort.

Across the room, Joel worked with practiced efficiency. He knelt, his hand closing around something tucked behind a fallen shelf. Holding it up to the faint light filtering through the shattered windows, he revealed a hunting knife, its blade dulled with age but still capable of damage. Joel turned it over once in his hands, inspecting it with his sharp, calculating eye before tucking it into his pack without a word.

You met back in the main room, the eerie silence of the lodge pressing in around you.

“Not bad,” Joel said when he found you again, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the quiet like a steady anchor. He turned a wrench over in his hands, the faint light glinting off the tarnished metal as he inspected it, then stowed it with the tools he’d collected. “Could’ve been worse.”

His eyes flicked to your pack. “What’d you find?” he asked, nodding toward it.

“Bandages, some ammo, scissors,” you shrugged, shifting the weight of your pack slightly. “Not a lot, but…”

“Good job,” Joel interrupted, his tone gruff but sincere. The simple words settled something in your chest, the heaviness easing just slightly as he gave a brief nod.

“Alright,” he said, his gaze shifting to the staircase that loomed ahead, its warped wood groaning faintly under the weight of the silence. “I’m gonna check upstairs quickly. You stay here—I’ll be ten minutes tops.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes landed on you then, steady and searching, and you felt yourself stand a little straighter without realizing it. It wasn’t a look that checked for injuries or exhaustion—it went deeper, something quieter, something anchoring. His gaze carried a weight that pressed against you gently, like he was grounding you in a way words never could. It made the world seem to pause, holding its breath for just a moment.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, the gravel softened by a note of concern he didn’t manage to hide in time. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t just protocol—it was real, slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.

You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. It wasn’t a full lie—you were fine enough. But there was something about the lodge, the way the air felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It stayed with you, tugging at the edges of your nerves. Still, the steadiness in Joel’s gaze was enough to hold you upright, to keep the words from cracking. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his brow furrowing just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you but didn’t see the use in pressing further. He gave a small, tight nod. “I’m here,” he said simply, like it was a promise—because it was. It always was.

Before you could answer, Joel turned toward the stairs, his boots creaking softly against the worn wood as he began to ascend, his figure fading into the dim shadows above. You stood there, rooted in place, your fingers tightening instinctively around your weapon.

The lodge still felt wrong.

The air still felt thick.

The room too quiet.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood planted for a few minutes, your ears straining to track the faint sound of Joel’s footsteps overhead as he maneuvered through the rooms. The steady rhythm of his movements was oddly comforting, a reminder that you weren’t completely alone in this place. Still, the unease gnawed at you, curling tighter in your chest with every creak of the old wood.

You sighed, turning reluctantly. If you were waiting, you might as well keep looking for something useful.

As you moved deeper into the lodge, the air seemed heavier, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Your boots crunched softly over the debris littering the floor, your eyes scanning each corner with wary precision. A collapsed shelf caught your attention, leaning crookedly against the far wall, its splintered remains scattered like an afterthought. But it wasn’t the mess that made you pause—it was what was behind it.

A door.

Half-hidden, almost like it didn’t want to be found. The frame was warped, its paint chipped and peeling, the edge barely visible against the shadows.

You froze for a heartbeat, instincts tugging at you, warning you to wait for Joel. To call him. To let him take point, like he always did. But something—curiosity, stubbornness, or maybe just the restless hum of adrenaline in your veins—made you step closer instead. Your hand brushed the debris aside, and the door groaned faintly as it gave way under your touch.

A rush of stale, frigid air met you, sharp and sudden, crawling against your skin like unseen fingers. You swallowed hard as your gaze fell to the narrow staircase leading down into the basement. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, the light from above barely brushing the first few steps. Something about it felt wrong, ancient in its silence, like the lodge itself had buried it for a reason.

You lingered there, the weight of uncertainty pinning you in place. You could turn back. Go find Joel.

Just a look, you thought, forcing yourself to believe it.

Your fingers curled around the grip of your weapon, the metal cold and grounding against your palm. You took the first step down. The wood creaked under your weight, loud enough that you winced. Quiet, you told yourself. Be quiet.

The silence was unbearable, so thick and oppressive it almost buzzed in your ears. Without realizing it, you began to hum softly under your breath—a faint, wavering melody that meant nothing and everything, a trick to steady your pulse and force the tension back into something manageable.

Then you heard it.

Voices.

They slipped through the darkness, muffled and low, with an edge to them that turned your blood to ice. You stopped cold, your breath catching in your throat as your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You couldn’t make out the words, but they were unmistakably human. Not infected—humans. That realization did nothing to settle the nausea twisting in your gut. If anything, it made it worse.

You strained to hear, your head tilting slightly, every muscle in your body coiled tight. The voices were distorted by the walls and distance, but they were close. Too close. Your grip on your weapon tightened until your knuckles ached, sweat slicking your palms.

Turn back.

The warning flashed through your mind like a flare in the dark, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You flattened yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you peered around the edge of the doorway, and there they were.

Three men stood clustered near a ring of dim lanterns, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the crumbling basement walls. The tallest of the three—a wiry figure with gaunt cheeks and a scar bisecting his right brow—commanded the space, his voice cutting through the stillness like the scrape of a blade against bone.

“She was a fuckin’ bitch,” he spat, his knife twirling restlessly between his fingers. The blade caught the flickering light, winking like a predator’s eye. His movements were sharp, erratic, as though violence lingered just beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse to break free. “Got what was comin’ to her.”

“Jesus, Tom,” the broad one muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He leaned against the wall with a forced laziness, one hand brushing the edge of the handgun strapped at his hip. Everything about him—his stretched vest, his patchy beard, the sneer that seemed permanently carved into his face—radiated menace. Even his stillness felt dangerous, like the coiled pause before a snake strikes. “That was your girlfriend.”

“Ex,” Tom snapped, his voice dripping venom, the scar over his brow twisting with his sneer. “Skank.”

The youngest of the group lingered just outside the lantern’s glow, his presence twitchy and uncertain. His rifle was clutched tightly to his chest, the whites of his knuckles visible against the stock, his eyes darting constantly toward the shadows as though they might swallow him whole. He wasn’t built for this. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he flinched every time Tom’s knife flashed.

“How far’s the settlement?” the kid asked finally, his voice thin and hesitant, as if he already feared the answer.

Your stomach dropped like a stone. Jackson.

“A few hours,” Tom said, flicking his knife toward some vague point in the distance, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “If we don’t hit any patrols.”

The broad man scratched his beard, considering. His sneer deepened into something uglier, the edges curling with grim satisfaction. “They’ve got guards,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring them. “Ain’t no easy pickings. We wait. Arm the rest of the crew first. Then we hit ‘em.”

The floor felt like it shifted under your feet. Ice pooled in your veins, spreading outward until you couldn’t feel your fingertips wrapped white-knuckled around your weapon. They weren’t scavengers. They weren’t drifters looking for a warm corner or forgotten scraps. These men were here for blood.

Jackson—your home —was in their sights.

The kid shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “You sure this is a good idea?” he muttered. “We don’t know what they’ve got. What if it’s more than we can—”

Tom rounded on him in an instant, the knife snapping to a stop in his hand. The kid flinched as Tom stepped close, his scar twisting with his sneer. “What, you scared?” he hissed. “Gonna piss your pants, kid? You signed up for this, remember? Or you wanna end up like the bitch we left back there?”

The kid’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles somehow tightening even more on his rifle. “No,” he murmured. “I’m good.”

Tom turned away, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

Your heart hammered so loudly you swore they could hear it. You couldn’t stay here—couldn’t listen to another second. The world around you narrowed to the single, desperate thought pounding through your mind.

Get out. Find Joel.

You moved, forcing yourself back a step, slow and deliberate. Another step. The floor beneath your boots creaked—loud, impossibly loud—and your breath caught in your throat.

The kid’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”

Shit.

You froze, pressing yourself hard into the shadows, your pulse so frantic it was a miracle you didn’t pass out right then.

The broad man sighed, disinterested. “Probably rats. Place like this, I’m surprised we ain’t wading through ‘em.”

Tom grunted, but his gaze lingered on the dark edges of the room for a beat too long before he turned back to his knife, twirling it once more. “We move at first light,” he said flatly, his voice sharp as flint. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

They didn’t notice you. Somehow, they didn’t notice.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself up another step. And then another. Every nerve screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t risk it—not yet. You climbed the stairs, each step a slow, deliberate fight against panic.

When you reached the top, the cold air of the lodge hit you like a slap. You pushed the door closed with trembling hands, the sound of your breathing ragged in the stillness. For one long moment, you stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide as you fought to push down the panic clawing at your throat.

Find Joel.

That thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, and turned back toward the main room. Each step felt deliberate, your movements careful as you attempted to stay as quiet as possible.

Joel. You needed to find Joel. Now.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Joel appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, his presence so sudden and silent that you didn’t register him until he was right there. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and startling in the suffocating quiet, his concern clear though he had no idea what you’d just witnessed.

You reacted instinctively—without thinking. Your hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t know you possessed. The other hand pressed firmly over his mouth before he could say another word. Wide-eyed, trembling, you stared up at him, your silent plea screaming louder than any sound ever could.

Joel stilled. Completely. His body went rigid beneath your touch, but his gaze—sharp as ever—locked onto yours. His expression shifted as he took you in, reading you the way only Joel could: the panic in your eyes, the tremble in your shoulders, the urgency of your grip. Then, as if following some invisible thread, his eyes flickered over your shoulder, narrowing on the dark, half-open basement door.

The change in him was instant. His entire frame tensed, his jaw tightening until you swore you heard his teeth grind. The flicker of soft concern vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—Joel the protector, Joel with the sharp edges and the deadly calm.

“How many?” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as your trembling hand rose slowly. Three fingers. Three.

He nodded once, sharp and precise. They see you? his expression asked, his brow lifting just enough to push the question.

You shook your head, the words stuck somewhere in your throat, fear silencing you.

Joel’s eyes sharpened, calculating. His hand shifted slowly toward his rifle, every movement deliberate, measured, a man preparing for war.

He didn’t need to speak—his body said it all. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He gestured sharply, flicking his hand toward the wall behind you—a command, clear as day. Get out of sight. His eyes pinned you, unyielding, daring you to argue. Let me handle this.

But your body didn’t move. You couldn’t move.

Your feet felt glued to the floor, your fingers twitching against the grip of your weapon, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The idea of Joel walking toward that basement alone—that black hole of danger—sent ice shooting through your veins.

Joel turned back just in time to see you still standing there, your eyes flicking between him and the door. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the motion sharp, almost angry, before his voice cut through the quiet like a whip.

“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re not coming.”

“Joel—” You didn’t mean for it to sound so small, so pleading.

His head snapped toward you, his glare pinning you in place like a physical force. “No,” he repeated, harsher now, his voice a low growl that reverberated in the small space. “You said you’d do what I told you. You promised.”

Your lip trembled as you looked at him, your fear laid bare in a way you couldn’t hide. It wasn’t for yourself—you knew that. It was him. The idea of Joel walking down there alone, of you standing helpless while something happened to him—it gutted you. You couldn’t let that happen.

Joel saw it. Of course, he saw it. His eyes flickered to the whiteness of your knuckles around your weapon, to the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the tears brimming but refusing to fall. His jaw tightened, his shoulders coiled like a wire pulled too tight, but when he exhaled, it wasn’t anger that bled through. It was something quieter, rawer—something meant for you alone.

“Stay here,” he said again, but this time, his voice had gentled, as though he knew he was asking for too much. He paused, and then—just as you thought he might turn and leave—he stepped closer.

Before you could process it, his hands were on your face—broad and calloused, cradling you as though you were made of glass but still the only thing keeping him steady.

His thumbs hovered, the faintest pressure brushing your cheeks, anchoring you, grounding you. His presence overwhelmed everything, the lodge, the danger—it all faded away until there was only Joel.

“No matter what you hear,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something so desperate, it made your stomach turn. “You do not come down. You hear me?”

His eyes bored into yours, dark and unyielding, as if he could carve the command straight into your soul. It wasn’t just a warning—it was an order, sharp and desperate.

You nodded, small and mechanical, because your throat was too tight to speak. Your eyes burned, blurring the lines of his face, but you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. His fingers stayed where they were, his palms warm against your skin, and his brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize you. Like some part of him was begging for more time. Then his thumb traced your cheek—so soft, so fleeting that it almost didn’t feel real.

His next words fell like a blow.

“If I don’t come back…” Joel hesitated, his voice breaking like he hated every syllable he was forcing himself to say. His grip on you tightened—barely, but enough to steady himself. “You take Winnie. You leave.”

“Joel—” you choked out, the crack in your voice making him flinch, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You leave,” he repeated, the word a command, a plea, everything in between.

“You get back to Jackson, and you don’t stop. You don’t look back.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he wrestled with something unspoken. “You don’t wait for me.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and silent as they ran down your cheeks. “Don’t talk like that,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment like he couldn’t bear the weight of you breaking right in front of him.

“Promise me,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, his words breaking apart with the effort it took to say them. “Promise me you’ll go.”

Your chest ached, torn apart by the desperation in his voice, by the way he held you like you were the only thing left in the world. You couldn’t breathe past the tightness in your throat, but somehow, you found the words. Barely.

“I promise,” you whispered, the lie slicing through you like a blade.

Joel stilled, his gaze lingering on you—memorizing you, you realized—until you thought the weight of it might crush you. His eyes were dark, burning with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t allow himself to feel. It was more than care. More than duty. It was him, all of him, tangled up in that look like a confession carved into silence.

He pulled back just enough to let you go, his hands dropping away with a slowness that made your heart seize. It felt wrong, like he’d taken something with him when he stepped back.

And then, without another word, he turned. His shoulders squared, his rifle steady, every step deliberate and heavy as he moved toward the basement door. He looked invincible, unshakable, a fortress built to protect—but you saw it. You saw the way his steps faltered, just slightly, right before he disappeared from view.

It was so small, so fleeting, but you caught it—the hesitation. The doubt.

And when he was gone, swallowed by the dark, you were left with nothing but the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears, the echo of his voice, and the truth you couldn’t ignore

You’d made him a promise.

But you already knew you’d break it.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood frozen, your weapon clutched so tightly your knuckles ached, staring at the empty space where Joel had been just moments ago. Your breath hitched as your chest caved inward, a frustrated whisper escaping you before you could stop it. “Fuck,” you murmured, wiping the tear that streaked down your cheek.

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, pressing against your skin until you felt like it might crush you.

You strained to hear something—anything—beyond the shallow rhythm of your breathing. A voice, the creak of a floorboard, the sharp crack of a rifle.

But there was nothing.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him. Joel was the sharpest, most capable man you’d ever known, his movements precise, his instincts lethal. If anyone could handle this—three men, armed, their voices dripping with cruelty—it was him. But trust didn’t stop the fear.

Your mind spiraled, unbidden. Joel alone in that basement, the shadows creeping too close. Joel outnumbered, surrounded. The scarred man’s knife glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joel going down, because you—because you—

No. You shook your head sharply, forcing the thought back. Joel had told you to stay. Had made you promise. You clung to the memory of his hands on your face, his words—steady, pleading—cutting through the fear like a tether.

“Stay here.”

And then it began.

The first shot shattered the silence like glass, the sound so sharp it felt like it had punched straight through your chest. You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind filled in the image: Joel, calm, unflinching, taking the first man out with lethal precision.

Then came the shouting, frantic and chaotic, movement as they realized they weren’t alone. The second shot cracked through the air, echoing with brutal finality, followed by the clang of metal hitting concrete. A rifle? A knife? You didn’t know. Another one down.

Joel was fast. He was sharp. He was—

But then the rhythm changed.

The sounds turned messier, louder. Boots scraping. A grunt—low, pained. The thud of bodies colliding, struggling. Your blood ran cold. Every nerve in your body tensed as you heard it: Joel’s voice. A noise that was undeniably him—guttural, strained, torn from somewhere deep.

Stay here. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, the quiet plea from earlier ringing like a hammer against your skull. You owed him this. He’d trusted you with this. You’d promised.

But that sound—his sound—kept replaying in your head, pulling tighter around your throat, suffocating you. Joel was down there. Fighting. Alone. And you were here. Frozen.

No. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming louder than any promise you’d made.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t stay here while he fought for his life. If something happened to him—if you let something happen to him—you wouldn’t survive it.

The old stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, slow at first, your boots deliberate against the wood. But then your pace quickened, reckless and raw, urgency pushing you faster than reason could hold you back. Each sound below sharpened with terrifying clarity as you drew closer: the crash of something breaking, the thud of heavy footsteps, the ragged cadence of Joel’s breathing.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you flattened yourself against the wall, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The cold concrete pressed hard against your back, grounding you even as your mind screamed at you to move, to act. Slowly, you edged around the corner, just enough to see—and the sight that met you stopped your heart cold.

Joel was locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with Tom, the leader. The raider’s knife gleamed wickedly in the dim lantern light, a wicked arc of steel that seemed to catch the room’s shadows and pull them with it. Tom lunged, his aim sharp and merciless, the blade slicing toward Joel’s ribs. Joel twisted at the last second, his hand snapping out like a vice to clamp around Tom’s wrist, halting the strike before it could land.

The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the basement, bodies straining, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Joel deflected the knife again, his forearm cracking hard against Tom’s, the impact loud and jarring. But Tom was quick—too quick—and he broke free with a snarl, his lip curled into something vicious and ugly.

“Come on, old man,” Tom taunted, his voice drenched in mockery, his grin sharp and mean. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His focus was absolute, his movements deliberate, honed by years of surviving men just like this. But you could see the wear creeping in—the slight falter in his step, the way his breath came shorter, sharper. The next swing of the knife was too quick, too cruel. It slashed across Joel’s side, the tear of fabric punctuated by a sickening bloom of red that spread dark and fast against his jacket.

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound choked and ragged as you saw him stumble back a step. Joel grunted, the pain flashing across his face before he swallowed it down, straightening with that same unrelenting resolve. But the blood—his blood—dripping onto the floor sent a bolt of panic through you, sharp enough to shatter any instinct to stay hidden.

“Joel!” The word tore from your lips, loud and unrestrained, a burst of desperation you couldn’t hold back.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock—“No!” he barked, his voice hoarse—but the warning came too late.

Tom’s grin twisted into something crueler, something darker, as his gaze swung to you. “Well, look at this,” he sneered, his knife glinting as he straightened. “Didn’t know you brought a partner. Real sweet.”

He moved fast—too fast. Before you could blink, he was closing the distance, the blade flashing as he lunged. You fired, the crack of the shot splitting the air like a whip, but it was too close, too rushed. The bullet skidded off the concrete near his feet, sending up a burst of dust but leaving him unharmed.

“Too slow,” Tom hissed, and then the knife was slashing toward you.

Pain ripped through you, hot and searing as the blade bit into your thigh. You gasped, stumbling back, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

But you didn’t let go. Your grip on your rifle tightened, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you swung it hard. The butt of the weapon crashed into his shoulder with a dull, heavy thud, the force of it making him stagger to the side.

But he recovered too quickly, his movements fueled by something feral and unrelenting. His eyes found yours again, narrowed with ruthless intent. He came at you once more, his steps predatory, the knife gleaming red.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You steadied your breath, your hands trembling but sure as you raised the rifle again. Time slowed as you lined up the shot, Joel’s warning, the chaos, the fear—all of it fading into the steady pull of your finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out, louder than thunder in the small space, and Tom jerked back, the force of it ripping through him. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor as his body crumpled. His eyes were still open, vacant and unseeing, as he slumped against the concrete.

The silence that followed was deafening.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Silence stretched thin, broken only by the ragged, uneven gasps tearing from your chest, the weapon still trembling in your hands. The sharp sting of the cut on your thigh barely registered, drowned out by the aftershocks of adrenaline flooding your veins. You sank against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface pressing into your back like an anchor, keeping you upright when your body felt like it might fall apart.

Across the room, Joel cursed—a low, guttural sound, tight with pain and something darker. When he moved, his steps were heavy, deliberate, like he was holding himself back, like he didn’t trust himself to close the distance without breaking something.

When he finally stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to coil tighter, pressing down on your chest until it was impossible to breathe.

You looked up, your stomach twisting as his dark eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze hit you like a physical blow, heavy and unrelenting, and you couldn’t stop the small flinch that followed.

“What did I tell you?” he bit out, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “What did I make you promise me?”

Your back hit the wall as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Joel—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off. His palm slammed against the wall behind you, the sharp crack ringing out and making you flinch. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

The anger in his voice was volcanic, but there was something else beneath it—a crack, a tremor, something raw that made it hit twice as hard. He bent down so he was eye-level, his face inches from yours. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break, his dark eyes burning into yours with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine.

“You promised me,” he ground out, his voice shaking now. “I said don’t come down here. I said no matter what you heard—no matter what, you stay put.” His voice cracked on the last word, his brow furrowing like it was taking everything in him not to lose control. “Why is that so goddamn hard for you to understand?""

Your jaw tightened, the tears that had been burning in your eyes threatening to spill over. The knot of fear and frustration that had been choking you since this all started finally snapped, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Joel, he would’ve killed you!”

“I don’t care!” Joel roared, the sound like thunder in the small, suffocating room, shaking the air between you. His voice wasn’t just loud—it was broken, raw, splintered with something too jagged to contain.

The sheer force of it made you flinch, but not because it scared you. It was what you heard in it—his anguish, his desperation, all of it bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breaths ragged and hard, like the words had been ripped from someplace deep and untouchable. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!”

“Well, I care!” you screamed back, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as the tears finally spilled free, hot and relentless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping what poured out now, no holding back what had clawed its way to the surface.

“I care, Joel! You think no one does? You think no one gives a damn what happens to you? I fucking care!”

The last words hit like a gunshot, reverberating through the space, leaving the air thick and choking.

Joel stilled, like you’d physically struck him, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what you’d said. The fire in his eyes dimmed—just a little—but something else flickered there, something darker and heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even shame.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotions you’d unleashed in him. His lips parted slightly, like he was searching for something to say, something to give back to you, but nothing came. His face softened in the slightest way, his fury tempered by the truth you’d thrown at him, but it was still too raw—you were still too raw—for either of you to move past it.

The silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting, until you swallowed hard, forcing down the sob lodged in your throat. Your voice trembled but carried a quiet, cutting edge as you pressed on. “And you—you—promised me.”

Before he could stop you—before you could stop yourself—you reached for him, your fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “You promised me nothing would happen to you,” you said, quieter now but no less fierce, no less shattering.

The torn fabric gave way easily as you pushed it aside, revealing the steady seep of blood from the shallow cut along his side. Your hands trembled as you let the coat drop, the image of the blood burned into you.

“So let’s just call it even,” you said finally, your voice small but heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after fear. You sank back against the wall, your head falling back to rest against the rough wood as you squeezed your eyes shut, like shutting out the world might hold you together for just a moment longer.

Joel’s gaze flicked down to the blood staining your jeans, the dark patch spreading too quickly for his liking. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and he let out a sharp, uneven breath through his nose—like he was trying to hold something back, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.

His hands hovered near your thigh, close but not quite touching, his fingers twitching at his sides. They curled and uncurled, restless and aching, as if he were caught in some invisible war with himself.

“You’re hurt,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, quieter now, like speaking it out loud might make the wound worse. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring at the blood, his expression so tight it looked painful.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” The last part was barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you, as though he couldn’t reconcile it—like the fact that you were bleeding was something he couldn’t forgive.

“It’s just a graze,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was defensive, a knee-jerk reaction to the way he was looking at you. Like the blood on your leg was his fault, like it was a wound he’d put there himself. “Joel, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

But Joel didn’t look fine.

His dark eyes stayed locked on the stain spreading across your jeans, heavy and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t anger in his gaze now—it was something else. Guilt.

“That don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low, gruff, but you could hear it—feel it—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry at you. He was blaming himself. “It don’t matter if it’s a graze or worse. I shouldn’t’ve let it happen.”

Joel crouched, pulling his knife free and slicing through the hem of his shirt without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said, pressing the clean fabric to your leg, his hands firm but careful.

He wrapped the strip tightly around the wound, securing it with a knot. His fingers lingered briefly, checking the tension before he leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning your leg.

“This’ll hold for now,” he murmured, quieter this time. “We’re goin’ to the safe house,” his voice dropping into that tone that left no room for argument. Commanding, but not unkind.

You tried to push yourself upright, to stand on your own, but your legs betrayed you, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. Joel was there immediately, his arms slipping around you with the kind of ease that made you think he hadn’t even considered letting you fall. One arm looped around your waist, steady and unyielding, while his other hand hovered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you wavered.

“Easy,” Joel murmured, his voice softer now, though the crease between his brows stayed etched deep, carved by worry so heavy it made your chest tighten.

You let your eyes drift around the room then, your breath hitching as the scene unfolded in jagged snapshots: the lifeless bodies, the chaos Joel had waded through alone. Your heart clenched, a surge of guilt and helplessness rising in your throat.

“Don’t look,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his tone gruff but layered with something protective. It wasn’t just the violence he was shielding you from—it was the truth of it all, the weight of what survival demanded.

Your knees wavered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him—more than you wanted to, more than you meant to. But Joel didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch. You turned to him, burying your face against his shoulder, your sobs spilling out in jagged waves you couldn’t control.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but low, steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around you like a shield. His hand slid up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you with every careful touch.

You pulled back reluctantly, tears streaking your cheeks, your chest tight with the vulnerability you hated showing. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen, voice breaking as you asked, “Are you mad at me?”

Joel froze. It was barely a second—a hesitation so fleeting you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. But his hands betrayed him, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, grounding himself as much as you. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. The question had shaken him; you could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he needed time to collect himself.

“You’re mad,” you said again, your voice trembling, words spilling out unbidden, raw and unsteady. “Aren’t you?”

That pulled his gaze back to yours. His eyes—sharp, searching—locked onto you, and you braced for it. The anger. The storm. The hard words that would push you away.

But they didn’t come.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I ain’t mad at you.” The words hung in the air, weighted with a sincerity that made your heart squeeze. He hesitated again, his thumb brushing the edge of your jacket, the touch so light you weren’t sure it was real. “Could never be mad at you.”

Joel’s hand lingered a moment longer, his fingers twitching like he might reach up, like he might cup your face and hold you still, make you look at him, make you understand. But instead, he pulled back, his hand curling briefly into a fist at his side, as if he had to physically stop himself from touching you.

Joel nodded once, a sharp, subtle motion, like he was giving himself permission to believe you.

With a quiet sigh, Joel shifted, pulling you closer against his side, his movements gentle but decisive as he helped you toward the stairs.

You let him, your body too tired and your heart too heavy to argue.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The ride to the safe house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy—thick with all the words neither of you could bring yourselves to say. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against the dirt road was the only sound that filled the space between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

Every few minutes, Joel glanced back over his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep, his expression hard to read but unmistakably Joel. Protective. Unrelenting.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel, you’re gonna break your damn neck,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, sharp enough to make him slow.

“Ride beside me,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. It was a command, sure, but you heard the care threaded beneath it.

You sighed, nudging Winnie forward until you were riding alongside him. Joel’s horse matched your pace easily, the two of you falling into a quiet rhythm together. He didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes drifted over you again, scanning you from head to toe with that maddening focus of his—like he was trying to convince himself you were still in one piece, like he could find a hidden injury just by looking hard enough.

“How’s your leg?” Joel asked after a long beat, his voice softer this time, the edge of his usual gruffness dulled by something heavier—something tender.

“Fine,” you replied quickly, maybe too quickly. You sat straighter in the saddle, biting back the wince that wanted to pull at your features. The throbbing beneath the bandage hadn’t eased, but you weren’t about to let him see it.

Joel’s jaw worked tight, his fingers flexing briefly around the reins, knuckles pale. He didn’t look convinced, though he held himself back, his voice dipping low as he muttered, “Should’ve stayed put.” The words came out soft, almost defeated, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “You didn’t need to come down there.”

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we really gonna do this again?”

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken things. His eyes lingered on yours, then followed your gaze as it drifted to the dark stain where his blood had seeped into the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m fine,” he said when he caught you looking. The words were clipped, dismissive, like brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.

“Sure,” you replied, raising a brow, the disbelief clear in your voice. “You’re bleeding, but you’re fine.”

Joel let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustration mingled with something else—resignation, maybe.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“So have I,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The safe house was as bleak as you expected: four walls, a fireplace barely clinging to life, and a draft that made your skin prickle.

It didn’t matter. It was shelter. It would keep you alive tonight.

Joel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a wobbly chair. His rifle clattered softly onto the worn table nearby, within arm’s reach, always within reach.

The room seemed smaller with him in it, his broad frame commanding the space even as he knelt by the fireplace. You could hear the low rumble of his voice—soft, agitated muttering—lost beneath the crackle of kindling catching flame.

You sank onto the faded couch, its springs groaning beneath you as your body gave way to exhaustion. The pull of sleep was strong, the ache in your leg reduced to a dull throb—manageable, but not forgotten.

You let your head tilt back against the threadbare cushions, your eyes slipping closed for what felt like the first time in hours. The warmth of the fire began to spread, chasing the cold from the air and unraveling some of the tension from your limbs.

“Let me see that leg.”

You blinked, the haze of near-sleep lifting as you tilted your head toward him. He was standing there, bottle of alcohol in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, a groan escaping him as he set the supplies on the dusty coffee table with a deliberate thud, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at you, his attention fixed on unrolling the bandages, his movements methodical.

“Didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.

His hands were steady and deliberate as he reached for your leg, lifting it with a care that felt almost out of place against his usual rough exterior. He settled it across his lap, his touch firm but gentle.

Joel didn’t say anything as he began peeling back the bloodied makeshift bandage he'd tied earlier. The fabric clung stubbornly to the dried blood, and when the wound was finally revealed, he let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—a noise caught somewhere between relief and disapproval.

“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers hovering near the edge of the gash but never quite touching. His voice dropped lower, as though he were speaking more to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly, your voice catching as you tried to wave him off.

“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t act like this ain’t a big deal.”

Joel shifted, pouring alcohol onto a scrap of cloth, and the sharp scent of it filled the small room. When he pressed it to your leg, the sting came quick, searing and unforgiving. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, your fingers curling tightly into the worn fabric of the couch.

“Shit,” you hissed, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.

“Easy,” Joel muttered, his voice dipping softer, gentler now in a way that made something catch in your chest. ��I know it stings. Just—” He paused, his hands steadying your leg, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. “Just stay still. I’ve got it.”

It was such a small thing—his touch. Thoughtless and unintentional, but it lingered, warm against the ache spreading through you, grounding you in a way that made your breath hitch. Joel didn’t notice; he was too focused, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still finish what he started. But that only made it worse. Or maybe it made it better. You weren’t sure which.

“You don’t have to fuss, Joel,” you said finally.

“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “S’my job.”

“Your job?” you echoed, raising a brow in faint disbelief. “Don’t remember signing a contract for that.”

That earned you a huff from Joel—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t buried beneath layers of frustration and weariness.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely. “You’re a fuckin' smart-ass,” he muttered, the words gruff but not unkind, and there was something almost fond threaded through the irritation, like he couldn’t help himself.

Joel’s hands slowed as he secured the bandage, his touch careful, deliberate, but heavy with exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back with a quiet sigh, the sound deep and tired, like it carried the weight of more than just today.

He didn’t move your leg from where it rested across his lap. He didn’t push you away. So you left it there. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your jeans, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Even though you didn’t listen to me…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, trailing off into a sigh. His hand scrubbed over his face, and when he dropped it, the lines of his features seemed deeper, etched with something too raw to name. “Never fuckin’ listen,” he added under his breath, but the edge in his tone was missing.

He turned his head to look at you then, “You did good back there,” he said, “Real good.”

Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze, your hands fumbling aimlessly at the hem of your shirt. “That was…” you started, but the words faltered, catching in your throat before you could finish.

“What?” Joel asked, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet insistence of his—the one that made it impossible to hide. His brow furrowed as he studied you, his sharp gaze narrowing like he could see right through you. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you lied, the words slipping out too quickly, too softly to sound convincing. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, instead leaning forward, focusing on the task at hand.

Your fingers busied themselves with his jacket, brushing aside the torn fabric and smudges of dried blood as you dabbed gently at the wound. The quiet scrape of the cloth against his skin filled the silence, and you hoped—foolishly—that the distraction might be enough to make him drop it. But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, like he could see right through you.

It wasn’t.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice broke through the silence, low and steady, the sound grounding in a way that made your heart stutter. His hands moved to your wrist, his grip firm but careful, stilling your movements with the gentlest pressure.

The warmth of his skin against yours made your breath catch, and you froze, your eyes locked on where his fingers wrapped around your own. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move. “Look at me,” he said softly.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle.

“That was really fucking scary,” you whispered, barely able to force the admission past your lips.

Your eyes dropped immediately, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you added, quieter still, “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”

You braced yourself for the gruff dismissal that always seemed to follow moments like this—Joel waving off fear like it wasn’t worth the air it took to name it. But instead, he stayed quiet, so quiet you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you.

“Yeah,” Joel said softly, “It was scary.”

Your head snapped up at the admission, your breath catching in your chest. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—an argument, a dismissal, maybe even some clipped comment about how it was all fine now. But there was none of that. Joel’s expression was open in a way that made your heart ache, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen, the firelight painting the lines of his face with hues of gold and shadow.

He dragged a hand slowly over his face, the gesture weighted, as if trying to erase the tension coiling in his jaw. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, rougher. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.” He paused, his gaze flickering to yours, dark and steady, like he was trying to hold you there with just his eyes. “That kinda thing…” His voice dipped lower, softer, as if the admission was meant just for you. “It should scare you.”

You nodded faintly, unable to form words, though your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything. But Joel wasn’t done.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, the bluntness of it landing like a blow. It was unpolished, unfiltered, and so distinctly him that it made your throat tighten. He shook his head, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a grimace. “When I saw your dumb ass comin’ down those stairs…”

You let out a shaky laugh—small, unsteady, but real. “My dumb ass?” you repeated, the words trembling on the edge of humor but not quite making it there. “That’s how you’re gonna put it?”

“Seriously,” he murmured, and the laughter fell away completely. . “You scared me.”

The words hit harder the second time, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the way his voice cracked, just barely, on the last syllable. And when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the unspoken weight of how close you’d come to losing each other. It wasn’t just his usual guardedness—it was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

“I’m not scared for myself,” Joel admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His hands curled into loose fists, his knuckles pale, like he needed to hold on to something solid just to say it out loud. “I’m scared for you.”

Your breath hitched, the confession sinking into you like a stone. “Scared one day I won’t be there,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or I’ll be too slow. Or someone’ll slip past my bad ear.”

“And as much as I’m still pissed off that you didn’t listen to me…” he started, the gruff edge of his voice undercut by the quiet, worn-out softness beneath it.

“…you saved my life back there.”

“Joel—” you whispered, your voice cracking, but he shook his head, cutting you off with a small, quiet movement.

“No,” he said softly, his voice low and rough but impossibly steady. “Don’t.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching faintly before he spoke again. “Not right now.”

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, searching, like he was trying to commit you to memory, as if even blinking might make you disappear.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower, the rasp of it pulling at something deep inside you. “You don’t even know.”

Joel wasn’t a man who admitted his fear. He buried it, pushed it down, locked it away behind walls of steel and silence. But right now, he wasn’t hiding anything. Not from you. Not in this moment.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the world outside the safe house ceased to exist. There was no fire crackling softly behind him, no distant wind howling against the windows—there was only him, his hand on your leg, his eyes on yours, and the quiet, unspoken truth settling between you like a promise.

The tension was too much—thick and heavy, pulling at your resolve until a teasing grin tugged at your lips, breaking the silence like a spark cutting through the dark. “So,” you started, “since I saved your life, you kinda owe me, huh?”

Joel’s lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off, might retreat behind that stoic wall he wore like armor. But then it happened—a soft chuckle, low and warm, rolling through the room like a balm against the weight lingering between you. He shook his head faintly, his hand still resting on your leg as he squeezed it slightly. “That so?” he drawled, his voice rough around the edges, but tinged with something lighter, softer.

You nodded, settling back against the couch with mock seriousness, exaggerating the lift of your chin as you pressed on. “Mm-hmm. Now you’ve gotta do whatever I ask,” you said, letting the teasing lilt in your voice linger just a little longer than necessary. “You know, since I saved your life and all.”

Joel huffed softly, shaking his head again, but there it was—the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of a grin. It was barely there, so fleeting you almost missed it, but it made something flutter low in your chest all the same. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, the firelight catching just enough to make them gleam, the teasing warmth you’d tried to ignite wavered. His gaze softened, though it didn’t lose its intensity, and you felt yourself sink under it, your breath hitching without permission.

“Thing is,” Joel said finally, his voice dipping low—low enough to send heat curling through your ribs, low enough that it felt like a secret meant just for you—“I’d already do whatever you asked.”

The words landed like a fist to your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. Your teasing smile faltered, disappearing entirely as the meaning of what he’d just said settled in. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t playing along. He meant it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath, like they’d escaped before he could stop them. He shook his head, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet with the sharp precision of a blade.

Before you could respond, Joel exhaled hard, the sound tight, his chest lifting as if the next words were being torn from somewhere deep inside him.

“I’d die for you.”

The words sat there, heavy and unshakable, like they couldn’t be taken back. Joel wasn’t flippant—he never was—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t said for comfort, wasn’t offered as reassurance. It was fact. Truth. Something that lived in him, unspoken until now, but so deeply woven into who he was that you couldn’t tear it out if you tried.

Your breath left you, a shaky exhale as you stared at him, unmoored and speechless. Your throat felt tight, the weight of his confession pressing against your chest until it ached.

Joel watched you, his dark eyes softening, as though he could see the effect of what he’d said written plain as day on your face. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression knocked you off balance all over again—like he wasn’t just offering the truth but handing it to you, placing it in your trembling hands, hoping you wouldn’t drop it.

Joel straightened slightly, breaking just enough of the tension to let you breathe. His gaze dropped to the floor as he gently moved your leg from his lap and stood, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Alright,” he said, the word clipped, as if he’d said too much, come too close to showing what he really felt. His tone dipped back into practicality, trying to mask the faint, unsteady edge that lingered, betraying him.

“You need rest,” he added, his voice quieter but firm. “I’ll take watch. We leave first thing.”

You frowned faintly, the heaviness still wrapped around you like a second skin. “You’re tired,” you said softly, trying to thread some sense of concern through the tension. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, like the fire’s quiet crackle might drown it out. “You need sleep too, Joel. I’ll take watch.”

He was already shaking his head, firm and unyielding, before you’d finished speaking. “No,” he said, the word final, resolute in a way that told you arguing was pointless.

“Sleep,” he murmured, the word gentler this time, almost like a plea.

“I need you to rest.”

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you stayed home, cocooned in your little room. Normally, on your days off, you’d wander around Jackson, soak in the closest thing to normal life you might ever get again—listen to the kids laughing on the street, visit the stables, maybe stop by the tipsy bison and sit in the comforting buzz of other people’s voices. But after your yesterday, the thought of stepping outside felt overwhelming.

The weight of what could’ve gone wrong sat heavy in your chest. One misstep, one second slower, and Joel might not be here. You might not be here. That thought had rooted itself somewhere deep, growing heavier with every passing hour until it felt impossible to leave the bed.

So you didn’t. The hours passed in a haze of restless sleep, your aching muscles sinking deeper into the mattress every time you tried to drift off.

It wasn’t until a sharp, abrupt knock at your door broke through the fog that you stirred, groaning softly as you forced yourself to sit up.

You shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of pants and the cleanest top you could find before dragging your hair back into something that vaguely resembled order. Anything to look a little less like you’d spent the day wallowing.

“Coming,” you muttered, your voice hoarse as you padded toward the door. You caught a glance at the clock in the hallway. 7:30 p.m. What the hell?

When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise. Joel stood there, his broad frame filling, he was holding a neat pile of firewood, the lines of his face unreadable as ever but his presence unmistakable, grounding.

“Joel?” you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and something you didn’t want to name. “What are you doing here?”

Joel tilted his head toward the firewood. “Brought you some extra,” he said simply, his tone casual, like he’d just happened to pass by. Then his eyes flicked back to you, lingering a beat too long as they swept over you, taking in the slump of your shoulders, the faint tiredness in your face. “Was gonna leave it, but…” He shifted slightly, his boots scuffing against the wood floor. “Figured I’d check up on ya.”

You forced a small smile, hugging your arms around yourself as you leaned against the doorframe. “That’s… sweet. I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, I guess.”

He nodded once, though his expression stayed skeptical, like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You eat yet?” he asked abruptly, his tone clipped but not unkind.

You blinked, thrown off by the question. “No,” you admitted, maybe too quickly.

Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You plannin’ on it, or just gonna starve?”

“Joel,” you groaned, exasperated, but before you could finish, he was already stepping inside, brushing past you and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Hey!” you called after him, your voice rising in disbelief as you turned to follow. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” he muttered, the words gruff and final, like they left no room for argument. He rolled up his sleeves as he opened one of your cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with an ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Why?” you asked, baffled, hovering uselessly near the door as you watched him root around your kitchen.

Joel paused, his hand braced on the counter, turning just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, a little too knowing, and it pinned you in place. “Because you don’t eat,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, quieter, with a subtle edge of irritation he didn’t bother masking, “And you wonder why you’re tired all the time.”

He turned back to the counter, resuming his task, but not before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised you yesterday I’d make you dinner.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower.”

But as you reached the bottom step, an idea sprung to mind, and before you could think twice, the words tumbled out. “Can you make pancakes?” you blurted, your grin already forming.

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Pancakes? For dinner?”

“Yeah,” you said, unfazed, the prospect of pancakes more exciting than his skepticism. You didn’t catch the way his eyes darted toward the pantry or how he muttered under his breath, “Baby, I don’t think you even got the stuff for pancakes.”

“What?” you called, already halfway up the stairs, a skip in your step like you’d already decided it was happening.

Joel shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me” as he crossed to the fridge, pulling it open with a sigh. You could almost hear him grumbling, counting the odds that there’d be eggs or flour or anything remotely pancake-adjacent in your kitchen.

From the landing, you glanced down, catching the faint clink of bowls being moved around, the shuffle of Joel’s boots against the floor. “So?” you called, leaning over the railing with a teasing lilt in your voice. “What d’ya say?”

He didn’t look up, but you could hear the smirk in his reply. “Go shower. You’re stalling.”

You sighed dramatically, “Fine,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You… figure it out or whatever.”

Joel chuckled low, the sound curling warm in the space between you. “Go on,” he said, flicking his wrist to shoo you off, his voice laced with that familiar gruffness that somehow always felt like home. “Ain’t gonna burn the place down.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips as you turned away. His voice followed you upstairs, the faint sounds of the kitchen already coming alive—clattering pots, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, all as if he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The bathroom was a quiet refuge, the steady rush of the shower drowning out the noise in your head. You tilted your face up to the water, letting it pour through your hair, down your back, washing away the ache in your muscles and the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake.

By the time you’d dried off and tugged on an old sweatshirt and soft, worn sweats, the scents drifting from the kitchen had completely chased away the last of the day’s haze.

Padding downstairs, you were greeted by the faint clink of a spoon against a pot, Joel standing with his back to you at the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked—familiar, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times.

“Smells good,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet as you pulled out a chair at the table.

Joel turned slightly, his gaze flicking over you—first the clothes, then the damp strands of hair sticking to your cheeks. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it softened him all the same. He didn’t say anything at first, just picked up a steaming dish and set it in front of you.

“Eat,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.

You smiled despite yourself, your lips quirking up as you reached for your spoon. “Yes, sir,” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice as you tilted your head, your eyes flicking to the plate. The corners of your mouth tugged higher as you raised an amused brow. “This doesn’t look like pancakes.”

Joel scoffed, his brow raising just enough to make the gesture feel pointed. “If you’re gonna complain, I can take it back,” he said, his hand moving to grab your plate with mock seriousness.

“Hey!” you yelped, smacking his hand lightly, your grin widening despite the way you tried to keep it in check. “I’m joking, geez. Don’t you dare.”

Satisfied, Joel settled back into his chair, his own plate sat untouched in front of him, but his focus wasn’t on the food. His gaze lingered, steady and intent, watching you as you took another bite.

“You’re like…” You paused, swallowing down a bite before gesturing vaguely at your plate. “The stew king.”

Joel’s spoon froze midair, his brows knitting together as he shot you a skeptical look. “What now?”

You grinned, shrugging one shoulder like it was obvious. “The stew king. This is the best stew I’ve had since—well, probably forever. Better than the shit they serve in the dining hall, that’s for damn sure.”

Joel let out a low, exasperated huff, shaking his head. “Didn’t know I was competin’.”

“You’re not,” you said, all matter-of-fact as you shoveled another bite into your mouth. “It’s an uncontested victory.”

He muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you heard the word ridiculous and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.

Joel stilled. He didn’t look at you—not at first. His hand tightened around his spoon for just a moment, like he was trying to keep himself steady. But then you saw it: the corners of his mouth twitched, a small, quiet smile breaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.

He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders eased, the way his usual guarded edges softened just a little.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

After dinner, you settled on the living room floor, the cool wood grounding you as you leaned back against the edge of the couch. You thought he might leave after dinner, but he didn’t, and that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. A glass of whiskey sat in your hands, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the fire Joel had just lit.

He sank onto the couch above you with a low groan, the kind of sound that came from tired muscles and too many years spent carrying the weight of the world. Without a word, you passed him his glass, your fingers brushing his as he took it.

Joel nodded in thanks, his grip firm on the glass.

“You full?” he asked after a moment, leaning back into the worn cushions with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the flames licking up from the hearth.

“Stuffed,” you replied, satisfaction curling your lips into a small smile.

“Good.” His voice was low, almost content, a deep hum that vibrated through the quiet. “So… pancakes, huh?”

You turned your head to look at him, caught off guard. A small smile tugged at your lips. “They used to be your favorite or something?” he asked, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing.

“One of my favorites,” you admitted, resting your glass on the floor beside you. “Pancakes, sushi, pizza—oh, my God, pizza. I miss pizza.”

A low chuckle escaped him, rough but genuine, and the sound caught you by surprise. “You’re easy to please, huh?”

“What was your favorite food?” you countered, curious now, leaning in just slightly.

Joel shrugged, the movement casual but somehow carrying a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Didn’t really have one.”

“Jesus, Joel,” you scoffed, fully turning to face him, an incredulous smile breaking across your face. “Surely there was something.”

He paused, his eyes distant, lingering somewhere in a memory you couldn’t see. “Maybe…” A faint smile curved his lips, faint enough you almost missed it. “Barbecue. Tommy used to drag me to some hole-in-the-wall joint. Meat so good it’d fall off the bone.”

You smiled softly. “That sounds good.”

“It was,” he said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice. His expression softened, his gaze warming, but behind it was something heavier, a shadow of loss that never quite left him. “I remember Sarah…”

You froze. He’d mentioned her only once before, and even then, it had felt like he was handing you something delicate, something fragile and sacred. Hearing her name now felt the same—a glimpse into a part of him he kept locked away.

“I remember Sarah,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Tommy and I’d go, and she’d…” He paused, his lips twitching with a faint, bittersweet smile. “She’d have sauce all over her face. Every damn time. Couldn’t eat a rib without wearin’ half of it.”

A smile tugged at your lips, though your chest felt tight. “Sounds like she had good taste.”

“She did,” Joel said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes glimmered with something the firelight couldn’t explain. “Always wanted the biggest plate. Thought she could finish it all.” He shook his head, the smile lingering but faint. “Never could.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing, letting the moment hang between you. It wasn’t a silence that demanded words; it felt sacred, like it would break if you spoke too soon.

Joel glanced at you then, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. “She’d have liked you,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire.

The most cherished person in Joel’s life, and he believed she would’ve liked you—it was a thought that wrapped around you, warm and profound, settling in a place you didn’t even realize needed it.

“I think I would have liked her too,” you offered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Joel nodded, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache, before you turned back to the fire, letting its flickering warmth fill the quiet that lingered between you.

You sipped your whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding, as the silence stretched between you. It wasn’t heavy, not at first, just there—the kind of quiet that only existed between two people comfortable enough to not fill the space with words. But then, as if the fire itself drew it out of you, you broke it, your voice soft and thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the shifting orange glow. “I was in bed all day.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, a subtle movement but enough to catch your eye. His gaze shifted down to you, a faint glimmer of teasing in the way his lips almost quirked. “Really? Couldn’t tell,” he said, the dryness of his tone laced with just enough warmth to make it feel light. You knew exactly what he meant—the half-tangled hair, the tired eyes, the oversized sweater that swallowed you whole when you opened the door earlier.

“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you took another sip. The corner of your mouth twitched, threatening a smile that you quickly tucked away. “I just… didn’t feel like leaving. Seeing people. Couldn’t do it.”

Joel’s expression shifted, that guarded softness breaking through for just a moment. He didn’t rush to fill the space this time, letting your words hang in the air, safe and untouched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier, like he’d weighed each word before giving it. “I get it,” he said, the rough edges of his tone smoothed by understanding. “Sometimes you just… need to sit in it.”

He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand catching the light as his fingers tightened around it. “I’m sorry if me comin’ by was—”

“No,” you interrupted, the word escaping you with a firmness that surprised even yourself. His brows pulled together slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, but you pushed through, needing him to hear this. “You’re…”

The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, you hated how vulnerable they felt. You hated how much it mattered that he understood, but you couldn’t let it sit there, unsaid.

“You’re the only one who could’ve come by,” you admitted, softer now, but no less certain. Your eyes flicked to his, the weight of his attention steadying you. “I didn���t mind. I needed…”

A pause, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe, but you swallowed past it, your voice quiet but resolute. “I’m glad you did.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you before returning to the fire, the flames reflected in his dark eyes as he spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “You gotta take care of yourself.”

You turned to face him now, drawn by the weight in his voice. He glanced at you, his brow furrowed just slightly. “First thing,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions, “you gotta start with eatin’ some damn food.”

“I just ate dinner,” you protested, setting your whiskey glass down with an exaggerated huff.

Joel’s gaze slid to you then, steady and unrelenting. “And if I hadn’t come by?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Would you have?”

You blinked, your retort catching in your throat. Damn. He’d clocked you there, and you both knew it. A flicker of something soft and self-deprecating crossed your face as you looked away, your lips twitching. “Well,” you said finally, your voice quieter, “I’ll just have to hope you always come by then.”

Joel shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward before meeting your gaze again, this time holding it with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m not always gonna be around to check in on you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something that felt like regret. “You gotta promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

The words hung between you, not a demand but a plea, simple and raw. You swallowed, the lump rising again, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Not try,” Joel pressed gently. “Promise.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips. “I think we both know we’re not great at keeping promises,” you teased, your voice wavering slightly.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, sharp and unyielding, ignoring the deflection. He searched your face, his gaze cutting through your hesitation until you felt it crack. Without thinking, you nodded again, this time with more conviction.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firmer now. “I promise.”

Joel nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before leaning forward to set his whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out low and rough.

His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscle there with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he twisted his head faintly to one side, a quiet grimace flickering across his face.

“You alright?” The question came instinctively, concern threading through your voice before you could stop it. You set your whiskey aside, shifting onto your knees as you turned to face him more fully.

“Yeah,” Joel muttered, the word clipped but gruff around the edges. He leaned back against the couch again, exhaling a breath long and slow. His hand stayed at the back of his neck, rubbing absently like the ache had been there for days. “Just gettin’ old.”

“Joel,” you pressed gently.

He froze mid-motion, fingers still kneading the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as his dark eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to decide whether to give you the truth or deflect it like he so often did.

“Just my back,” he said finally, the words slipping out reluctantly, rough and low as though admitting it made it worse. His fingers stilled for just a second before rubbing over the spot again, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “Probably from pullin’ that damn horse outta the mud the other day… and, well, yesterday.”

Yesterday.

The word landed like a blow, heavier than he intended. Your breath hitched, the memory flashing unbidden across your mind—Joel, pinned and struggling, his face pale with strain, the sound of his ragged breaths tearing through the air. The raw desperation in his eyes as you’d fought to pull him free. You swallowed hard against the ache in your throat, forcing the image back down.

“Hm,” you murmured softly, as though the quiet sound could soothe him as much as yourself. Your eyes drifted over him—the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand lingered over his neck.

You hesitated, the idea flickering faintly in your mind, tentative and uncertain. The fire popped in the silence, embers snapping softly, but the moment stretched, and before you could stop yourself, the words were already tumbling free.

“Well,” you started, fumbling as you sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were to him. “I could, um…” You hesitated, heat blooming in your cheeks as you met his gaze. “I mean… I could maybe… give you a massage?”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brows lifting slightly, the expression on his face caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. “A massage?” he echoed, like the word itself was foreign to him.

Your cheeks burned under his stare, but you pushed forward, trying to keep your voice steady even as your hands twisted nervously in your lap. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now but no less resolute. “To help. With your back. Since you’re so…” You paused just long enough to let a teasing smile pull at your lips, hoping it might soften the moment. “Old.”

For a split second, he didn’t react. Then, Joel let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that broke through the tension like a wave crashing onshore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Just offering my services,” you quipped back softly, trying to keep the teasing light, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest. You wanted to help. You wanted to ease some of the burden he carried, even if it was something as small as this.

The humor faded quickly, though, replaced by something quieter, thicker, as Joel’s expression settled. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the catch in your words—like he didn’t quite believe you could mean it.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You don’t gotta do that for me,” he said, almost gruff, but there was no bite to it. His hand flexed faintly on his thigh, the tension in his shoulders pulling tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Joel,” you said again, softer this time. You leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between you, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh. The fabric beneath your palm was worn and rough, but his warmth bled through it, steady and grounding. You squeezed gently, almost instinctively, your touch a silent plea.

“Something’s better than nothing,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain, coaxing. “And I want to. I want to make you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, You could see the fight in his eyes as he stilled, his jaw tightening, his gaze narrowing as though he was fighting a mental battle. The warmth of your palm on his thigh, your fingers curling ever so slightly, made his skin hum with a longing he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

His thoughts dipped lower, filthier, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He imagined those fingers trailing higher, your lips murmuring words he shouldn’t want to hear, your touch unraveling him completely. His breathing hitched, a low, uneven rhythm he couldn’t quite control, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away before he let the fantasy swallow him whole.

If Joel was a good man—if he was honest, whole, and decent—he’d stand up right now. Put some distance between you. Tell you that this couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t right, that you deserved better than what he had to give.

His eyes betrayed him, sweeping back to you almost involuntarily—quiet, considering—lingering just a moment too long. You were sitting so still, your damp hair framing your face in soft, loose strands that shimmered in the firelight like something out of a dream. The glow caught on your skin, kissed your cheeks, and made you look like you didn’t belong in this world, like you were something holy, something untouchable.

God, you looked like an angel.

And he wanted to ruin you.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick and rough, like he was cursing himself for even considering it, for teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave it—didn’t crave you. And now, you were offering it to him, your touch, your care, your everything, on a silver platter.

Who the hell was he to deny you? To deny himself?

“Alright,” he said finally, the word escaping with an exhale, low and reluctant. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet your eyes again. “But only if you’re sure.”

The corner of your mouth lifted into the smallest, most unassuming smile, the kind that made Joel’s heart stumble in his chest before he could pull himself together. “I’m positive,” you said softly.

He sighed again, muttering something about “pushy” under his breath, but there wasn’t any real heat to it. Slowly, with the careful stiffness of someone who didn’t trust their own body, Joel lowered himself onto the couch, bracing his weight on his arms before settling with his stomach against the cushions.

His broad shoulders shifted as he adjusted, arms folding beneath his head. The soft creak of the couch was the only sound for a moment, punctuated by the faint hiss of Joel’s breath as his body sank into the cushions.

You stood up and hovered for a second, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you watched him settle in. Then, without meaning to, you spoke—your voice cutting through the quiet. “Wait.”

Joel’s head lifted slightly, his face half-turned into the cushion. “What?” he asked, his voice muffled but carrying that familiar edge of impatience.

You froze under his gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, your courage faltering under the weight of what you wanted to say. “Would you… can you… if you don’t mind—” The words tangled on your tongue, awkward and shaky, and you cursed yourself for not just spitting it out.

Joel shifted, turning his head enough to look at you with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “What’re you mumblin’ about?” he grumbled, his brows furrowed as his dark eyes scanned your face.

You exhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Just say it.

“Can you… take off your shirt?”

Joel froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you—already too small—felt suffocating now. Joel’s back, which had just begun to relax under the promise of your touch, went rigid again.

Slowly, he turned, his shoulders tense as his head tilted just enough for his dark eyes to find yours. His hair was tousled, falling forward in a way that made him look softer, but his expression was anything but. It was unreadable—his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and searching, as though he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“What for?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough, cutting through the stillness like gravel underfoot.

Your cheeks burned under the weight of it, of him. “I just—” You swallowed hard, hating how shaky you sounded. “It’s harder with the shirt. I mean, it’d be easier if—” Your hands gestured vaguely toward him, helpless as the words tangled and fell apart.

“Forget it,” you blurted, your voice flimsier than you intended, a weak attempt to recover some semblance of dignity. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and you winced internally, wishing desperately you could rewind time. Erase the last thirty seconds, undo the heat climbing up your neck, and take back the way you’d all but unraveled in front of him.

Joel didn’t respond at first, just looked at you. Then he exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded both frustrated and resigned. His head dipped slightly, his eyes falling shut for a beat before he muttered, “Christ.”

Without another word, Joel shifted. He pushed himself up just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time—giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him it wasn’t worth it. To look away.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The fabric rasped softly as it peeled away from his skin, loud in the stillness of the room. He tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders flexing beneath the firelight before he stilled, holding the shirt in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a moment, you thought he might change his mind—might pull it back on—but then he tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony.

He settled back onto the couch, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face into the crook of his elbow.

You didn’t see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened with something close to self-consciousness. Joel hadn’t bared himself like this in years—not to anyone, and certainly not to you. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it now. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you asked—so open, so earnest. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he didn’t want to name—the way you’d quietly carved out space for yourself in parts of him he thought had long gone numb.

But even as he lay there, back bare and unguarded, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What if you saw him differently now? What if you looked at the scars, the weathered skin, the way his body—so strong once—now bore the weight of a lifetime? What if it was too much, and you turned away?

But you weren’t thinking any of that.

You were staring.

Helplessly, shamelessly staring, your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes moved over him, taking in every inch, every detail, every moment of him completely bare before you.

The firelight danced across his skin, casting flickering shadows that seemed to embrace the planes and ridges of his back. It was like watching something sacred, something meant to be admired but never touched—broad, powerful shoulders tapering into the graceful curve of his spine. That line, so achingly perfect, made your stomach twist tight, heat curling low and deep inside you.

Your gaze caught on the scars scattered across his back, each one like a whisper of a story he hadn’t told you. Then your eyes drifted lower, and everything shifted.

There, at the small of his back, where his skin softened, the faint dimples just above the waistband of his jeans made your breath hitch. They were so unexpected, so disarmingly tender, that they hit you like a fist to the chest. Your lips parted as your gaze lingered there, following the curve of his body where denim clung to his hips in a way that made your pulse hammer.

And then you saw it—the faint glimpse of his side where the firelight caught the gentle slope of his stomach, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the intimacy of it, the way he seemed so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he looked in that moment. That single glimpse struck you like a match to gasoline, the heat rushing through your veins so fast it left you lightheaded.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him.

You wanted to press your lips to the curve of his spine, to trace the path of those scars with your tongue, to kiss your way down his chest, his stomach, lower—until there was nowhere left to go.

You wanted to feel the weight of him beneath your hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if you let your lips linger in all the places that were his undoing.

Him. You wanted him. All of him, in every possible way, until nothing else existed.

You wondered what he was like when he came undone— was he loud, or did he keep it all locked inside, biting back every sound, every moan, like he was too proud to let go completely? Did his hands grip the sheets like they might anchor him, or would he let himself give in, surrender to the feeling? The thought made your pulse quicken, your panties growing damp as your imagination ran wild, unrestrained.

You wondered when the last time was that he let himself feel good—really good. When was the last time someone touched him with care, with reverence? Had it been years? Decades?

And then, unbidden, the thought came: Does he think of me?

The question burned through you, igniting something reckless, something needy, that you couldn’t quite smother. Late at night, when the world fell silent and the weight of the day pressed heavy, did his thoughts drift to you? Did he let himself imagine you in those moments when he chased the edge—your hands, your lips, your body guiding him there?

The thought left you breathless, heat flushing through your body as your heart raced. You could almost picture it—his head tipped back, jaw clenched, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he gave in to thoughts of you.

Your cheeks burned as the images flooded your mind, vivid and unrelenting, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Because the truth was, you didn’t just want him to think of you—you wanted to be there. You wanted to touch him, to make him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. To make him forget everything else, even if it was only for a moment.

God, you wanted him. And you wanted him to want you just as badly.

You wondered if he’d make you wait, if he’d tease you until your breath hitched and your body ached with the need for him. If he’d draw it out on purpose, his voice low and rough as he asked you to say it, to tell him just how much you wanted him. And you knew you’d beg if he wanted you to. You’d let the words fall from your lips, trembling and raw, if it meant he’d touch you the way you craved.

And God, how would he taste? Would his skin taste of salt and heat and Joel, the flavor of him lingering on your tongue like something you could never get enough of? Would his hands tighten in your hair, his breath hitching against your mouth as you kissed him deeper, harder–

“Hope you’re not charging by the minute,” Joel muttered suddenly, his voice muffled against the cushion.

The comment jolted you back to reality, snapping you out of the haze you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. You’d been standing there, still as a statue, lost in the illicit fantasy of Joel Miller—of him touching you, holding you, taking you. A rush of heat climbed up your neck, settling in your cheeks as your thoughts scattered into disarray. “Oh,” you stammered, voice higher than you intended. “Right. Sorry.”

Joel huffed softly, the sound more of a low, gravelly exhale than a laugh. He didn’t lift his head, but you noticed it—the faintest movement in his shoulders, the ripple of tension that suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by your hesitation.

He stayed there, though. Waiting. Trusting.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to focus, to gather your frayed thoughts and channel them into steadying your hands. You hovered for a moment, brushing lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips barely skimming his skin as you fought to steady your pulse.

God, he was warm. Almost too warm, the faint heat of him seeping into your palms. Your hands began to move again, pressing carefully into the firm muscles beneath your touch. You could feel him—really feel him—the tautness of the knots woven into his shoulders, the quiet strength beneath the surface.

But you weren’t doing a very good job—you could feel it, your hands faltering as you tried to work against the unyielding knots in his shoulders. Your stance was off, your angle awkward, and Joel’s frame was just too much—too solid, too broad, his muscles stubborn beneath your touch like they’d been built for this kind of tension.

You pressed harder, determined, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you focused, but your movements still felt clumsy, too light, like you were trying to push against a wall that wouldn’t budge.

And then Joel’s voice, rough and gruff, snapped you back to reality. “Let me know when you start,” he said, the faint teasing lilt in his tone sending a jolt through you like a live wire.

Your gaze snapped to the back of his head. The nerve of him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, narrowing your eyes even as your cheeks burned. Your hands pressed back down, firmer this time, your movements more deliberate. “Shut up, Joel.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat, a rumbling sound that vibrated through your hands where they touched him, and damn if it didn’t do something to you.

“Just sayin’,” Joel drawled, voice rough and faintly teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip. “Feels like you’re petting me, not fixin’ me.”

“I know that,” you muttered, frustration threading into your voice as you shifted awkwardly on your feet. You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms as if anchoring yourself against the words caught on your tongue. “It’s just… the angle. It’s awkward. It’d be easier if…”

Joel shifted, a subtle movement that made your breath catch.

God, why did he have to look so handsome? His face, so rugged and worn by time, somehow managed to soften in the light. His brown eyes, deep and warm, carried a tenderness that cut through the tension like a knife. Puppy-like, almost, but still so distinctly him. And his lips, pink and full, slightly parted like he might say something else—or like he was just waiting for you to close the gap.

“If what, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and slow, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth that sank straight into your chest.

Darlin’.

Joel Miller didn’t say things like that—not to you, not like this. You were used to the exasperated “kid” when you annoyed him, or maybe the clipped “missy” when you pushed his limits. But this?

The way he said it was enough to make your knees feel weak, enough to send a shiver up your spine that you couldn’t control. Was he trying to kill you? Because it sure as hell felt like it. You could’ve let out a whimper if you weren’t fighting so hard to keep it together, to stop yourself from falling apart under the weight of his gaze and the slow, deliberate cadence of his voice.

Oh God. Now a new wave of thoughts flooded your mind, unbidden and unstoppable. Would he say that again? Would he call you something softer, something sweeter, if you were beneath him, breathless and trembling? Would he murmur baby, sweetheart, darlin’ in that same low, gravelly drawl, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he made you his?

The thought sent a flush of heat racing through your body, pooling low in your stomach as your heart pounded in your ears. You couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t stop picturing the way his voice might hitch, rough and wrecked, as he whispered your name like it belonged to him.

Joel’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, you swore he saw right through you. That twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely there but unmistakable—felt like something he was trying to hide. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d slipped on purpose, just enough to let you catch a glimpse of what he was keeping locked away.

His voice broke through the haze of your spiraling thoughts, cutting clean and sharp. “You alright there? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, but your voice wavered, too quick, too thin. Your cheeks burned hot, and you cursed yourself for letting your mind wander there again. Were you really that wound up? Had it been so long since you’d felt someone else’s touch that the smallest bit of attention from Joel Miller had you unraveling at the seams?

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, the weight of his stare making your stomach twist. He wasn’t buying it. “What were you sayin’?” he asked, his tone low, steady, but threaded with that edge of authority that left no room for escape. “Finish your sentence.”

You looked away quickly, heat climbing up your neck as your voice stumbled out. “If I could, um… maybe… get on your back?”

The words tumbled into the room, rushed and awkward, like you were trying to rip off a bandage.

Joel stilled. Completely.

His body didn’t move, not even the rise and fall of his chest, like he was processing what you’d just said—every syllable replaying in slow motion. His head turned slightly, enough to catch you in his gaze, one brow lifting so slowly it sent a thrill through you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—steady and intense—made you feel like he was peeling you apart, word by word.

“You wanna…” he started, his voice low, disbelieving, “…straddle me?”

The way he said it—rough, incredulous, and yet tinged with something dangerously close to amusement—made your heart stutter.

“Yes—I mean—it’d just be easier!” you blurted, the words spilling out in a rushed, frantic tumble. “You’re too big for me to—” You flailed a hand at his back, gesturing vaguely, as if it could explain the absurdity of the situation. “It’s just practical, Joel. That’s all.”

Joel blinked at you, deadpan, his face impossibly still except for the faintest twitch of his mouth. “Practical,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was testing it out.

And then, he chuckled.

It was low and brief, more of a quiet rumble than a laugh, but it sent a shock straight through you—warm and dangerous, curling low in your stomach like smoke. He turned his head back into the cushion, shaking it faintly like he couldn’t quite believe this conversation.

Your face burned, and you crossed your arms defensively. “Joel,” you groaned, the sound of your exasperation only making him huff out another low, gravelly laugh. “If it’s weird, we don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice gruff but steady. “Just go on. Get it over with.”

“Are you sure?” you asked softly, quieter now, your voice uncertain, like you were afraid of pushing him too far.

“I said it’s fine,” Joel muttered, the words clipped and rough, but the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. His face turned further away, burying against the shelter of his folded arms, as if retreating might somehow shield him—from what, you didn’t know. From the moment? From you? But the tips of his ears, dusted pink in the firelight, gave him away, whispering the truth that his gruff exterior wouldn’t allow.

Slowly, carefully, you climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. The motion was awkward and clumsy.

Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his broad back coiling tight beneath your hands, like his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee. It wasn’t resistance, not exactly—it was more like instinct, like even now, with you above him, his guard refused to drop completely.

“You alright? I’m not too heavy, am I?” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, the quiet intimacy of the moment making you afraid to speak louder.

“Heavy?” Joel grunted, his voice rough and low, though his hands flexed briefly against the couch, his grip tightening just enough to make the leather creak faintly beneath him. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice faltering slightly as your fingers hovered uncertainly above his back. “Just… let me know if I hurt you.”

Joel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Ain’t likely,” he muttered.

You started slow, cautious, your fingers pressing into the firm muscles knotted beneath his skin. Joel didn’t relax—not yet—but as you worked, your touch finding a rhythm, you felt his breaths shift beneath you, deepening just slightly, like he was letting out something he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You pressed your thumbs along the edges of his shoulder blades, tracing the lines of tension there. The silence stretched around you, warm and heavy, the crackle of the fire filling the space where words might’ve been. You let it linger, let it be, your hands working lower along his spine, kneading the hard knots hidden there.

It was intimate, so intimate. The kind of closeness that shouldn’t feel this profound but did. You wanted to press down and kiss his skin, tan and golden from years in the sun, warmed now by the flicker of the firelight.

Slowly, deliberately, Joel was letting go, loosening piece by piece, as if surrendering was a language he’d forgotten how to speak. And maybe it was.

“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, muffled against the couch cushions. “You’re good at that.”

The compliment hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. He sounded wrecked already, and you weren’t sure how to handle the way it made you feel—how it set your nerves alight and sent heat pooling low in your belly.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, breathless with the weight of his words. “That feel good?” The question was soft, almost tentative, but there was something else there too—something daring. Like you wanted to see just how far you could take him, how much you could unravel him under your hands.

Joel didn’t answer with words—just a low, drawn-out hum, deep and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and into your hands. The sound felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn, your thighs pressing together instinctively as something heavy curled low in your stomach.

Tension coiled in him—not the kind you were kneading away, but something else, something darker, more primal. He shifted subtly, his hips pressing into the cushion as if to ease the ache building there, but you weren’t naïve. You couldn’t stop the flush creeping up your neck, your lip caught between your teeth as you dared to imagine it. Joel Miller, gruff and unshakable, hard under your touch—and it was you who had done that to him.

You imagined how he’d react if your hands dared to drift lower, past the curve of his belly, your fingers slipping beneath the barrier of his waistband to explore the heat waiting there. Would he gasp, sharp and guttural, as your touch made contact? Would his hips lift instinctively, pressing into your hand, his body betraying just how much he wanted this—how much he wanted you?

Your fingers moved carefully, deliberately, tracing the tension along his shoulders and finding a particularly stubborn knot beneath your palms. You pressed deeper, slower, and Joel shifted under you. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, the word rough and guttural, unfiltered in a way that made your stomach twist with want, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.

God, you wanted more of that. You wanted to pull more of those sounds from him, to know what they’d feel like when they weren’t muffled against the couch, but pressed against your skin.

Your hands trembled as you pressed into the knot again, harder this time, like you couldn’t stop yourself from testing his limits. Joel groaned, the sound deep and rough, and it sent a ripple of electricity through you, hot and consuming. Your body screamed for relief, the ache so deep it nearly pushed you to grind against his back, consequences be damned. Your breaths were ragged, your chest rising and falling, and the slick heat pooling between your thighs had already soaked through.

“Right there,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less wrecked. The way he said it—low and thick, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him—made your breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that,” he added, the rasp in his voice laced with something almost dangerous.

“Jesus, Joel,” you murmured under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But even as the words left your lips, you wondered if it was more a prayer or a curse.

What would his voice sound like if you leaned down and kissed the scar along his shoulder blade, your lips dragging slowly across his skin? If your hands slipped lower, teasing, inviting him to lose control? Would he moan your name, low and ruined, the sound breaking apart as your touch consumed him? Would he groan against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust into you, his words filthy and breathless, begging you to take everything he had to give?

And then you heard it.

“Good girl,” Joel muttered, the words barely audible, low and gravelly, like they’d slipped out unguarded—rough, raw, and utterly devastating.

You froze. Completely.

Your hands stilled where they rested on his back, trembling slightly, and you felt the heat rush up your cheeks, down your neck, down to your aching core in a way that made it impossible to focus.

You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what it would sound like if he said it again—what it would feel like if he growled it against your ear, his hands gripping your tits, his breath hot against your skin.

Finally, when you were satisfied with your work—or maybe just too overwhelmed to keep going—you eased off Joel carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you pushed yourself to stand beside the couch.

Joel let out a low, deliberate grunt, his shoulders rolling as he pushed himself upright, his hands gripping the cushions like he needed a moment to steady himself. H

He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on in one swift motion. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders as he avoided your gaze. His focus stayed fixed somewhere just past you, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly.

But little did he know, you weren’t meeting his eyes either. Against your better judgment, your eyes betrayed you. They drifted down, hesitant but hungry, until they landed exactly where you knew they shouldn’t.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The worn denim of his jeans was taut, straining against the undeniable evidence of his arousal. There was no mistaking it—the hard outline pressing against the fabric, the way he shifted slightly like he was trying to find relief but didn’t want to make it obvious. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your cheeks and slick pooling between your thighs as you realized what you’d done to him.

He wanted you.

That knowledge hit you like a freight train—overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You couldn’t look away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to. The sight of him, hard and straining against his jeans, burned itself into your mind, your heart thundering so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him clear his throat.

Your breath came faster, your chest heaving as the thought consumed you. You wanted to help him. God, you wanted to. Wanted to take away that tension, to make him feel good in a way you knew he hadn’t let himself in far too long. The idea of his release—of you being the one to give it to him—had your thighs clenching, a needy heat coursing through you.

What would he do if you sank to your knees right now, positioning yourself between his thighs? Would his body tense in shock, his breath catching as he looked down at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer? Would he mutter something low and strained, about how this couldn’t happen, how it shouldn’t?

Or would he give in? Would his breath hitch as he whispered your name, rough and almost reverent, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with a quiet desperation? Would he let you take control, let you explore him at your own pace, or would he seize it, the tension breaking as he pressed you deeper, showing you exactly what he wanted, exactly how he needed you?

Joel must have noticed the faraway, dazed look in your eyes, the way you lingered in the heavy silence between you both. “Well,” he said finally, his voice quiet and rough, almost hesitant, as though he was testing the waters. “Thanks. That was… that was good.” His hand dragged through his hair, mussing the curls even further.

You forced a small smile, your chest tight and aching as you tucked your hands behind your back, hoping it might steady you somehow. “No problem,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. Your eyes flicked to his, and then, almost without thinking, you added, “I like making you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, soft but deliberate, their weight landing squarely between you. Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching audibly as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sharp gulp.

Fuck, Joel thought. You were making a damn mess of him. He should leave—really leave—go home, take care of the growing ache in his pants, and swear off ever talking to you again. It would be the right thing to do. The smart thing. But, of course, he didn’t.

How could he, when you looked like that? Wide-eyed, red-cheeked, lips slightly parted like you were holding back something that could ruin him completely.

“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough and hesitant, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was unsure.

“Did I what?” you asked softly, your tone careful, coaxing, almost gentle.

Joel sighed heavily, shaking his head like he regretted even starting. His hand dropped back to his knee, his jaw tightening as though he was debating just walking out. For a moment, you thought he might.

But then, finally, he said it.

“Did you want me to… y’know, help you out?” His voice was quieter now, gruff and uneven. His eyes darted to you briefly, then away, like he couldn’t quite face whatever was stirring between you.

“Your back,” he clarified after a beat, clearing his throat. “I remember you said somethin’ about it the other day, when you were ridin’ Winnie. Twinge, or somethin’.”

Joel cleared his throat again, the faintest pink creeping up the sides of his neck as his gaze flicked to you and then away. “But, uh, no big deal,” he added gruffly, his voice rough and low, like he was backpedaling, trying to give you an easy out. “I can just head out.”

He was trying to play it off—acting like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just offered to touch you, to take care of you in a way that mirrored what you’d just done for him. But the way his voice faltered, rough and quiet, told you everything. He cared—more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, you managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

Joel stilled for a moment, his hand dropping away from his neck to rest in his lap. He hesitated, his dark eyes flicking back to yours. “You sure? I can leave if you—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you interrupted, your voice soft but steady.

Joel inhaled deeply, the sound heavy and deliberate, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The movement made him seem taller, broader, as if he took up all the space in the room at once.

“Uh… can’t promise it’ll be any good,” he muttered, a faint vulnerability beneath his words that made your chest ache.

“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, too quickly, your voice rushing out as you offered him a small, nervous smile. You hesitated for half a second, biting the inside of your cheek as your heart hammered in your chest. Then, finally, you asked, “How do you want me?”

The words left your lips before you could stop them.

How do you want me?

God - If only you knew. If only you understood the way those four words hit him—hard and unrelenting.

Joel’s chest tightened, his cock hardening as his thoughts spiraled, unbidden and entirely indecent, leaving him gripping for control. He pictured you asking that question with a different tone, a different look in your eyes, and it wrecked him. On your back, your legs tangled with his. On your knees, your hands gripping his thighs as you gazed up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Bent over the arm of the couch, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

He swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat rising in him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“I, uh…” His voice was rough, strained, his words catching as though they didn’t want to leave. “Just, uh… wherever you’re comfortable. On the couch, or… wherever.”

You nodded, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he muttered a low, almost inaudible fuck under his breath. The sound sent a ripple through you, your body buzzing as you followed his direction, sinking slowly into the cushions with your back to him. You angled your body slightly away to give him space, though the air between you felt anything but distant.

“Uh… keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, his voice rough and uneven, like he was struggling to get the words out.

“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment creeping into your tone before you could stop it. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Maybe he didn’t want to see you like that. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was.

But God, were you wrong.

Joel knew the truth—knew it with every ounce of restraint he was clinging to. If he saw you topless, in nothing but your bra, he’d lose it. Completely. If he saw your breasts, the curve of them rising and falling with each unsteady breath, if his eyes traced the slope of your bare shoulders, your bare back, he’d be done for. His control would snap like a thread pulled too tight, and he’d ruin everything—you.

So, for now, you had to keep your shirt on. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted you too much.

“I, uh…” Joel started, his voice low and faltering, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, twitching slightly with hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Without thinking, you reached up, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, baring the curve of your neck to him. The movement was small, simple, but it felt intimate—like offering something unspoken. Your skin prickled with anticipation, the charged air between you thickening as you turned your head slightly, glancing back at him with wide, steady eyes.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, the words threading through the heavy stillness between you. “You can touch me.”

Fuck. Joel’s chest tightened, his mind spiraling as the words echoed between you. Touch you. God, he wanted to. More than he should. More than he could admit to himself.

He stared at his hands—rough and calloused, worn by years of work and hardship—and for a moment, he faltered. These weren’t hands meant for softness. Not for you.

Finally, slowly, Joel lifted his hands, each movement deliberate, as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. The hesitation was written in every breath, every twitch of his fingers, a quiet war waging inside him even as he reached for you.

When his hands settled on your shoulders, they were tentative at first, his palms warm against your skin, rough but somehow gentle. Joel’s thumbs pressed carefully into the tight muscles of your shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate circles.

A soft, unbidden sound escaped your lips, barely audible, but enough to make his hands falter mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly, and his breath hitched audibly, like the sound had caught him off guard.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, every word dragged out as though speaking them took effort. His hands hovered, poised to pull away if you gave even the slightest indication of discomfort.

“No,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes fluttered shut. The tension in your shoulders began to melt under his touch, leaving you pliant beneath him. “You feel good.”

Joel exhaled then, a quiet, shaky sound that carried the weight of something unspoken—something he didn’t know how to put into words. His hands settled back into their rhythm, more assured now, his thumbs sliding down the line of your shoulder blades with purpose before gliding back up, tracing the curve of your neck with a reverence that sent your pulse skittering.

It was steady, methodical, almost too careful, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, like he was learning you, memorizing you with every pass of his hands. His jaw tightened, his thoughts spiraling as the weight of your words replayed in his head—you feel good.

You let your head tilt forward as Joel’s hands found a tight spot at the base of your neck, your body instinctively yielding under his touch. Relief washed over you, a soft sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Joel froze, his hands hesitating, until you murmured hazily, “Fuck, Joel…”

His hands slid lower, kneading the muscles along your upper back with careful precision. “Feels good,” you murmured, the words slipping out, soft and dreamlike, unbidden. You melted further into the couch, into him, your body pliant under his touch, like you were made for it.

Joel clenched his jaw, his hands faltering for the briefest moment before finding their rhythm again. He wanted to tell you to quit it. To stop saying all these things to him—these words that wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing until he could barely breathe. To stop making those noises that made his resolve waver, that made him ache in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years.

But how could he?

How could he tell you to stop when the sound of your voice, soft and wrecked, was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard? When the way your body leaned into his touch, so trusting, so vulnerable, felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known?

You held your breath, heart pounding wildly as Joel’s thumbs pressed—just slightly—into the tight muscles near your lower back. The pressure was perfect, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, unbidden moan escaped your lips.

Joel froze instantly, every muscle in his body going taut, coiling like a live wire as that sound echoed in his head. It hit him hard, sharp and visceral, sinking deep into his chest and sparking a fire he couldn’t control.

That moan—soft, breathless, and so fucking sweet—was seared into his memory now, unraveling every thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. Would you whimper for him? The thought tightened his chest, his jaw clenching hard as his hands faltered against you, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to ease up.

Would you gasp his name, needy and wrecked, if his lips pressed to the curve of your neck? If his hands slid lower, over the gentle slope of your hips, past the thin fabric separating him from you? Would you beg for him? For him?

If he touched you now—if his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding lower to feel the heat of you—would you be wet?

God, would you be ready for him? The question burned through his mind, relentless and vivid. He could almost feel it—the way your body might arch into him, the way your breath would hitch when he touched you there. Would you moan again, that same soft, wrecked sound, but this time louder, fuller, edged with need?

The images came faster now, vivid and impossible to suppress. He could see it so clearly: your body trembling beneath him, your lips parted in a breathless plea, your eyes half-lidded, hazy with the kind of need he didn’t deserve but craved all the same.

Joel took a deep breath, sharp and ragged, before abruptly pulling his hands away from you, dropping them into his lap like they’d burned him. “That’s all I got,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, the edge to his words making it sound almost like he was angry—at himself, at you, at the fragile control he was barely holding onto.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave. Turning just enough, you caught sight of him leaning back against the couch, a pillow now strategically draped over his lap, his hand covering his eyes as though shielding himself from the sight of you—maybe from the way you made him feel.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice soft, still tinged with the haze of his touch, the weight of his hands lingering on your skin like a memory. “It was good. Really good.”

Joel’s only response was a single nod, curt and clipped, his jaw tight as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word rough, almost bitten out, as though forcing it past his lips was a battle. “Glad it helped.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Joel cleared his throat, shifting as if to stand, his voice low and hesitant. “Look,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steady himself. “I should… I should really get going. I—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning fully toward him now, your voice soft but insistent.

Joel turned to you slowly, his movements deliberate, like he was fighting every instinct telling him to stay right where he was. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything in him seemed to fray at the edges. Please don’t ask me to stay, his mind begged, the words unspoken but screaming in his head. Because I don’t know if I can control myself any longer.

You faltered, suddenly shy, your gaze dipping for a moment before finding his again. “I wanted to ask you something I noticed earlier… when your shirt was off.”

Joel’s brow twitched, the lines on his forehead deepening as his eyes sharpened. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the weight of your words settling over him.

What was she gonna say?

Was it about the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be, softened by the years and the hardships he carried? Or maybe the way his body groaned with every movement, the weight of too many fights, too many scars etched into his bones? Or was it the silver streaking through his hair, glinting in the firelight, betraying just how much time had carved itself into him?

The look he gave you was cautious, expectant—like he was waiting for you to confirm the insecurities he worked so hard to bury. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, softer but guarded. “Yeah?”

Your fingers moved before you could stop them, trembling slightly as they reached out, grazing the edge of his shirt near the collar. Joel went utterly still, his breath slowing, like he was waiting—letting you. You hesitated, your heart pounding, before gently tugging the fabric down just an inch, revealing a little more of his skin.

Your gaze caught on it immediately: the scar.

It was jagged and pale, stark against the warmth of his skin, carved into his collarbone like a brand from another life. Your breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping as your eyes lingered on the mark. Your fingers hovered close, just near enough to feel the heat of him, but you didn’t dare touch.

“What… what happened?” you asked finally, your voice soft, trembling.

Joel’s gaze followed yours, his face unreadable. He expected the worst—a comment about his body, about the way time and hardship had worn him down. But how could he expect that from you? You, the sweetest woman he’d ever met. This was almost worse, though. Because you cared. And that care, that softness, felt like it would undo him completely.

Slowly, he leaned back, putting a sliver of distance between you as if he needed the space to steel himself. “Knife,” he muttered, his voice rough and clipped.

Your eyes flicked to his face, searching for something in his expression—a trace of the story written into that scar, an emotion he didn’t want to reveal. But Joel didn’t look at you.

“Some guy,” he continued after a beat, his tone measured but guarded. “Long time ago. Tried attackin’ me.”

You hummed softly, the sound filled with a quiet empathy you didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment, you pictured him—Joel, younger but still so unmistakably him. Less gray in his hair, more fire in his eyes. Sharper around the edges, all raw survival and steady hands that had learned how to do what was necessary.

“Had to stitch myself up,” Joel added after a long pause, his voice low, each word deliberate, like it cost him something to say.

Your chest ached with the weight of it, and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ouch.”

He huffed a quiet, humorless sound, his lips twitching for the briefest second before settling back into a thin line. Without thinking, you shifted closer, the space between you narrowing until your knees brushed his. Joel stilled at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

And then, quietly, carefully, your hand reached out.

Your fingertips grazed the edge of his temple, tracing the faint curve of a scar that rested just above the bone. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked to yours, his jaw tightening as though he wasn’t sure if he could let himself breathe. But you saw him—really saw him. You always did.

“And this one?” you asked softly, your voice low, reverent, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness of the moment.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and uneven, your name slipping from his lips like a plea. “Don’t.”

The word was soft, almost broken, and the way he said it sent a pang of something deep and aching through you. There was no bite to it, no command—just Joel, asking for something unspoken.

“What?” you whispered, your hand stilling but refusing to pull away. Your eyes searched his face, lingering on the tight line of his jaw, the way his lashes brushed his cheekbones as he closed his eyes.

“It’s nothin’,” Joel muttered gruffly.

“I want to know,” you urged gently, your voice steady but soft, carrying the kind of quiet insistence that could slip past defenses. “Please.”

“Took a hit to the head,” he muttered finally, the words clipped and bitter. “Made a dumb mistake. Should’ve seen it comin’.”

Slowly, you pulled your hand back, the motion deliberate, leaving a trail of phantom heat in its absence. Joel’s hand twitched, halfway between you, like it wanted to reach for you but couldn’t quite make it.

“Why d’you care ‘bout this?” Joel asked finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t an accusation. It was confusion, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why anyone would care enough to notice, let alone ask.

His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.

You stared at him, your lips parting as you tried to find the words, but nothing came at first. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every time he let his guard slip, even just a fraction, it felt like he was handing you something sacred, something no one else had been allowed to see?

How could you tell him that you cared because he mattered.

How could you tell him that you cared because you loved him?

“Because it’s you,” you said softly, the words slipping free before you could stop them.

His expression faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered, dark and searching, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like he was holding something back—something too big, too fragile to name. Then he shook his head, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to will the moment away.

“Don’t say somethin’ you don’t mean,” he muttered, the words rough and low, swallowing against the literal pain that burned in his throat as he forced them out.

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening as you shifted closer to him, the air between you thick and charged. “Joel you told me a while ago,” you began, your voice steady despite the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “that you cared about me.”

Joel’s gaze snapped up at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, almost wary intensity. He looked like a man cornered, searching for an angle, a way out of a conversation he hadn’t realized he’d walked straight into. But there wasn’t one. You both knew it.

Finally, after a long, loaded silence, he nodded once. It was curt but deliberate, his jaw tightening as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a reluctant swallow. “I do,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the words dragged themselves out of him against his will. “Course I do.”

"Then why can't you believe me when I say I care about you too?" The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice softer now, trembling with the mix of pleading and frustration that had been building inside you. Vulnerability bled through, and your chest ached as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Don’t look away.

"Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

Joel's jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His eyes flicked down, unable to meet yours. His hand moved absently, rubbing the worn denim of his thigh, the restless motion betraying the storm brewing just beneath his skin.

"It ain't..." he started, his voice faltering, so low it felt like a confession. "It's not the same."

"Not the same how?" you pressed, leaning forward. Your voice was steady now, firm, as if the calmness might coax him into staying—into answering. "I don’t get it, Joel. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to just… let me care about you."

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to face you.

You couldn’t take it any longer. Slowly, you reached out, your hand finding his face, gently tilting it toward you. The contact was soft, tentative, but the gesture felt like an unspoken plea, like you were begging him to let you in.

"I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone like I trust you." Your voice cracked, just barely, as you took a breath, searching for the courage to say what you hadn’t said aloud. "You make me feel safe. Joel... I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Joel’s head snapped up at that.

“Look,” you began softly, leaning forward, your voice threading through the heavy quiet between you. “I’m not fighting you on this. It’s not a battle, Joel. It’s just the truth. Whether you believe it or not, I care.”

“And I know you’re stubborn,” you added, your lips quirking in a small, fleeting smile, an attempt to lighten the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “Maybe even more stubborn than me.”

That earned you something—a tilt of his head, just barely, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered to you, guarded but curious. “I’m the stubborn one?” he asked gruffly, his voice rough and low, though the faintest thread of incredulity cut through it.

“Yeah,” you replied, letting the smile tug a little wider as you leaned back, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You can be just as bad as me. Maybe worse.”

“But it’s true,” you pressed gently, the teasing giving way to something deeper, something unshakable. Your gaze caught his, steady and unyielding, holding him there even as you saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes. “I care, Joel. I really do. And it’s not gonna change just because you’re too damn stubborn to believe it.”

Joel’s head lifted fully then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it made your breath catch. The walls he’d fortified so carefully, so stubbornly, seemed to waver, crumbling at the edges. And for the first time, you didn’t just feel like you were talking to Joel—you felt like you saw him.

The space between you felt smaller, sharper, like gravity was pulling you together. You became acutely aware of how close you were, your knees brushing his as the firelight flickered against his face. And then, his gaze dipped—to your lips.

Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me?

The thought slammed into you, leaving your heart racing in your chest. Time seemed to slow, his gaze lingering there just a beat too long. The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. Your breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought he might.

But then Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping abruptly to his hands. He shifted against the couch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was forcing himself to break the spell. “Well,” he said finally, his voice rough and uneven, cutting through the fragile quiet. He cleared his throat, his hands smoothing over his jeans in a nervous, practiced gesture. “I should probably get goin’.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve, a sharp pang settling in your chest. “Oh,” you murmured softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it.

“Yeah, okay.” Your lips curved into a small, fleeting smile, the best you could manage. “Thanks for, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, your voice light but thin. “…the dinner. And the firewood.”

Joel nodded once, his eyes flickering anywhere but you—the door, the fire, his boots—like looking at you might undo him entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “No problem.”

He hesitated, the pause stretching longer than it should’ve. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, the familiar, disarming motion drawing your attention to the tension still coiled in his frame. His bicep flexed subtly, and you hated how that flicker of movement sent heat curling in your stomach even now, when all you wanted was for him to stay.

“And… thanks for, uh… the back thing,” he added gruffly, his voice a shade quieter, more uncertain.

The words caught you off guard, and a soft, unsteady laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “The back thing?” you echoed, arching a brow at him, the teasing edge in your voice betraying the weight pressing on your chest. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Joel’s lips twitched—just barely—a flicker of something lighter that tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, warmer now but still guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let it linger. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, the words rough but softer this time.

“You’re welcome,” you said gently, the teasing fading from your voice as you watched him.

When he stood, you followed him toward the door, the sound of his boots against the floor punctuating the silence between you. Every step felt heavy, the space around you thickening with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob, his broad shoulders shifting just slightly like he was caught between leaving and staying.

For a beat, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, he turned back to you, his dark eyes flickering to yours with an uncertainty that made your heart stutter. “Good night,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, but there was something in it—something more—that he didn’t let himself say. His fingers curled tighter around the knob, knuckles pale from the tension. “Lock up after me, yeah?”

You nodded, your voice steadier than you felt. “Good night, Joel.”

But you wanted to say more.

Don’t leave.

Don’t walk out that door. Stay. Stay here with me.

Let me show you that I care.

Let me show you that I love you.

For a moment, you held your breath, your pulse pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Please. Just say something. Stay.

But he didn’t.

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his face shadowed in the soft glow of the firelight, and turned away.

The door creaked softly as it opened, the cold night air rushing in, biting against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. For a heartbeat, you saw the stars outside—endless, distant, uncaring—before the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden stillness.

You exhaled shakily, the sound unsteady as you pressed your forehead lightly against the door, your eyes fluttering shut. The house felt too big without him, the fire behind you too quiet to chase away the chill that crept into your bones now that he was gone.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, the words breaking like a secret in the empty room—soft and fragile, meant for him but swallowed by the night.

Outside, the stars stretched on forever, distant and silent, but you stayed there, rooted to the spot, the ache of all the words you hadn’t said pressing heavy against your chest.

And you let them linger.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you found yourself trudging toward the dining hall with Maria, trying—and failing—to suppress a yawn. Sleep hadn’t come easy after last night. The weight of Joel’s touch, the sound of his voice murmuring your name, lingered stubbornly in the quiet of your mind, replaying like a song you couldn’t shake.

“Late night?” Maria asked, her tone teasing but curious as she nudged you gently.

“Something like that,” you murmured, rolling your shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the ache that still clung to them.

Stepping into the dining hall, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays greeted you, a comforting sort of chaos that momentarily distracted you from the exhaustion curling behind your eyes. Maria stopped short and turned to you, motioning vaguely.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. “The boys are over there.”

At her words, your gaze followed her subtle nod—and your heart stilled.

As you made your way toward them, it was Tommy who spotted you first. His face split into a wide grin, his arms already opening before you reached him. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled warmly, his Southern lilt wrapping around the word like it belonged there, soft and easy. “Joel was just tellin’ me how you saved his old ass the other day. You’re somethin’ else, you know that? A damn badass.”

Your heart gave a sharp skip at the mention of Joel, your gaze flicking instinctively to him. He stood just a step behind Tommy, his tray in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. He was watching you—quiet, steady—but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind he reserved only for you. Without a word, Joel reached for an extra tray and handed it to you, his movements deliberate but natural, like it wasn’t even a question.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quiet and shaky, betraying you. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks, and you watched Joel’s jaw tighten as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze dropped, flicking away shyly—a softness so uncharacteristic of him that it pulled at something deep in your chest.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice low, quiet enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.

You nodded quickly, gripping the tray a little tighter as you found your words. “Yeah. Your, uh… back thing helped, I think.”

Joel hummed, the sound deep in his chest, approving but subdued. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again—and then lower, to your lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your breath catch.

Tommy’s brow furrowed, his tray hovering in mid-air as he looked between you both, confusion clear on his face. What the hell are they talkin’ about? he wondered, his lips twitching as if he might interrupt.

Before you could even process it, the moment shattered.

“Hey, lady,” a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the air behind you.

Startled, you turned sharply, the tray wobbling slightly in your hands as you found yourself face-to-face with someone you didn’t recognize. He was large—towering, broad-shouldered, with a head shaved so close it gleamed under the lights. His scowl was deep, a permanent mark etched into his face, and the way his eyes raked over you felt dismissive, hostile.

“Oh,” you stammered, caught off guard as your pulse quickened. “Hi.” Did you know this guy? No, you decided, swallowing hard. He was new—one of the recent arrivals who hadn’t yet settled into Jackson’s quiet rhythm.

You felt it before you saw it. Joel.

He hadn’t moved, not yet, but you could feel the change in him—subtle but unmistakable. The air between you shifted as if the temperature had dropped, the warmth of his earlier softness disappearing in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, and Tommy turned too, his expression darkening as he registered the tension.

“Not sure what you think you’re doin’, cuttin’ in line like that,” the man sneered, his voice rough, laced with something sharp and ugly. His eyes flicked over you again, dismissive in a way that made your stomach twist. “Think you’re special or somethin’?”

“I’m—” you started, flustered, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t realize—”

You felt Joel move before you saw him.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice cut through the hum of the dining hall like the edge of a blade—low, deliberate, and unyielding. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

Joel stepped forward, his broad frame eclipsing yours completely as he inserted himself between you and the stranger, shielding you with a movement so instinctive, so deliberate, it made your chest tighten. Without turning his head, his hand found your waist—firm but gentle—as he nudged you back toward Tommy.

Tommy let out a quiet, resigned “Oh boy,” under his breath, his grip on your arm steady, like he already knew where this was headed. Around you, the energy shifted. Conversations dimmed to nervous murmurs, trays clinked against the tables, and chairs scraped as people turned to watch.

Everyone in Jackson knew better. They knew Joel Miller. His name carried weight—a reputation forged in blood and grit, etched into every line on his hardened face. He didn’t need to bark orders or shout threats; his presence alone did the talking. Joel was a man who didn’t bluff, and everyone who’d lived here long enough understood that much.

But this man didn’t. Or he was too new—too reckless—to realize what kind of line he’d just crossed.

“She’s with me,” Joel said, his voice quiet and cold.

The stranger scoffed, his lip curling as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest in a challenge that only made him look smaller next to Joel’s unflinching presence. “Does it look like I care?” he spat, his tone dripping with mockery.

You flinched instinctively, but Joel didn’t react—not at first. He stood stock-still, his profile unreadable except for the faint tick in his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers into a fist at his side. His stillness was terrifying, the kind that signaled restraint—restraint that could snap at any moment.

When Joel spoke again, his voice dropped lower—deadly and cold, each word a warning wrapped in a promise. “It does,” he said, and his eyes sharpened like twin shards of glass. “If you wanna keep breathing.”

The newcomer didn’t take the hint—or worse, he did and chose to shove it aside with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. He rolled his eyes, his scowl twisting into something cruel and sharp, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, man. Tell your brat of a girlfriend she can’t just go around cutting in line. That’s not how things work.”

Brat.

The word struck like the crack of a whip, each syllable biting deeper than the last. A flare of heat surged through you—anger, humiliation, a wild tangle of words clawing their way up your throat. Who does this guy think he is? Brat? Your mouth moved on instinct, the retort already forming, sharp and searing: “Who do you think you’re—”

But the words never landed. Tommy’s hand found your arm, firm and grounding. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, his presence a tether against the storm building inside you. His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you, but the warning in it was unmistakable.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone a weary drawl laced with a hint of something heavier. Experience. Resignation. “Trust me. Don’t.”

It happened in a flash—so fast you could barely process it. One moment, Joel stood beside you, his presence solid and unyielding like a dam holding back a flood. The next, that flood broke.

Joel surged forward with a force that was all precision, controlled fury, and raw intent. His hand shot out, gripping the man’s collar with a strength that sent him stumbling back. The motion was seamless, deliberate, like the inevitable force of a storm bearing down on its target. The man’s back slammed against the nearest wall, the impact reverberating through the dining hall like a clap of thunder.

“What,” Joel growled, his voice low, dangerous, and deadly, “did you just say?”

It wasn’t a yell. Joel didn’t need to raise his voice. The menace in his tone—the quiet, simmering fury—was far more terrifying. His grip on the man’s collar was ironclad, his knuckles white against the fabric.

The man squirmed, his bravado already cracking like thin ice. “Get the fuck off me!” he barked, shoving weakly at Joel’s chest. His hands trembled with effort, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Joel didn’t budge—not even a flicker of motion.

“Say it again,” Joel snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled through the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He yanked the man closer, their faces level now, his grip tightening like a vice. “Go ahead. Say it again. And see what happens.”

“I didn’t—” the man started, his voice hitching, but Joel slammed him harder against the wall, the sound louder this time, sharp enough to make a few people in the crowd flinch.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Joel snarled, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with a fury that could melt steel. “Hell,” he growled, his breath steady but deliberate, like he was holding back a storm, “you don’t talk to her ever. You don’t look at her like that.” His grip tightened on the man’s collar, knuckles white, and with a sharp shove, he slammed him against the wall again. The dull thud of the man’s head meeting the surface reverberated in the tense silence.

Joel leaned in, his face inches from the man’s now paling one, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “And you sure as hell don’t get to call her—” His voice cracked, raw and seething, but he pushed through it, his hand jerking the man forward only to slam him back again, harder this time, the impact leaving no room for argument.

“Anything but her goddamn name.”

The man’s bravado shattered completely. His eyes widened in panic, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I—I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean—”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Joel cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. His gaze burned into the man, and his grip didn’t falter. “Try again.” He yanked him closer, the venom in his words unrelenting. “And look her in the eye while you do it.”

The man’s head jerked toward you, his movements jerky and frantic, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, the words spilling over themselves in his panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”

The dining hall felt like it had frozen in time. Conversations had ceased, forks hung mid-air, the faint crackle of the fire in the corner the only sound to break the silence. Joel was unyielding, a pillar of unrelenting fury. You could see the man squirm beneath his grip, his panic rising with every second that passed.

And then Joel’s gaze shifted.

His head turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and it was like the air shifted entirely. That sharp, cutting edge in his expression softened—not fully, but enough that you felt it like a physical thing. His dark eyes searched yours, asking a silent question, his brow lifting just slightly in that way only you knew meant he was waiting. Not for the man’s apology. Not for Tommy to intervene.

For you.

The vulnerability in that look was enough to unravel you. Joel wasn’t questioning whether he should let go, wasn’t trying to justify the raw, unyielding force behind his actions. He was asking you—quietly, silently—trusting you to decide if the apology was enough, if you were satisfied.

It was such an intimate thing, so deeply personal, completely at odds with the way his knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip, his forearm trembling with restrained fury. The contrast was stark—his quiet deference to you and the raw, unrelenting protectiveness that radiated off him, daring the world to push him further.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you held his gaze. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something tender. “It’s okay. Let him go.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he needed to be absolutely certain. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deliberate breath, the tension rolling through him in waves before he exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then, finally, his hand loosened. It wasn’t abrupt—it was deliberate, controlled, as though every motion carried weight. Joel released the man with enough force to send him stumbling forward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.

The man’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts as he scrambled to steady himself, his trembling hands clutching at his shirt like it might protect him. But Joel didn’t even look at him now. His gaze stayed on you, his eyes still softer, still yours.

“Go,” Joel said simply, his voice low, quiet, but no less commanding. The word carried the same weight as if it had been shouted, and the man didn’t hesitate. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his steps hurried as he all but fled the dining hall. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp creak, the sound punctuating his retreat.

Joel turned fully to you now, his broad shoulders relaxing by degrees, though you could still see the tension coiled beneath his skin. His gaze softened further as it met yours, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away. There was a question there, unspoken but loud enough to feel in the air between you: Did I do right? Are you okay?

Joel’s voice broke through the hum of the dining hall, rough but quieter now, carrying an edge of concern so sharp it sent a pang straight to your chest. “You good?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. There was something about the way he stepped closer, his body angled toward you as though nothing else mattered—like the entire world could crumble around him, and he’d still be here, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Joel didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned your face, his jaw tightening as if he could will the truth out of you, even if you didn’t want to give it. His chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands flexed at his sides like they were still fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you behind him and keep you safe.

Behind him, Tommy let out a low whistle, the sound breaking through the suffocating quiet like a crack of thunder. “Damn, Joel,” he muttered, shaking his head as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Didn’t know you still had that in you. Hell, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

But Joel didn’t react. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even flinch. His focus remained on you, unwavering, like he couldn’t spare even a second to acknowledge anything else. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, almost tender in its roughness. “You should sit,” he said, nodding toward a table in the far corner of the hall. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

“Joel” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He motioned toward the table again, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as if to guide you. “Sit.”

Joel turned back to the line without another word, his broad shoulders tense and Tommy’s chuckle following him like a low rumble of thunder. You noticed the way the people behind Joel in line stood a few paces back now, their movements cautious, like they were navigating the aftermath of a storm.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax as you glanced around the dining hall. The noise had returned to its usual rhythm—a soft din of clinking trays and overlapping conversations—but the weight of what had just happened still lingered in the air. Without waiting, you slipped toward the back of the hall, seeking the solace of a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.

Sliding into the farthest seat, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension in your chest eased, though the moment was short-lived. Maria appeared almost out of nowhere, her movements fluid as she took the chair beside you. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. Her brows arched in silent curiosity, but her expression carried an edge of amusement.

“What did I miss?” she asked, “Why’s everyone looking at you like you just threw the first punch?”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped you, bubbling out unexpectedly, light and tinged with disbelief. Maria’s brow furrowed deeper, though her lips twitched as if fighting back a smile. “What?” she pressed. “What’s so funny?”

“Joel,” you said, shaking your head and gesturing vaguely toward the front of the hall where the line stretched out. “He… handled a situation.”

Maria’s brow arched higher, her interest visibly piqued. “Handled a situation?” she echoed, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce on juicy gossip. “Do tell. What kind of situation are we talking about here?”

You hesitated, the memory of Joel’s fury still fresh in your mind. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the wood grain of the table as you searched for the right words. “There was this guy. New, I think. He said something, and Joel—” You paused, the image of Joel pinning the man against the wall flashing in your mind. “Joel made sure he regretted it.”

Maria tilted her head, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Made sure, huh?” she said, her tone teasing. “Let me guess—intimidation, maybe a little bit of his special brand of physical persuasion?”

You smiled despite yourself, the corners of your lips tugging upward. “Something like that,” you admitted quietly. “He grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall… scared the hell out of everyone watching.”

Maria’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across her face. “Classic Joel,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. But her expression softened as she watched you, her gaze turning pointed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just for show.”

Before you could respond, movement caught your attention. Joel was weaving through the dining hall, two trays balanced carefully in his hands. His face was set in that familiar stoic expression, his jaw tight and his steps deliberate. But then his eyes found yours, and for the briefest moment, they softened.

“Here,” Joel said simply, setting the tray down in front of you with the kind of care that felt oddly out of place in the bustling, noisy dining hall. “They didn’t have any more of that cornbread you liked, so I grabbed you this instead.” He slid a warm muffin onto your tray, its golden top glistening faintly, the scent of honey and cinnamon wafting up.

“Oh,” you breathed, your fingers brushing the edge of the tray, feeling the lingering warmth of the muffin. You glanced up at him, the words catching in your throat before finally tumbling out. “Thanks, Joel.”

He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a slight nod. Joel lowered himself into the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the quiet corner you’d tucked yourselves into. His knee brushed yours briefly under the table as he adjusted his seat, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.

Tommy arrived seconds later, sliding into the chair next to Maria with his tray in tow, his face lit up with a grin that was equal parts amused and mischievous. He stabbed a fork into the potatoes on his plate, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” Tommy drawled, glancing between you and Joel, “guess we’re sittin’ at the safest table in Jackson now.”

Joel’s head snapped toward his brother, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that signaled his patience was wearing thin. “Knock it off,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth like he could end the conversation by sheer force of will.

Tommy chuckled, undeterred. “Can’t help it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an unapologetic grin. “I mean, I’ve seen you get protective, Joel, but that back there?” He gestured vaguely toward the line where the earlier incident had unfolded. “That was somethin’ else.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled, his voice dropping into a warning. But instead of snapping, he glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly before his gaze darted back to his tray.

Maria finally chimed in, her voice carrying that same sharp amusement. “Well, Joel, if nothing else, you’ve definitely set the tone for how new arrivals should behave.”

Joel let out a soft huff, his head dipping as he dragged a hand over his face. “For the last time, I don’t wanna hear about it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and solid, squeezing your knee under the table.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the silent reassurance in the way his fingers pressed gently but firmly against you, said everything he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a message. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m yours.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

My other works!

Tag List

@bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn @joeldjarin @disco-barbiexx @sherrye22 @vxrona @ashhlsstuff @dendulinka6 @ashhlsstuff @r4vens-cl4ws @divineangel222 @jasminedragoon @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @handsintheeaire @jaxmom66 @ashleyfilm @kateg88 @tigerlillyyy

@jethrojessie @eddiemunsonsbedroom @flowerydindjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @oscarpiasstri81 @tldix @grumpygrumperton

@dendulinka6 @agnus04 @tigerlillyyy @vampiredoggies-blog @julwar67 @kateg88 @martuxduckling @guessitwillallworkout @anoverwhelmingdin @thottiewinemom @keepspassinmeby @disco-barbiexx @emisprocrastinating @cuteanimalmama @moulinrougcs

[nymph-ette111]

What if Jeff, EJ, Toby, Masky, Hoodie, and Ben (separately) found Y/N silently crying? Would they help or try to calm down Y/N?

That's it, sorry if I chose too many creepypastas ❤

I hope you have a great day/night!!

(I love your writing style aaaaah! Luv ya >< )

Sorry if I sounded cringe ;)

WARNINGS; JEFF BEING AN ASSHOLE LIKE USUAL/TOXIC RELATIONSHIPS, MENTIONS OF A DECAPITATED BODY

AUTHOR'S NOTE; NO ONE HERE IS CRINGE!! and I love you too <3 was giggling and kicking my feet writing masky and hoodie's part LOL

TOBY;

-the first thought that comes to his mind is that somebody caused this.

-may be a bit rough when asking what's wrong, because like I mentioned before, he just jumps into the conclusion that it's someone else's fault.

-Toby is a little... impulsive when it comes to solving his problems, always going the aggressive route.

-basically what I'm trying to say is that he is willing to chop up someone's body if they did something bad enough to make you cry.

-he will pry the information out of you, whether you want to or not.

-he doesn't realize that this makes things worse for you :( let's be realistic, imagine crying to your boyfriend because someone bothered you just for him to leave and come back covered in blood holding the head from said person's decapitated body.

-he'll even try to hug you, not caring if he is covered head to toe in blood, not caring if the smell was overwhelming your senses. he'll get upset if you refuse his "affection" and "comfort". sometimes Toby's thinking is... hard to understand.

-99% chance you're going to throw up from the sight alone. what I'm trying to say here is Toby's attempt at making you feel better is nowhere near what it's supposed to be.

-but if that wasn't the case and your crying was because of something else like an insecurity, just the overall stress of your day, basically anything that doesn't involve another person he'd be less aggressive.

-wouldn't really know what to say so he'd just go for physical affection and hope that it works.

-now this part depends on you since not everyone likes physical touch when upset. if you don't mind it then he's going to hold you until you feel better. if you don't he'd respect your wishes but he won't leave, even if you ask him to.

-would kiss away your tears one hundred percent.

-i'd give him about... 7/10 less if he brings back a corpse with him but the physical affection is nice :)

JEFFREY:

-love how your relationship is hanging on by a thread.

-it's surviving off of hopes and prayers bro.

-Jeff believes that he should be the only one who can make you upset in any way shape or form. I'd say he doesn't take the idea of someone else making you feel bad very lightly.

-not even in a "oh, someone made my partner upset! not on my watch!" he's just offended because it feels like someone took his place or something.

-yeah did I mention he's toxic as fuck.

-i honestly don't know how he'd react... contrary to popular belief I don't think he'd go out of his way to kill somebody because they made his partner upset like Toby would. in Toby's case it's out of pure love obsession and the need to please you. in Jeff's case he'd probably kill for his own benefit which I mentioned before, someone taking his place.

-fuck it he'd probably kill the person just to torment you, he enjoys that shit.

-however if it's your own feelings regardless of what it is, he'd pretend to not care.

-i think I somewhat implied it in my "stretch marks" post that he doesn't know how to handle his partner's emotions. insecurities or not, big chance he won't do anything, probably throw an insult or two just to make you feel pathetic.

-damn I don't think any fluff post with Jeff would work.

-how can this motherfucker even be nice.

-and if you're asking, no he would never break up with you. you boost his ego a little too much and he doesn't want to lose that.

-he doesn't want to admit it but he's attached to you to a certain degree.

-i'd give it... why are you even reading this it's an obvious 0/10

EYELESS JACK;

-im torn between making EJ the feral demon he is or making him more... human.

-i think I lean towards the more human side when writing for Jack but that might change in the future. expect all of my headcanons to change since I'm still trying to figure this out. even for his personality.

-i should make a poll for that... ANYWAYS

-regardless of the reason, he'd react pretty much the same way.

-he's so sweet and comforting it's actually insane :(

-he's naturally awkward but the voice, the way he weighs and genuinely considers his words before speaking, trying to find the best way to make you feel better can make anyone instantly fold I'm TELLING YOU.

-bro sounds smart and is smart just the way he talk to you is enough to make you move on from whatever had happened.

-intelligent men are so

-head scratches after he's done giving you his advice and point of view of the situation.

-my husband<3

-tries to get you out of your room after that, or just include you in whatever so you wouldn't think about it again. like offering to invite you to the infirmary, there's always an extra seat for you there :)

-i might be biased but 9/10

BEN;

-i've said this before and I'll say it again, does not know how to comfort people. especially ones he cares about.

-he just... stands at the doorway (or floats, whatever you like)

-if it was another person he laugh at them right away, but considering you're his partner he'd fight the urge for your sake.

-actually he might laugh a bit but if he notices that you're clearly serious about what upset you he'd drop it.

-would download a virus on the other person's devices.

-he thinks it's funny.

-he genuinely tries to make you feel better tho, just doesn't know how :(

-if you're insecure about something then he'd react similarly to my "stretch marks" post and try to convince you that whatever it is about you, it's beautiful.

-might come off as corny tho.

-either way... I'd give him a 5/10 maybe even 6/10 if bullying kids on roblox cheers you up.

MASKY;

-regardless of the reason, he'll ask what's wrong but secretly hopes you don't want to talk about it.

-he is a teen tiny bit awkward.

-kind of like Toby, he goes for physical affection and hopes it's enough to take your mind off of it somehow.

-but the hugs this man gives...

-might as well stay there forever.

-just imagine him holding you tight to his chest, one hand rubbing your back while the other plays with your hair. a cig hanging loosely from between his lips UGH

-can you tell I'm listening to lana del rey while writing this.

-again he might not offer much in terms of... actually saying something to comfort you but his hugs are enough and if they aren't then girl what the fuck is wrong with you.

-i need him.

-i give 8/10

HOODIE;

-another one who relies on the physical affection only because he's a selective mute.

-unless you know sign language.

-unlike masky, instead of a hug you're sitting on this man's lap.

-his mask up to the bridge of his nose, scruff facial hair grown from years of not taking proper care of himself rubbing against your flush cheeks, strong arms holding you tightly against him.

-i genuinely cannot continue writing this so I'm ending it here because another word of describing this man will have me tweaking out 9/10

[lordprettyflackotara]

hitchhiker || chapter six || the proxies

tw: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: teehee smut😛 virginity loss, overstimulation

a/n: i am happy to announce hitchhikers is now on Ao3! find the link posted with the hitchhiker masterlist: here

<— previous chapter

Nova felt like she was slipping. Her hands were shaky as she grabbed her coffee mug. The hot liquid swished around in the ceramic cup, threatening to spill onto her hand.

Carefully she took a sip, breathing deeply. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept more than an hour. She was so close to solving the Winston case, her insomnia would have to wait. Nova considered herself to be a logical person. Thats why she knew the tall man she was seeing wasn’t real. She decided to ignore her delusions and seek therapy once the case was over. After all, an impossibly tall man with no face couldn’t possibly exist.

She noticed him for the first time in her kitchen, the strange being observing her from outside of her window. Nova freaked out, a panic anxiety sending her into a short lived frenzy. Her heart was the only sound she could hear, the organ threatening to fail. She had to rationalize her thoughts. To understand working long hours and living off of coffee and nicotine wasn’t healthy. So she ignored what she deemed to be illusions her mind was creating.

As time went on her symptoms began to worsen, faint static and the paranoia of being watched progressing. Nova ignored them all, satisfaction washing over her as she studied her report. She had invited you to her office to share the good news. The news that made all of her torment and suffering worth it. Nova Parker had solved the homicide of Detective Winston.

Originally you hadn’t thought much into Novas invitation. Toby opted to help you make blueberry muffins, stealing a few for himself of course. It was refreshing, her invitation was. It got you out of your apartment and you got to see your best friend. What more could you ask for? You had only managed to speak to Nova a few times on the phone. You tried not to burden her with the details of your life. You briefly mentioned your suspected break in and how the boys had stayed around for your protection. Nova had enough on her plate. She didn't need your paranoia on there too. The detectives down at the station knew you, your presence unquestioned as you led Toby down the small hallway. “Y-you’re sure she’s n-n-not going to h-have an issue with me being here?” Toby questioned. He knew if he didn’t like Nova, there was no way she liked him.

“You helped make the muffins. You deserve a thank you at least,” You said calmly. Truthfully you brought Toby for your own comfort. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been in public alone. Toby made you comfortable, the brunette excited to be attached to you at the hip. After your kiss with Brian your thoughts had wondered to pure filth. Many which included Toby alone, but even more including Brian, Tim, and Toby all together. You couldn’t deny the throbbing that was beginning to form in your core. You knew you wouldn’t be able to ignore your body’s hunger for much longer.

You knocked on Nova's office door, your exhausted best friend opening the door. Black circles decorated her eyes, her skin dry and hair pulled into a sloppy bun. "Hey Nov," You greeted, instantly greeting her with a hug. Nova hugged you back, her eyes meeting Toby's over your shoulder. "What is he doing here?" She questioned. You pulled away from the hug, lifting up the foil to show Nova the plate of blueberry muffins. "We thought you might be hungry, so we made you something to eat," You told her. Your eyes narrowed at the sight of Nova's visible disapproval. She took the plate from Toby, giving him a fake smile. "Thank you for the muffins. Would you mind waiting in the hallway for a moment?" She asked. Her question sounded more like a command more than a mild suggestion.

Toby stood there unmoved, awaiting your instructions. "It's okay Toby just give us a moment," You say. Toby nodded, heading into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. "You should be nicer to him, he helped me make those muffins for you," You told Nova. She rounded her desk, lifting up the foil and eyeing the food suspiciously. "Did you supervise him when he made these?" She questioned. You couldn't understand her harsh tone. "No? We made them together," You answered. You watched in horror as she tossed the plate in a nearby trashcan. "Hey! What the fuck is your problem?" You gasped. Nova took a seat in her large desk chair, boxes of her belongings still packed in the room around her. She had been given Detective Winston's office and had not made a single effort to make herself comfortable.

"Did you even see my interview on the news?" Nova asked abruptly. You noticed the way her fingers strummed against her desk nervously. "No? Was I supposed to?" You asked. Nova rolled her eyes. "If you cared about my well being or this case at all, yes," She answered blandly. Behind her you noticed an old school chalkboard, one that was covered in scribbles and barely readable cursive handwriting. "Nova I'm not a detective-" You began, Nova raising her hand to stop you. You couldn't understand her odd behavior. "This case is putting a target on my back. I can't take any risk right now. I have to solve this case before it gets me killed," Nova explained.

You glanced at the muffins discarded in the trash can. "So you think someone is going to poison you?" You asked. Nova stood up, pushing her chair aside. "If I told you something that sounded crazy you'd trust me, right?" She asked. She leaned against the desk, your eyes widening. "Because I don't want you to forget. It's us, it has always been us against everyone else," Nova reminded you. You noticed the wrinkles in her uniform and a faint brown coffee stain on the bottom of her button up. "O-okay?" You agreed slowly. Nova took a deep breath, her eyes bewildered as she met your confused gaze. "That night on Halloween was when Winston was killed. Based on your location, when you picked up your hitchhiker loverboys you were only two miles away from Winston's body," Nova started.

You hadn't thought about it in a while, Nova and you sharing locations. You had no reason to. You never snooped on where Nova was and you assumed the same for her. It was supposed to be for emergencies, the two of you living alone. If you didn't include Nova's German Shepard. "What exactly are you getting at?" You asked sharply. Nova sighed, turning around and facing the chalkboard. "Look Y/n I know that things after Cameron weren't easy. And I knew one day you'd find a rebound. Or in this case, a few of them," She said calmly. You slowly rose from your chair, your eyes furrowing. "But you need to listen to me. I think your hitchhikers are behind this," She told you. She finally faced you, the color having drained from your face.

"On what principle? Because they were partying in the woods? We were too if you don't recall," You hissed. You walked up to the chalkboard, examining the scribbles. "Nova you need some sleep. Half of this isn't even legible. You're not making sense," You say calmly. In a swift motion she was on you, her hands roughly grabbing your upper arms. "Wake up! There is three of them. They mysteriously came from the woods with no way of getting home? Near the scene of the crime?!" Nova exclaimed. She shook you violently, your eyes widened in fear. "They cosplayed as hitchhikers I know it. They are only using you to get closer to me. Don't you see?" She asked.

You could feel your heart racing in your chest, your eyes flickering back and forth. You searched her gaze for any sign of humor. For any sign that this wasn't real. Once you realized she was stone cold serious, your gaze hardened. "How fucking dare you!" You screeched. You pushed her off of you, causing her to take a couple of steps backwards. It was then Toby pushed his way back inside of the office, jumping over Nova's desk. He was eerily calm, his sights focused on you. His eyes searched your body for any sign of harm, his slender body standing in between you and Nova.

"For fucking starters. Stop calling them hitchhikers like its a goddamn slur! At the end of the day they're my friends above all else. And even if they were more or if they weren't, it's none of your business!" You bellowed. You were unbelievably pissed, anger washing over you. "You need to listen and Toby needs to-" Nova started, pointing towards the door. Toby stood unmoving, awaiting your command. "Toby isn't going anywhere. You know what Nova? Can you really just not stand to see me happy?" You hissed. Nova gasped, her worn out face hardening. She went to take a step towards you, Toby silently blocking her way.

"Do you not understand? The reason your apartment was broken into was because of this!" Nova snapped. She untucked her button up, revealing a vanilla folder tucked into her waistband. "This is what they were looking for," She said, slamming it onto her desk. She glared up at Toby, who on the inside was fighting the urge to slice her in half. "I'm onto you asshole, I won't stop until you're all in jail or on the other end of my python," Nova snarled. Toby allowed you to push him behind you, your protectiveness flattering him. "That is enough!" You growled. A knock on her office door interrupted the argument, two of Nova's officers watching the scene unfold. "Everything alright in here ladies?" The first one asked, his gaze cautiously flickering to Toby.

"Everything is just fine. We were just leaving," You said firmly. You grabbed Toby's wrist, dragging him towards the door. Nova tried to stop you, her hand managing to reach your shoulder. "Please just wait, listen to me," Nova pleaded. You shoved her arm off, giving her a look so cold it could kill. "I don't recognize you anymore," You spit, watching her face fall. With those words craved in stone, you led Toby back home.

\/

Toby could see you were upset. The entire walk home you were silent, your face revealing that your mind was easily in a frenzy. Even as Toby quietly grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers with his, your gaze remained hardened. Once the two of you entered your apartment, you sat down on the couch in defeat. You were on the verge of tears, tossing your beanie aside. Toby kneeled in front of you, frowning at the sight of tears flooding your waterline. "I-I'm so sorry Toby I never should have brought you. She's gone mad," You whimpered.

Toby nuzzled his way in between your knees, bringing his bandaged hands to your face. "Hey i-it's okay," He said softly. His thumbs lovingly stroked your cheeks, wiping away a salty tear. Your watery eyes met his, placing your hands on top of his. Your touch was nice and warm, Toby's heart began to pound as you leaned in closer to him. He melted into you as you brought your lips to his. Toby tried to copy your motions, his inexperience beginning to show. You didn't seem to care, your lips working against his as his teeth clashed with his. You swiped your tongue on his lower lip, requesting access.

Afraid you'd feel the gash in his cheek, Toby pulled away with wide eyes. You noticed immediately, feeling guilty. "Holy shit I'm so sorry," You gasped, your face turning red. Toby swallowed, gaining the confidence to bring his lips back to yours. You raked your fingers through his chestnut curls, trying to bring him hopelessly closer to you. "C'mere," You whined. Toby joined you on the couch, crawling on top of you as you laid on your back. As soon as you seemed comfortable his desperate lips found your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. You tilted your head back, whimpering his name. "Fuck," Toby grumbled into your skin. He could feel your hips grinding upwards, his cock growing harder into his jeans.

"H-how far d-do you um-" Toby began to ask, his face flushing pink. You bit the inside of your cheek, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I want you Toby, please," You whispered. Toby grinned down at you, nodding affirmatively. He grabbed the hem of your shirt, helping you toss it over your head. His pupils expanded at the sight of your lacey black bra, your face only growing more red by the minute. His hands were shaky as he reached around you, fiddling with the clasp. "Toby?" You whispered. He finally unclasped the bra, tossing it aside. "Hmm?" He hummed. You looked at him shyly, your nipples hardening from the cold air. "You've never done this before, have you?" You asked softly.

Toby shook his head, trying to focus on your words instead of your breast. "We don't have to," You say, not wanting the brunette to feel pressured in any sort of way. Toby's chocolate orbs met yours, his pupils blown with lust. "I-I want to f-f-fuck you so bad it hurts," He confessed, his confession bordering a plea. He lowered himself to your breast, maintaining eye contact as he took one of your nipples into his mouth. You moaned as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud, your back arching at the slightest sensation. You couldn't remember the last time you had done anything like this, nevertheless have sex. Toby grazed his teeth over your nipples, a painful whine escaping your throat. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your body on fire with a craving only Toby could satisfy.

He released your nipple with a pop, his lips turning a darker pink. T-that okay?" He asked. You nodded, licking your dry lips. "Please keep going," You whimpered. Toby could've sucked on your breast all day, but he needed more. He kissed down your stomach slowly, keeping his gaze on your face. He couldn't get enough of your facial expressions, his hands shaky as they undid you jeans. You helped him slide them and your panties downwards, discarding them onto the floor. Toby's experience was very minimal. He had only really jacked off and watched porn. He never thought he'd be in this position, his lips kissing your exposed waist.

Your hand ran through his curls, desperately trying to drag him to your aching cunt. Toby dug in his memory, forcing himself to remember everything in porn that made the girl feel good. He nervously licked up your folds, his name falling off of your lips. Toby couldn't quite explain it, but he liked that. A lot. He opened up your folds, examining your drenched cunt. Unsurely, he attached his lips to your clit, watching in amazement as your back arched off of the couch. "F-fuck Toby!" You whined, yanking at the roots of his hair. Toby couldn't feel pain but he could feel the sensation of you desperately wanting more. He sucked at your clit like his life depended on it, his eyes watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Curiously he released your throbbing clit, bringing his warm tongue to your entrance. Toby studied you as he brought it inside of your entrance, your hips grinding against his face. "T-Toby I need more, please," You stuttered, stumbling over your own words. Toby brought two fingers to your cunt, mimicking what he had seen done before. He shoved them inside of you slowly, his cock growing achingly harder at the feeling of your walls around his fingers. "C-curl them upwards for me, please," You pleaded, biting your bottom lip. Toby happily did as instructed, your moans growing louder. He curiously brought his lips back to your clit, sucking at the bud and curling his fingers.

He relished in your unholy sounds as he repeated the motions, finger fucking you mercilessly. He had no perception of how fast he was going, his gaze focused on you. You were falling apart for him, your fingers keeping his head locked in place as he toyed with your cunt. You felt a familiar cord knot inside of your stomach, your thighs squeezing around Toby's head. If he had to pick a place to die, this would be it. Buried in your cunt being squeezed by your thighs. "Toby, i'm gonna cum," You whined. Toby smirked into your folds, grinding his hips against the couch to give himself a little bit of relief.

Seeing you like this, so hot and bothered, was enough to make him cum in his pants. He continued curling his fingers inside of you, brushing against your g spot. The face you made when you came was so erotic Toby wanted to see it again and again and again. He finger fucked you through your high, adoring the feeling of your walls spasming around his fingers as you came. He continued to abuse your cunt, his fingers relentless. "You c-can take it. Give m-me another one," Toby purred, maintaining eye contact as he placed a teasing kiss to your inner thigh. His lips were glossy with your juices, his lips attaching themselves to your inner thighs. He sucked at the sensitive skin, the sound of your whimpers euphoric.

Your legs began to shake, your back arching off of the couch again. Toby was sure your neighbors could hear you and he truly hoped they did. He began to finger fuck you faster, grinning at the sight of the hickies forming over your stretchmarks on your inner thighs. He brought his other hand to your clit, flicking it back and forth. "That's it-t-t. Cum for me. You c-can do it," Toby cooed. Your second orgasm washed over you in a wave, your thighs trembling. Toby went to dive back in between your folds, your hand stopping him. "If you keep making me cum on your face, you won't be able to fuck me," You giggle nervously.

It clicked in Toby’s mind what you were trying to say, the brunette finally emerging from between your thighs. He tossed his shirt over his head, varieties of scars covering his chest. Your fingertips slowly tracing them. You wanted to ask, Toby knew that. He also knew you wouldn’t. “I’m just c-c-clumsy,” He said, before leaning forward. He placed his lips back against yours, groaning into your mouth as you began to fiddle with his belt. With his help he took off his pants and boxers as well, tossing them onto the floor. He pumped his shaft a few times, before rubbing his tip up and down your drenched folds. You whimpered as his cock brushed against your swollen clit.

Slowly Toby guided himself to your entrance, pushing himself inside of you. He leaned forward, his hand finding yours. You laced your fingers with his, sinful noises escaping your lips as he slid inside of you. Toby was practically vibrating with desire, his body shaking as he bottomed out inside of you. With your spare hand you cupped his face. “You alright?” You whispered. Toby met your gaze, squeezing your hands. “Feels so good,” He whimpered. You gave him a small smile, the brunette beginning to move. Your noises were only more encouragement, Toby’s hips beginning to pick up the pace. His cock began to hit your g spot just right, the brunette growing more confident as you made more lewd noises.

“Y-you’re fucking milking m-me,” Toby whimpered, fucking into you harder. You squeezed his hand as he rammed into you, nuzzling his face into your neck. He sloppily sucked at your skin, trying to litter you in as many marks as possible. You couldn’t stop the noises that came out of your mouth, Toby’s cock abusing your g spot. “T-Toby!” You whined, your thighs beginning to shake. You could feel your final orgasm coming, Toby’s hips merciless. For a virgin he was fucking you so roughly you could hardly believe he was one. You bit your bottom lip as nibbled at your neck.

Toby was a stammering stuttering mess, his groans incoherent babbles of how good you felt. You squeezed his hand as you came for the third time, your thighs trembling at the feeling of your release. You were on cloud nine, your body in a state of euphoria as Toby came inside of you. Once he had come down from a little bit of his high, his eyes widened in fear. “Holy f-f-fuck i’m so sorry I did not mean to cum-” He rambled so quickly you barely understood him. He met your fucked out gaze, a cock drunken smile crossing your lips.

“You’re fine, just buy me a plan b, okay?”

Toby would buy you all of the plan b’s in the world just to cum in you over and over again.

—> next chapter

[partytillicry]

Ticci toby x Reader // fem reader

these are general dating and nsfw hc’s so beware!!

TW’s: fighting, slight angst, reader is friends with Nina the Killer, & smut

AN: i love toby sm, he’s def my fav creep. this one is a bit 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂. btw this is half reread so there maybe some mistakes here and there

SFW

toby’s bipolar so a relationship with him is hard but you both work your way through it

he never wants to fight but he can’t control it sometimes

he truly does love but it happens

most of your fights are because he gets jealous or he is just upset about something else

you were laying in bed, just mindlessly scrolling on your phone. reading something that you’d forget a minute later. you were broken from your trance when you heard the door open to see your boyfriend walk in. no hi or hello so you knew something was up.

you immediately got up and walked over to him as Toby was taking off his hoodie and mask. you reached over to his hand to hold it and Toby slapped it away.

“are… you okay? you can talk to me, ya know.” you ask him concerned

“get the fuck away from me.” Toby said firmly. your eyes widened, stepping back and giving him some space. you already knew what was gonna happen next so you just decided to leave

“where the fuck are you going? what? think i’m gonna hurt you or or or or or something? cause i’m ssssssssooOoooOo f-f-f-fucked up?!” Toby yelled. all you did was grab your phone and walk out then booking it to Nina’s room

thats how most of you fights go, he never tries to get physical but it can happen

he apologizes like crazy after, usually with tears cuz he thinks you’ll leave him

and because he’s so nervous and scared, his tic’s are going off like crazy

with all his stuttering, random phrases and sobbing, he’s very hard to understand

you sat on Nina’s floor of her room as she brushed and played with your hair while you talked about what happened. you knew everything would be okay but you were just worried about Toby. you were thinking about asking Slender to lay off on the missions for a while

“look, babes, i know you’re worried about him but you should be worried about yourself too!! how many more fights can you take?” Nina spoke worrying.

“we really don’t fight a lot!! and plus we only do when he’s upset, i know he doesn’t actually want to fight!! you just don’t see how he is after.” you said firmly. it felt weird to defend him but you knew that he wasn’t actually pissed at you

Nina sighs as you pass her a hair tie and she finishes off your braid. you both hear a knock on the door, immediately knowing who it is. you glance back at Nina and she gets up to open the door.

“well hello Toby, i’ve been waiting” Nina says. “you better give her a good apology.” she says firmly but quietly as she walked out. Toby walked in and sat on the floor next to you. you both sat in silence for about a minute.

“i’m so sssSsSsorry, i’m truly sorry. i shouldn’t h-h-have done t-t-that, i had no reason to be maDDd aaaaatt you.” Toby finally spoke up, immediately starting to sob. you sighed, smiling.

“oh baby, im not mad. i know you don’t actually wanna fight.” you said softly. he looked over to you, tears streaming down his dirty face. you cupped his face a wiped away what you could, pulling him into you closer.

“what do you say we hop in the shower, your still covered in dirt and blood.” you said chuckling. all the boy could was nod.

on a happier note! other than the once in a while fights, Toby is actually very sweet but he can get possessive

he’s only somewhat controlling. he doesn’t really like the idea of you belonging to him but you are his

if that even makes sense 😭

he will call stuff like “mine, my love, my baby” etc etc

he’ll let you go out in revealing clothes but he has to be near you at all times

you and Toby were walking around the outside of the mansion (slender wouldn’t you guys leave). you were wearing almost booty shorts and an off the shoulder band tee. Toby thought you looked so cute, he was obsessed with your outfit.

you guys were just holding hands and talking about whatever, Toby leaving an occasional kissing on your hand here and there. it wasn’t that hot out this morning, it was nice. not much wind either. all of the sudden, Toby stopped walking

“what? what happened?” you asked confused. no answer but he let go of your hand and walked up to the corner you guys were about to turn. peeking his head around the corner like a cat only to see Jeff the killer practicing with his knives.

he immediately takes off his hoodie and wraps it around your hips, leaving him with a wifebeater and a pair of baggy cargo shorts on. instead of taking your hand this time, he grabs for your waist

he then starts walking, you following in his lead. you glance over at Jeff then back to Toby and right there, you immediately figured out what was happening. and you couldn’t lie, it was kinda sweet

he’s got a lot of respect for you, and women just in general

like what do you mean you go through horrible pain and bleeding once a month but still have to deal with sexism?

it doesn’t add up for him

he’s always had a respect for women because of his mother and sister being the only reason he actually survived his childhood

he’s always trying to break the gender roles in your relationship

“ no, i can cook today. no, you should be on top. no, im not calling you my bitch. no, ill never call you a bitch.”

he HATES when people call their partner “my bitch” or anything like that

moving on!

bros a cuddle bug

all up and on you whenever and wherever

PDA is his personal favorite

Toby’s top 5 favorite ways to cuddle!:

5: you laying on your stomach while Toby sits on your ass or back

4: him laying on top of you

3: standard spooning (preferably you being little spoon)

2: sitting on your lap or the over way around

1: honeymoon cuddle, which means sleeping sideways and trying to get as close together as possible

it was a pretty busy day at the mansion and Slender had given you chores all day while most of the others were out killing. most of the proxy’s got night missions, which means Toby would be back pretty late. you wanted to be up when he came back so you picked up a book and began to read it.

it was around 11:48pm when Toby came back. he walked into your room to take off his shoes, mask, hoodie, goggles, and leave his axe too. he quickly ran over to you with a heavy breath

you looked up from your book and stared into the boys dark brown eyes. he kissed you passionately, almost starting a makeout session with you. his hands cupped your face as he started kissing you faster. but then he pulled away

“oh g-g-god, i’ve been waiting for that all day. i’m gonna gooOoo showEr, kay? i love you and ill be right back” Toby explained before leaving one more quick kiss on your cheek

when Toby came back and changed into his pjs, he immediately crawled into your arms. he was sat in your lap and was definitely more important than that book you were reading before. you started to rub small circles into his back

“oh love, i’ve been a bit worried about you. i swear, slender needs to stop sending you on these night missions before i get a heart attack.” you said, pressing small kisses onto his face here and there

“babe, i know you don’t like them and believe me, i don’t ether. but please just trust me, ill be okay. i mean slender has sent me on a mission that lasted a week before and i have no doubt it will happen again. these missions are like nothing to me.” the boy reassured you

you smiled, kissing his cold lips passionately. you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him in closer. his hands immediately went to your waist, sliding up and down slowly. lets just say you guys made out for the rest of the night

NSFW

this man is a FREAK.

he always makes sure you’re satisfied, you are his top priority

he wants to hold your tits during sex. not grab but just touch ‘em

he loves to involve your tits with the sex. cuming on them, sucking them, playing with them, etc

sucking on them? what kinda freaky shit is this?

he will go CRAZY if you let him suck your tits

toby laid on top of you while pressing small kisses and hickeys on your neck. he wanted to go a little further so the boy let his hands go up your tank top. his brown eyes lock with yours, asking for permission to take off the small piece of clothing

you nodded, cold air immediately hitting your hard nipples. all toby could do was look in awe. his mouth immediately crashed onto your soft boob. kissing and licking around your nipples, little whimpers and whines leaving your mouth

“uh c-C-can i suck them..?”

you nodded and he moved on your sensitive nipples. licking and taking your breast into his mouth the best he could. Toby loved to see you all whiney and overstimulated under him. you could feel him getting harder

he’s pretty average when it comes to size but boy, he knows what he’s doing

toby had an insane porn addiction before you both met and omg, he watched everything

because of that, he will try anything and know how to do it

wanna peg him? he’s already bought the stuff. wanna have buttsex? he’s got lube. want him to eat ur ass? so down and ready.

honestly though, toby loves to just fuck like normal. doggy and cowgirl are his favorites.

“you sure your ready?” toby said teasingly.

“god, Tob’s, just fuck me already”

after what felt like forever, toby slowly slipped his dick into your dripping wet cunt. he groaned as your eyes fluttered closed. his cold, dirty hands began to feel around your thighs as he held you up.

“okay love, im gonna move” you rolled your eyes. his pace started out slow but hard. after a while of fucking once a week, toby knew exactly were all your g spots were. he would tease you a bit by almost hitting it and then hitting it.

you moaned and begged for toby to sped up but he kept his pace. it was slow and painful but god it felt so good. he started to speed up slowly. you moaned and groaned, only making him go faster and faster

he love love lovessss to go at it for hours but only if you’re up to it

and ONLY if you want too

“consent is sexy baby” -toby 2024

he wants to see you begging on your knees for more

on average, you guys are having 3-8 rounds everytime

cum stained sheets just turn him on more

heavy breathing fills the room, toby laying on top of you. his hands rubbed your stomach while his throbbing member was still inside you. as you felt it pulsing, it only turned you on more and more. 

“…hah…b-bAby, do you wanna go again?” the boy said as he pulled out. his hand now rested on your face as him thumb trailed across your cheek.

“fuck yeah.” you sighed out with a smile. toby smiled, quickly grabbing your waist and thrusting back in. a sharp moan escapes your lips while toby grunts

hardcore aftercare everytime

“are you okay? did i hurt you? was it good? are you in pain? do you need anything? do you want anything? do you wanna your put clothes back on? do you want my clothes back on?”

so. many. questions.

he just loves you and doesn’t ever wanna hurt you

he WILL cook you a full course meal. i mean, it won’t taste good but hey its the thought that counts

you moan loudly, coming down from your high. you immediately collapse on top of him while sliding him out of you. chest to chest, your breathing intertwine’s and your body becomes one with his.

“oh baby i love you but i’m done” you say sleepily. your hands run through his dirty, brown hair.

“that-tha-thats okay!! are you alright?” toby says concerned.

“yeah, yeah. i’m just uh tired” you reassured him, still playing with his hair a bit.

he started to rub your back in small circles, kissing your forehead ever so gently. your hands let go of his hair, wrapping your arms around toby’s neck, pulling yourself into him even closer. he breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled.

“oh i love you my darling, a-AAnd not just for sex. your so much more than that, *we’re* so much more than that. of course i-i-i love your body and the way you moan and and and everything else. but i love all of you.” toby said lovingly

[lilybug-02]

Happy 2 Year Anniversary to The Chara Timeline ✨

I FINALLY made drawing references for you guys, yippie!✨

It’s wild how long I’ve been working on this comic without reference sheets. I’m never that consistent with my art style, so I figured it was a waste of time 🫥💀😔 this is my first full comic okay…

Thoughts and Feelings About the Comic Below ❤️💖💕💞

Wow. It’s been 2 years??? I thought I would be done with this comic in 2 months! I don’t know whether to feel worried or accomplished!!

(With months between each update, I understand why it’s been 2 years. I’m a slow writer and artist and well- many things have come up in my life that had to come first, like my sisters wedding! 💞 and college 😅)

I want to thank my family and friends (WHO DO NOT READ THIS COMIC- THANK GOD) 💕 AND I want to THANK YOU! The readers! 💐💐

You guys are relentless! I’m as impatient as traffic and yet you guys wait for weeks or months at a time for like 4 pages?! You guys don’t even complain!!! I truly want to thank you all for that ❤️ it helps me so much. Being busy and getting burnt out are common and it helps me feel relaxed that i'm not on a timer. Literally tho- you guys keep this comic chugging I swear. Tysm 💐

Unorganized rambling about the comic ahead :) ⭐️🔥

—

My feelings with this comic are actually so complicated. On one hand I hate looking at my older art because GOD IT LOOKS SO OFF I want to stab it, and then on the other hand I am so so proud of myself for even continuing it this far. Ngl the weird route has been one of my favorite parts of this comic. It took me FOREVER to figure out an ending, but damn do I still get chills >:) hehe.

I’m still miffed that I named this project “Deltarune: The Chara Timeline” I could have gone for something so much COOLER. Doesn’t help I use like 7 different titles for it either. We got Deltarune the Chara timeline, Deltarune chara timeline, THE Chara timeline, chara timeline, Ct??? Man,,, I’m crazy. I take after my family so hard. We have 3 names for each of our dogs 💀.

Comic/Animation Tip i have learned. It is VERY GOOD to make the character relatively simple in design. Shape language is also super important, ((but I never really got around to doing that before I was half way through the comic, woops.)) These things can make ur process go by so much faster. This whole comic has been a HUGE learning curve. LIKE OH MY GOD. I had to learn how to draw backgrounds, write dialogue, plan a story, learn how to draw fast and draw noses (which god damn I really still can’t). And I had to learn how the heck to squeeze art into a tiny page and make it not look grainy. It's intense!

Anyways.... this has been such an awesome opportunity! Thanks Toby Fox!

I totally ran out of “art time” for my iPad and wanted to finish this today. So it’s a bit rushed. I’ll add weapons and possibly the other characters later :)

Oh shi- I forgot to add this grainy image of the next few pages lmao

[fortheloveofwonderland]

My Reply | S.R

This one was a request from the lovely @reidsaurora-replies for my milestone celebration which got wildly out of hand. I think I damn near used every lyric of the song in this one. Also, Maeve does not exist in this universe. I felt like his phone calls with her were too similar to the letters with reader and not needed

Summary - Spencer writes his deepest tragedies down on paper for his pen pal. After ten years of exchanging letters and some divine intervention from JJ, the two of you finally come face to face.

CW - this one covers most of Spencer’s canon storylines including Tobis Hankel and his drug addiction, his moms illness, his fathers abandonment, getting shot in the knee, his headaches, Emily’s “death”, prison arc, Mr Scratch and Emily’s kidnapping, angst, interfering friends, lots of literary quotes.

WC - 6.3k

Making friends was always something Spencer Reid had been inherently bad at. He was always too young or too smart which always seemed to put people off of forming friendships with him. 

When he joined the BAU, his team called themselves his friends. But Spencer knew if he’d met any of them outside of work he would have nothing in common with them. 

They were simply friends by proximity, which admittedly was better than having no friends at all. But he couldn’t talk to them about everything, afraid to scare them away with talk of his mothers illness or his fathers abandonment. 

And sometimes he just needed to talk to someone. 

It was Garcia’s idea that he sign up for a pen pal. When she found out about his mom during the course of the fisher king case, he’d confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable talking to the team about such things. 

At first she’d actually suggested talking to someone online, she had many online friends who she talked to in various chat rooms. But after almost an hour of trying to explain that to the technophobe doctor and getting little more than a deep frown in response, she changed tact. 

A pen pal appealed to Spencer greatly. He already wrote daily letters to his mom and found it somewhat cathartic, getting his thoughts down on the page, but he never bothered her with the darker stuff. 

The idea of a faceless person he’d never meet reading his deepest, darkest thoughts was actually intriguing to him. And so with the help of Penelope he found himself a pen pal. 

In his first letter he’d just introduced the basics, his name and age, what he did for a living and that he lived in DC. 

He went on to explain how hard he found it to make friends and the difficulties of talking to his already established friends about the darker parts of his life. He ended the letter with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” - Harper Lee.

He received a reply little over a week later. 

Your name was Y/N and you were twenty two, three years younger than him and a grad student at Columbia University. You told him you would be happy to read whatever he sent you, that you were more than willing for him to write to you about the things he didn’t tell his friends. 

You signed off with a quote of your own quote from the book Infinite Jest.

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.” - David Foster Wallace. 

And so he did just as you said and he wrote another letter. 

His second letter to you was five pages long. He went into great detail about his mothers illness, how he’d been left to deal with it alone at ten years old. He wrote about how he’d made the decision at eighteen years old to have her committed to a sanitarium. 

He told you about growing up as a child prodigy in Las Vegas and how hard that was. You were the first person he ever told about Alexa Lisbon and being tied naked to a flagpole. 

He spoke about the events surrounding Elle leaving the team and how it didn’t feel complete without her. 

He ended the letter by apologising profusely that he’d wasted your time with his long winded rambles and said he hoped to hear from you soon and scrawled a quote from The Great Gatsby.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

He said he would understand if you didn’t reply. But you did. 

The letter took two weeks to arrive and you explained that it was because you wanted to really process his words and give each and every one of them the time they deserved. He read the last few lines of your letter over and over again in a loop even though they were etched into his memory after only one glance.

I wish there was something I could say, to erase each and every page you've been through,

even though it's not my place to save you. 

“When I get lonely these days, I think: so be lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat, Pray, Love. 

He wasn’t familiar with the book and so he’d gone out and brought it and read it cover to cover within an hour. 

Reading your letter made Spencer feel understood for the first time in his young life. You didn’t pass judgement on him. Spencer found that between the pages of your letters he found a kindred spirit. 

The letters continued back and forth for several months until one day you didn’t receive a reply. His last letter had been penned to you on route to a case in Atlanta, which you’d responded to the day you received it. But there was radio silence from Spencer. 

You shouldn’t have been as worried as you were, but you couldn’t help yourself. His letters had become such a huge part of your world, often rereading them hundreds of times just to make sure you didn’t miss any little nuance on the page. 

His handwriting was ingrained within you, his scrawly, sometimes barely legible penmanship danced behind your eyelids every time you closed your eyes. His letters had rapidly become the best part of any day. And for over a year you didn’t receive a reply. 

After a while you’d stopped holding out hope every time you collected your mail. Eventually you gave up ever expecting to hear from him again. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore. Perhaps he’d made a real life friend, maybe even a girlfriend and you’d been rendered ineffective. 

But then little over a year after you sent your last letter, you found an envelope in your mail slot with the familiar handwriting you adored so much and the DC postmark. 

Y/N,

I don’t really have any excuses, all I can say is I’m sorry. I have written you fifty three letters over the course of the last year but never mailed a single one. They are piled up on my desk, addressed and even stamped, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail them. 

I’ve been struggling, I can’t lie to you. I can’t even lie to you through a letter and tell you I’ve been fine because I haven’t. I think you would see through my prose, know that I wasn’t being truthful. And you’ve never given me a reason to be anything but honest with you.

The case in Atlanta was one of the hardest I’ve ever worked. I’m not going to beat around the bush, I’m just going to tell what happened and hopefully this letter will end up with you and not in the pile on my desk. 

I was kidnapped by the man we were hunting down. I spent two days tied to a chair being beaten within an inch of my life but a man with multiple personalities. In fact, that’s not strictly true. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; one of the personas killed me. 

I’m not entirely sure how long I was technically dead before he revived me but obviously not long enough to cause permanent neurological damage. Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen so it stands to reason it was less than four minutes. 

But during that time, my life flashed before my eyes, including every single word of every single one of your letters. 

One of the alter’s drugged me in his own way of trying to save me. Drugging me was supposed to help with the pain, both mental and physical. I fought it at first, desperate for him not to stick that needle in my vein. But after that first hit, I stopped resisting. 

I think you can probably already see where this is going. You’re incredibly smart and you seem to know me so well. After I shot Tobias Hankel dead I took three vials of dilaudid from his corpse. 

I should have prefaced this by saying I am now ten months sober, and offered up the good news first. But there were several months that I continued using the drug in secret, hoping it would aid in erasing the memories of it all. 

It took a case in New Orleans in which I met up with an old friend Ethan and ended up almost destroying my career for me to decide to get sober. I’ve had a lot of difficulties in my life, as you know, but getting clean is the hardest thing I have ever done. 

And now for the first time in months I’m craving again. Maybe that’s why I’m writing to you, determined to send this letter this time. I need to know that everything is going to be ok and you are the only one that I will believe it from. 

My team tries. Now it's all out in the open, they try to help. But you don’t even need to try. Your help is so effortless, so easy and I’m in real need of that right now. 

His letter went on in this vein for another six pages. He also included several pages of handwritten poetry which he had copied out of a book to send you. With each word you consumed you felt your heart breaking for him a piece at a time. 

And he signed off with a surprising choice of quote from The Lorax.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” - Dr Seuss. 

You spent the next month or so trying to cultivate the perfect reply, but for the first time in your life, words failed you. 

It was three days after Spencer received his one year sober chip that your letter arrived. 

I got your letter and the poetry you sent me, postmarked in December of last year. I really hope you’re doing better, all your friends close by your side, one step closer to recovery.

I hope by the time you receive this you are close to one year sober, but if you didn’t make it you need to know that’s ok too. Life is full of ups and downs Spencer. If you didn’t make it this time you will the next time. Or the one after that. 

If you relapsed I need you to not beat yourself up over it. You will be ok, Spencer Reid, for that I am certain. 

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. 

***

When he got shot in the knee, he wrote to you from the hospital. He told you how hard it was for him to turn down pain medication when he was in so much agony. But he was over two years sober now and he wouldn’t do anything to risk a relapse. 

Your reply spoke of how proud of him you were and how you knew it couldn’t have been easy for him but you hoped the fact you were proud went some way to aid him. 

He told you it meant more to him than you would ever know. 

Then he started having headaches and the letters became sporadic. When he did write he told you how painful it was for him to try to focus on the words in front of him. 

I’ve seen so many doctors and no one can tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s like they think I’m making it up, like this pain isn’t real. 

On my good days it’s a dull throb but on the bad days it’s nearly paralysing. I’m so scared that this is a precursor for schizophrenia. I'm still young enough for my first break, and it is a genetic illness. 

I love my mom but I can’t turn out like her, Y/N, I just can’t. I'm so, so scared. 

But your letters are the greatest comfort to me. I don’t think there are words to describe how much they mean - I will try to surmise it with a quote from Charlotte's Web -

"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'" - E.B White.

You could feel his fear through the pages. His handwriting was somehow even harder to read than usual and sentences often tapered off with no ending. There were whole passages scribbled out so violently his pen had ripped the paper in places. There were crude drawings of brains and dark rain clouds in the margins. 

Spencer, 

I am so sorry you are going through this and that no one can give you the answers you seek. But this isn’t the end for you, even if it is schizophrenia, you can still live a full and normal life. 

If you'll just hold on for one more second, if you just hold on to what you have, you will wake up tomorrow. Behind every rain cloud lies the sun. As Victor Hugo said in Les Miserables -

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” 

In his next few letters he seemed to be getting better, his headaches slowly dissipating until they only hassled him every once in a while. Things seemed to be looking up for him. 

But then one of his best friends died. 

His detailed letter told you all about Ian Doyle and Emily’s history with him and went on to conclude how she died on the operating table. 

I’ve been through a lot of trauma in my life, lost a lot of people close to me but never like this. I’ve never had to bury someone I love and honestly I don’t know how to move past this. 

My initial reaction has been dilaudid. It's the only thing I can think of to take the pain away. 

Tell me not to do it, Y/N, please. Please tell me that this grief will get better and that using drugs again is not the answer. Please help me stay clean. 

"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.” John Irving - A Prayer for Owen Meany

It took you longer than it should have done to formulate a reply. You felt pressured, like his sobriety hung in your hands. You hated that his friend had died but you didn’t think it was fair of him to put this on you. And you told him such.

Spencer,

I am sorry to hear about Emily, I know how close the two of you were. I’m no expert on grief, I can’t tell you how to deal with this.

You know full well that using dilaudid again is a bad idea, you really don’t need me to tell you that. Honestly, I’m a little frustrated at you for putting this on my shoulders. 

I am always here to help Spencer, in any way I can but sometimes I think you expect too much from me. We’ve been trading letters back and forth for the better part of five years and I don’t think you’ve ever really asked me about myself aside from those first initial letters.

And it’s fine, you needed this friendship more than I did. But over time this has started to feel so one sided and I don’t always look forward to your letters as much as I once did. 

I realise this is not the best time for me to be saying these things but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m glad I can be someone you can turn to but I have my own life, my own issues and I have no one to talk to about them. 

You put too much pressure on me Spencer and it’s a lot to take. I’ve tried to help shoulder your misery all these years but it’s starting to bring me down. All I can say is you need to wake up, you've gotta believe; you can't give up. Time keeps going on without us, long after we're dead and gone.

And you finished it with a simple quote from After You by Jojo Moyes.

“No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.” 

It was no surprise to you that you didn’t receive a reply. 

***

Y/N,

It’s been two years and I’m sorry for that. Two years, one month and eleven days. The truth is your last letter was hard for me to read as you can probably understand. 

The hardest part of reading it was the fact that I knew you were right. I’ve been selfish all these years. I’ve treated you like a sounding board for my problems and never once asked how you were. 

It's taken me time to write this because I wanted to get to a better place before I responded. I was angry at first, I felt like I was being abandoned again and my anger would not have been conducive. 

Then I was hurt, hurt that the one person I thought would always be there for me had turned their back on me. I displaced my grief over Emily’s death onto you and anything I would have written in that time would have only been the rage fuelled epitaph of a grieving man. 

And then once I dealt with those emotions, life simply got away from me. Emily was alive and well, her death was faked to get Doyle off of her back. Again I was angry about being lied to by my friends but eventually I was just happy she was alive. 

Then I turned thirty and had a crisis of faith I suppose. I guess with my intellect I always assumed I would be doing something more with my life and turning thirty kind of threw me through a loop. 

We had some changes to the team, new agents coming and going. All in all things have been somewhat hectic. 

But that’s not why I’m writing. 

I am writing because I really do want to know everything about you. I want you to be able to open up to me the way I always have to you. I want to be your shoulder, your repreve. I really hope I haven’t completely blown our friendship and I hope to be the kind of person who you can talk to. 

These arms remain stretched out to you and maybe someday you'll accept them. Maybe it's too late to save a young girl's heart that's long stopped beating. But I hope that it isn’t. 

“You have been in every way all that anyone could be…if anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” Jennifer Niven - All the Bright Places. 

You wanted to tell him it was too little too late, that after two years of silence you weren’t interested anymore. 

You wanted to simply not reply, ignore him entirely like he’d done to you. 

But you couldn’t. And so you replied. 

It was your longest letter to date, depicting in great detail how he’d made you feel over the years and all the hardships you’d faced without having someone to vent to. 

But getting to write it all down had been purifying, and by the time you were finished you weren’t mad anymore. 

I am willing to give this another shot, but things have to be different. If we’re to continue this friendship then it has to be a two way street. 

But I can’t pretend that I haven’t missed your letters because I have. I see pieces of you between the words, parts of yourself I’m not sure you realise you leave on the page. 

I’ve painted a picture of you in my mind's eye and even after two years with no letters, I’ve carried that picture with me wherever I go. 

I feel like I somehow know you better than I know myself and I hope going forward you can start to know me the same way. Charlotte Bronte once said -

“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.” - Jane Eyre. 

***

Spencer didn’t know how it happened, he only knew that it had happened. Over the course of all the years writing to you it was almost a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. Or maybe it had and he just didn’t realise until now. 

Spencer Reid had fallen in love with the woman who wrote her prose to him. 

It had been ten years of letters, every single one of which he kept in their envelopes in date order in the bottom drawer of his desk at home. 

Those letters were his lifelines on bad days, the one thing that kept him tethered. He didn’t even know what you looked like, even what you sounded like but he loved you. He loved you with every fibre of his being. 

And he couldn’t stop himself from telling you exactly what you meant to him. Even if it inevitably destroyed what the two of you had, he couldn’t stop the words from flying across the page. 

So that’s pretty much everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Mom’s doing ok but obviously it's a huge adjustment for her and I’m not entirely sure how long I can keep her living with me but for now it works.

How did the interview go? I have absolutely no doubts that you blew them all away with your presentation, you’re a hard person not to fall in love with.

Your presence in my life has brightened my every waking minute. You once told me that behind every rain cloud lies the sun; you are the sun behind my clouds. Your letters bring me back to life, your handwriting penned onto my soul. 

Is it foolish of me to be in love with someone I have never laid eyes on? William Makepeace Thackery said in Vanity Fair -

“It is better to have loved wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.” 

I suppose that’s as good of an answer as any. 

***

Five days after he penned his love confession, he was arrested in Mexico. Once all the drugs had left his system, only after he was extradited and arraigned and placed at Milburn was he able to dwell on the fact he never received your reply. 

And being trapped in a cell gave him way too much time to think about that. 

It was possible you had replied, maybe even just to tell him he was crazy to even think he could be in love with someone he had never met. But he was sure you wouldn’t have even bothered to respond, thinking him a lunatic you needed to cut ties with. 

After a month in prison on one of JJ’s visits she brought a letter with her which she had found in his apartment. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope from several she’d seen him reading over the years. 

She wasn’t allowed to give him the letter but she offered to read it to him. At first he’d declined because he had no idea what to expect from your reply but after several long minutes he’d decided to let JJ read it to him. 

Spencer,

I am pleased to hear your mom is doing well but I do think you know that this solution won’t work in the long run. You say you live in a one bedroom apartment? You and I both know that you can’t sustain having your mother live there permanently. But I know you and I know you will figure out what’s best for you both.

The interview was amazing and they offered me the job on the spot. If it wasn’t for all your help with the presentation there is no way I would have gotten it, so thank you so much for that. 

As for the other thing…

For some time now I have been wondering about feelings I didn’t understand. You’ve been such a large part of my life for so long and even though we’ve never met I feel like we have, if that makes sense? I feel like in my heart I know you. My heart knows your heart.

Falling for you was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning. Perhaps it is foolish but I believe Thackeray knew what he was talking about. And I also believe Emily Bronte was talking about me and you when she said, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” 

Spencer had interrupted JJ then, when she was smiling from ear to ear as she read your words out loud. 

“That’s enough.” He cut her off, burying his head in his hands.

“Wow, Spence, I had no idea you’d met someone.” 

“I haven’t met anyone. She is simply a woman at the other end of a series of letters.” 

“How long?” JJ placed the pages down in front of her.

Spencer looked up at her, a small blush on his cheeks. He didn't want to be talking about this, least of all on the other side of a plexiglass screen with his other inmates nearby but he responded all the same.

“Ten years.” He shrugged. 

“Ten years?” JJ sounded incredulous. “Ten years of letters and you’ve never met? Why?”

“I, uh, it never really came up.” It wasn’t a lie, you’d never once discussed meeting in all those years. 

“Is it like a distance thing? Does she live far away?” 

“No,” He sighed with a shake of his head. “She’s in New York.” 

“New York!” She huffed. “New York is a five hour train journey, Spence!” 

“Jennifer, now is really not the time for this.” He lowered his voice as JJ’s had garnered eyes in their direction. “There is really no point in discussing this as we have no idea when or even if I’m going to get out of here.” 

“Don’t say that.” She shook her head.

“It’s true.” He shrugged sadly. “I really can’t think about all this right now, ok? Just take the letter back to my apartment and pretend you didn’t see it. Please?” 

If it weren’t for the desperation in his eyes she might have argued it. But she didn’t want to waste what little time she got to spend with Spencer fighting.

“Ok.” She relented with a small roll of her eyes.

“Thank you, JJ.” He offered a tight lipped smile. “How are the boys?” 

JJ filled him in but she wasn’t really focused anymore. In her head, she was already penning a letter of her own…

Y/N,

My name is Jennifer Jareau, JJ, and I work with Spencer at the BAU. I’m not sure if he’s mentioned me to you or not. He hasn’t really told me too much about you if I’m honest. But I have learned that he has strong feelings for you and you for him. I’m wondering if I can make a suggestion…

***

When you received the strange letter from Spencer’s friend JJ in response to yours, you’d been initially extremely confused as to why he was letting his teammates read your secret correspondence. 

But when she’d gone on to tell you that Spencer had been arrested along with all the details surrounding his incarceration and how she’d read your letter to him during their visitation, you started to understand. 

But then a few days later, before you had a chance to reply to her, you received another letter from Spencer with a postmark from Milburn Correctional Facility.

Y/N,

Maybe Thackeray and Bronte were right or maybe they were wrong, I can’t say for sure. What I can say with certainty is that I can’t carry on like this a moment longer.

Something has happened to me, it won’t be hard for you to figure out what as soon as you see the postmark. I am not willing to get into it or explain how I ended up here. But I have no idea how long I am going to be inside and I don’t want the rest of our communication to be sent through a string of guards who will pick apart each tormented sentence. 

I ask you not to write me back. This has to be the end of the road my dear. This letter has to be our last. I don’t know how much longer I will continue to be able to live like this. Each day my hope dies a little more and I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive. 

I am writing simply to say thank you. Thank you for all your years of listening, for all your patience and kind words and your hopeful prose. In my darkest hours you have shown me the light, dragged me out of the shadows of my own creation. 

I love you for all that you are and all that you have done but even you can’t save me this time. This really might be the end for me and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You are the only reason I made it this far in this treacherous game we call life. 

Take care of yourself, continue to live your absolute best life. And in time I pray that you forget me and are able to love someone far more tangible. 

All that is left to say can be summed up by a quote from The Miniaturist - 

“You are the sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling.” Jessie Burton.

You replied firstly to Spencer, his heartbreaking words more pressing than JJ’s letter. You kept it short and to the point, knowing that various other prison guards would read it before it even made it to his hands. 

I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath and I won't stand aside and listen to you give up. 

You are stronger than that Spencer Reid and if I know anything about your team from all the years of hearing you speak of them it’s that they are the best at what they do and they will prove your innocence. 

Just remember what Ernest Hemmingway said in A Farewell to Arms -

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.” 

You will be stronger at those broken places, Spencer, I have no doubt about it. 

And besides, if you don’t make it out of there, how do you  propose to ever meet me? 

Whilst on a role, you grabbed a clean sheet of paper and started scrawling again. 

Jennifer,

Thank you for your letter. I have spent some time musing on your suggestion and I think you might be right. 

I think it's time for me to take a trip to DC��

***

Spencer never opened your last letter because he had no intention of replying to it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend you had never sent it and he wouldn’t be tempted to write a response. 

Instead he stuffed it between the pages of his book and tried not to think about it. 

After two and half months his team proved his innocence and he was released but he was thrown into the deep end of trying to find his mother. 

And even once he found her unscathed, he was rapidly thrust right into Scratch’s web after he kidnapped Emily. 

Taking the elevator back up to the BAU alongside JJ after they’d escorted Emily to the hospital it already felt like a lifetime had passed since he left prison. And all he wanted to do was chronicle all of it to you. 

Maybe once the dust settled, once he’d wrapped his head around everything that happened he would open your letter and send you a reply. 

But for the first time in ten years, Spencer didn’t want to drag you into his mess. 

JJ was strangely quiet as the elevator made its ascent. He didn’t even want to be here, he’d planned on going straight home after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for two and a half months and he couldn’t wait to collapse into it. 

But JJ had insisted that instead of him getting the metro home, if he popped back to the BAU with her to collect some paperwork, she would drive him home. 

And honestly he was just too exhausted to decline. 

JJ’s eyes were hyper focused on the digital floor numbers as they got higher. A few seconds after it displayed number five, one floor below the BAU, she turned and looked at him. 

“Don’t hate me for this.” She blurted out. 

“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned, too tired to try to understand what she meant. 

“I couldn’t just let it go.” She shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips. 

“Let what go?” His frown deepened. 

Her eyes flicked back upwards as the number five rolled into the number six and the elevator started to judder as it prepared to stop. 

“Just remember I love you and that’s the only reason I interfered.” She shrugged as the elevator stopped entirely and soon the doors were peeling open. 

Spencer looked away from her and out of the open doors to where someone was standing just a few feet back. 

Spencer’s eyes landed on the stranger only it wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew exactly who this person was standing on the BAU floor. 

He remembered the way JJ had read him your letter and how you’d told him your heart knows his heart. 

Well his heart knew yours too. And he knew the heart beating a few feet away from him was yours. 

“Y/N?” He croaked, slowly stepping out of the elevator but not too close to you. 

“Spencer?” You smiled at him, the kind that reached all the way to your eyes. 

Neither of you noticed JJ slipping quietly away, wanting to give you some privacy. 

“What are you doing here?” His brows were furrowed and he was rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You’re friend JJ wrote to me. She told me everything that happened to you. And she made me realise that ten years is too long to wait for a first meeting.” Your voice was like honey to Spencer’s ears. 

Your prose was beautiful, but hearing the words from your lips as you stood in front of him in all your ethereal glory was more than any letter could convey. 

“I…I am actually speechless.” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. 

“You? Speechless?” You giggled and Spencer felt the sound all the way to his heart. 

“You’ll come to learn I am much more of a wordsmith on paper. In person I am incredibly awkward and often trip over my words. I ramble when I’m nervous or clam up entirely, no in between. I spout facts and statistics rather than have a meaningful conversation. I am much more comfortable writing my words down on paper than speaking them out loud.” He let the words spill out of his mouth, proving his point entirely. 

“I’ve waited ten years to hear your voice. Please never stop talking.” You smiled so brightly at him he felt like he was floating. 

You were here in front of him, not just hidden between pages of letters. You were real, tangible; within his reach. 

And suddenly the last thing Spencer wanted to do was talk. 

He took a few tentative steps towards you and cautiously raised a hand to your cheek. You sighed in content when he cupped your face and nuzzled against his palm. 

“I could talk to you about anything and everything all day long, my love.” He smiled, inching his face closer to yours. “But at this moment in time I have one slightly more pressing desire to do with my mouth rather than speak.” 

“Oh yeah?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. 

The warmth of your body and your smile encompassed him. As he looked into your eyes, finally looked into your eyes, every bad thing that had ever happened to him slipped away. 

“Love starts as a feeling, but to continue is a choice. And I find myself choosing you, more and more every day.” He quoted Justin Wetch’s Bending the Universe. 

“Spence?” 

“Yes Y/N?” 

“As sweet as that is, I thought there were more pressing desires to use your mouth for?” 

“If you insist.” He smiled and quickly closed the small space between you.

When his lips finally met yours it felt like all the pieces of the universe were falling into place. 

For ten long years you’d communicated in the pages of letters, constructing replies to what felt like one sided conversations that were confined to only live on paper. 

As the kiss deepened every single one of those words seemed to float in the air around you, spiralling like a tornado made of a decade worth of missives. 

He swore he could hear each and every word whispered to him in the voice he’d longed to hear all these years as he kissed you like you were the most important being on the face of the earth. 

And when he pulled back and mumbled I love you against your lips, it was the easiest reply you’d ever given. 

[zomb-rabbit]

Hello! Well, I was wondering if you could do a Toby fanfic with a male reader?

The reader and Toby were friends before Toby started homeschooling, then years later they meet again, something kind of fluffy and angsty?

Well, in any case, I thank you, your writing is really good to read, I hope you are having a great day/night!! 🩷

—💧

ofc !!!!! this is so sweet, let me know if you want me to change or add anything :) it also ended up more angsty than i meant it to, but thank you soso much it makes me so happy you like my writing !! <33

You're the loss of my life.

🪓 Toby Rogers x m!childhood friend reader reuniting :)

He was crossing through a nature park on the way to stop off at the store, and there you were sitting on a bench and watching your pet play around in the grass, smiling. It took him a second to place how he remembered you, but he knew the curve of your smile like the back of his hand. He had so many feelings so fast- he missed you, he wanted to call out for you, to catch up with you, hear everything about your life since school- and they were all put to a halt by the lump in his throat. He quickly looked around, trying to make sure there wasn't anyone near him that'd see him potentially break down in the middle of the path, and when he looked back, you were staring at him wide eyed. He was so, so scared that you were scared of him.

"Toby?"

Your voice called out to him, it had obviously dropped since the last time you two had talked and it sent waves of butterflies over him. He nervously smiled, and when you realized you were right and smiled brightly back, it turned into you both laughing, which turned into him excitedly running over to you. You stood up to greet him, but you clearly weren't expecting the amount of energy toby had for you- his tight hug almost knocked the both of you to the ground. You wrapped your arms around him as best you could with his handle on you, and laughed at his excitement and at just how happy you were to see him- you had so many questions and you were so worried, but above everything you were just happy to see your best friend again.

His grip loosened, and without thinking his hands settled on your lower back, trying to keep you as close as possible. You could feel his hands twitching as you excitedly asked him what he'd been up to, his eyes suddenly avoiding your gaze as he gave you a vague "just,,,yyknow stu-stuff and things- rreal busy, you?" he flashed you lopsided smile, but he couldn't push away all of his thoughts. What would you think of him if he told you? If you found out, saw him on the news, what would you even say? Can you tell? Is he creeping you out right now? Is he-

You interrupted his train of thought with resting your hands on his forearms, his eyes immediately shooting to watch your movements as you spoke, "not too much,, i missed you though. have you been okay, Tobes? i was worried about you" you laughed nervously at that last bit, but the nickname struck a cord with him as the lump in his throat made itself clearer now. He was fighting down tears as he remembered all the times he'd come over, the time spent together being stupid and passing notes in class, everything the two of you did that was taken from him because there was so much cruelty in his life. His neck cracked to the side in an anxious tic, he tried to write it off as he gave you what was meant to be a genuine smile, but came off as more so pleading as he shakily said, "i mmissed you too."

Your brows furrowed slightly in concern, but your pet jumped up in between the two of you before you were able to ask any questions. Toby crouched down to pet them, but still kept his eyes on you. They pawed at the leash you held in your hand, trying to get you to understand they were ready to go home, no matter how much you weren't. You flashed Toby a look of apology and muttered a quiet "It looks like they're ready to go," as you clipped the leash to their collar; the both of you standing back up you looked at each other with a sense of longing. Neither of you understood what the other had gone through since the last time you'd seen each other, and it didn’t feel fair. None of this felt fair. But you both knew that, that there was too much between you now to patch up. He wanted to speak, he wanted to say something- tell you everything that you had meant to him back then, how much you still did. You had been his safe haven before he left, and he wanted nothing more than to have experienced a normal life in that moment. Looking at you felt like he was looking at everything he could have had, and he could hardly take it. He swallowed thickly before he gave you his best smile that he could muster and said a quiet thank you, that it was good seeing you, and squeezed your hand before the two of you walked your separate ways. It didn’t feel right, it wasn’t right. Talking to you, touching you, it brought color back to his face in such an authentic way he hadn’t been able to properly replicate in so long. He trudged his way along the rest of his path, convincing himself it wouldn’t be fair to drag you into what his life is. You didn’t deserve this, you didn’t deserve to deal with him- and he didn’t think he’d ever get over that loss.

[d0g0r0t]

Hello

Can I please ask for some fluff with Toby pls 🙈

Toby fluff hcs!

Got me kicking me feet and shit

Before you guys started dating he didn't know he had a crush on you until Tim told him

Toby: she's cool and strong and pretty and-

Tim: so you have a crush on her?

Toby: what

Tim: you literally just expressed to me you have a crush on her..

Toby:... no I didnt..

Tim: yes the fuck you did

Toby:.... nuh uh...

Yea....

But when it finally clicked to him he had a crush on you he couldn't get the thought of you out of his head

He would draw you along with your name on literally everything, his hand, walls, floors, tables, paper. If it can be drawed on he'll do it

He saw you in everything and it actually started to effect his performance on missions and overall life

That tree over there? Sees your face. The sky? Sees your eyes. The grass? Sees your hair. The dirt? Sees your skin. Everywhere he goes he always sees you and he always becomes a hot mess

Everything your around he always gets super quiet and anxious and his face is very clearly red, his heads down and he always fiddles with his fingers and sleeve trying his best to make himself look small.

EVERY SINGLE TIME you talk to him his stutters and tics get super bad and it makes him frustrated cause he feels like you'll be weirded out. But when you don't care he can't help but feel butterflies in his stomach.

He's always staring at you when your around. He doesn't really realize that you guys are making eye contact and that you caught him.

When he finally got the courage to ask you out and you said yes. All he said was "Ok" and walked away. The moment he was alone he was jumping up and down, kicking his feet, screaming into his pillow and overall fan girling over you and the fact you guys were dating

The first few days were so awkward

Everytime you were near he would glance over and smile at you and give you small very awkward compliments "you look very pretty today... well I mean you look pretty everyday!" "You remind me of a jelly fish.. fuck wait that sounds so weird.."

He gives you little gifts. Probably stole them

He BEGS all the girls in the mansion for advice on how to be atleast a decant boyfriend

LIGHT NIGHT CAMPFIRES. Will take you by the hand and hold you close making sure your safe and he doesn't lose you in the dark and starts a nice warm fire for just the two of you as you guys eat snacks and do silly couple things

He gets really off track and will start following random squirrels and will be really sad when it runs up and hides in a tree. "Awe man the squirrel ran away :("

He's a human dog.. that's it he's an actual dog stuck in a humans body

He follows you around LIKE A DOG.

everytime you speak to him he always gets really happy and he stims and gets all giddy

He gets even more happy when you guys get physical. He's never really had any good physical interactions so the first time you were gentle with him he started to cry because you were so nice

Doesn't really understand boundaries. He's always on you one way or another and doesn't think about you personally, your just in his arms and that's all that matters

But when you tell him the boundaries he broke he'll get really sappy and upset with himself and won't shut up about how sorry he is

Back to him being an actual dog he growls when people get to close to you ad he holds you tightly in his arms with his head on top of yours. "Mine >:("

HELP I HAVE SO MANY MORE HCS I JUST DONT WANT THIS TO BE TO LONG 😭

Also i accidentally posted this to early and couldn't UNPOST IT. So if you saw it before it was finished no u didnt

[tentakilly]

Unpopular opinion but the SCP community thinks so objectively(as in one way) that a subjective(as in creative) explanation is immediately disliked or hated because it isn’t the normal sci-fi jargon.

(Rant/vent)

For being an extremely talented community of authors and artists and for being the world’s biggest collaborative writing project this community really, really hates a creative idea or observation that doesn’t fit a pre established cannon(just classic its always just classic).

A couple years ago on the SCP subreddit there was a kid asking how reality bending works there was over a hundred comments explaining the sci-fi world building and the op repeatedly responded to those comments with confusion they just kept explaining. When a commenter came in and explained it like it was an artstyle that comment and the ops comment thanking the commenter for helping them understand were downvoted into hell. You had to sort by controversial to find it.

A while back there was a post about how they didn’t understand SCP-3999 and wanted a little bit more explanation. All of the notes were filled with people explaining there hatred for the story and why it was bad. When the op kept asking for why the hate I other than it wasn’t scary they got shat on for it.

A while back on an old now dead account I commented on an SCP power scale meme(making fun of power scaling) that we could have them try and scale Darling Pink(and actual scp) because magical girls are allways a power scaler’s weakness(an actual problem in power scaling communitys). This joke was met with so many people going like “you can’t do that 682 solos” in a non joking way.

Speaking of 682 someone a while back said that there headcannon for it was that it was a thought experiment and that comment was met with so many people going “wrong 682 is an actual creature”.

One time there was a conversation about how there was this really good tale(forgot wich one) but a lot of people didn’t finish it because it was really long and wasn’t the kind of story they enjoyed. That conversation was met with “just finish it” and “if you don’t like it/understand it just read it better”.

Would you believe me if I said that all those examples came from my experience. This god damn “community” nearly killed my passion for art and writing on several occasions because I thought differently than everyone else.

Just like I’m belittled and looked down upon irl I’m mocked for thinking differently here no matter the site. It’s been like this since I joined the community at 10. No one bothered to ask if the questions came from an insecure child and mocked her relentlessly. Telling her, her art was bad and wouldn’t improve. Telling her she didn’t deserve to have her art seen by the world.

To this day I’m scared of posting officially on the wiki dot because i know my art and stories will get mocked relentlessly because they’re different. Because they’re mine. Because they’re a part of me. You guys nearly killed apart of me because you couldn’t handle a very obvious child’s questions about the story and world you built together. Because a child was looking for a place to hide from the world that was hurting her and you failed her and made her actively scared of participating in a community that’s supposed to be collaborative. The community that raised her.

My oc Toby Miller. I’ve posted about him only once compared to the rest of my SCP ocs and that’s because he’s so deeply connected to my struggles of being understood that I’m afraid of taking about him despite him being the main character because he will be called stupid. He will be mocked for being different than all the other official characters. He will be belittled and be nothing more than a dumb kids oc.

Yall can’t look beyond a surface level understanding and when people’s interpretations of a story vary vastly you get mad and kill there want to participate. It sucks.

[scary-lasagna]

hello, I don’t really understand your request situation right now so if I’m sending this at the wrong time I’m sorry.

But, I just read your post about Slender’s dark secrets, and I really liked it! So I was wondering if you could talk more about them.

Have a good day!!

I decided to dive into the bit about the...things Slender has done to the earlier residents.

Friends

"Why the Hell would he do that? That's a fucking strong assumption to make, Jeff." An offended tone slapped the walls of the Rec Room, unusually empty besides a proxy and a infamous killer.

Jeff and Toby have never really clicked well. Something about Toby has always managed to rub Jeff the wrong way: his walk, his love of talking too loud, his abrupt tics, and his unkept hair, for a few examples.

Jeff just didn't want anything to do with him. But that didn't mean that he hated the poor bastard. Even so, they had more in common than they thought. Not that Toby knew that.

"I'm just saying, it all makes sense, right?" Jeff faced his palms up with a casual shrug from the beanbag chair, "He killed her. And I'm not just saying that to piss you off or anything. I mean look at what he did to Kate. She's terrified of him."

Althought Toby wasn't entirely close to Kate, it was obvious how much she avoided pissing Slender off, and always happened to be missing whenever things got tense around the manor. Her burns...had he also been the cause of them?

"Just because he may or may not have done something to KAte doesn't mean that he's an evil creature. Why would he kill a random chick in Michigan? Slender wouldn't do something like that-" Toby refused to believe it, not after Slender had took them all into open arms.

Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose before dragging his palm down his face. He crossed his arms as he stared up at the proxy. "Toby, who the fuck do you think cut the breaks in Lyra's car? Who drove Tim's friend to insanity? Jack's culty origin? Fuck, even Jane. She didn't have a violent bone in her body until my incident. I mean, think about it, doesn't it all just lead back to him?"

"It doesn't matter!" Toby didn't flinch at the mention of his sister, but then again he didn't have anything backing up his claim. It made him angry. He knew he was right.

"Then ask him, Toby." Jeff nonchalantly scratched his neck, "And you'll come back not remembering a damn thing like last time." He rolled his eyes toward the brunette. "And the time before that, too."

"You're fucking with me."

"'Fraid not." Jeff tsked and wrestled himself out of the beanbag chair. "Start leaving notes for yourself, Tobs'. That's how I figured everything out."

___

"I'm not quite sure I am comphrehending your accusation, Toby. Do you believe I had something to do with Lyra's passing?" The Tall Man sat at his great oak desk, his spindly fingers clasped together on his desk mat.

"I-It's just sketchy. I mean, my memory is spotty, yeah, but right after I caught The Sickness, she died." Toby adjusted his seat on the leather office chair, scooting to the edge. His leg bounced. His nails were wearing thin from the abuse of nervousness.

"Toby, why on Earth would I do something like that? In no offense, it would be pointless to me to harvest such a small soul. From my recollection, Lyra did not have any great power that would have ade her a sustainable feeding victim." Slender suddenly furrowed his brow line, his head tilting ever so slightly, "You should know this Toby. Are you feeling alright?"

"I've been a little under the weather, I guess. I'm sorry for pointing fingers, everything has just been so confusing lately. I'm loosing track of time, and I can't remember what I did yesterday." Toby ran his hands through his slightly gready hair, and took great effort in slouching into the leather.

"Perhaps it's time for a mental health day. I'll adjust your schedule to fill in Kate for your shift in the next three days." Slender opened one of the larger cabniets in his desk, pulling out one of the many vintage tabloids he used to schedule his proxies. "And if we see no improvement, then we can adjust or change your medicine if needed."

As Slender set the tabloid down, Toby noticed a familiar face peeking out from under one of the many loose papers among the mess of a busy desk.

"Why do you have Brian's folder open?"

Slender paused, craning his head to eye the headshot picture. "I'm simply refreshing my memory of his medical history. No need to wear your heart of your sleeve, Toby." Slender quickly dismissed, waving Toby's concerns away. He seemed a bit more hasty to modify the schedule.

Toby's voice dropped into a gravely tone.

"Are you sure?"

Slender slowly lifted his head to look at Toby, who seemed to be fixed on a leaflet.

Kate. More specififcally, Kate's fresh burns from so many years ago, all photographed and on display. The nights of restless sleep must have finally caught up to Slender, and forgot to tuck them away before allowing Toby to burst in.

"Did Brian do that to Kate?"

"I will now be asking you to leave, Toby, this is a breach of confidential information on Kate's behalf. I'll adjust your schedule. Have a lovely vacation." And even though the words seems so considerate, Slender stood at full height, a tendril slithering around the front of the desk to tuck any pictures under loose papers. "Leave."

Maybe Jeff was right.

Toby stood quickly, and pivoted on he heels to walk out of the room. But something stopped him. An unforeseen force keeping his body in place.

"Absterge rasa, a medietate prius. Mote fiat."

Toby turned, his brows furrowed in confusion. "Y'know, your German sometimes sounds really weird!" He laughed, "Anyway, I gotta drop that paper off to Jeff, you said he's in the Rec Room, right?"

[nymph-ette111]

Hello!

Could you do how Jeff, EJ, Toby and Ben (all separated) would react to Y/N being uncomfortable because of stretch marks on the thighs (or other parts of the body)?? Like what would they do or say about it

Sorry if it was a very long request or something ❤

That's it, have a great day/night!!

WARNINGS; MENTIONS OF UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS/JEFFREY BEING AN ACTUAL DICK, MENTIONS OF STRETCH MARKS

AUTHOR'S NOTE; not very proud of this tbh... anyways I didn't really get the "uncomfortable" part so I wrote it as in "insecure" I hope this is what you had in mind :( ALSO I DON'T HAVE A CHARACTER LIMIT GUYS YOU CAN ASK FOR AS MANY AS YOU'D LIKE IN ONE REQUEST!!

JEFFREY;

-not even going to attempt and sugarcoat this section... or any future headcanons that include Jeff because this man is genuinely the biggest asshole to have ever assholed on the planet.

-he doesn't even care if you're his partner, bro is actually ruthless.

-he's made you cry countless of times before.

-i mean... everyone agrees he isn't the greatest boyfriend, especially in terms of just... caring for his lover. like this man can't even do the bare minimum in a relationship.

-if he ever catches you staring at your body in the mirror for long periods of time, he'll straight up ask you.

"the fuck is wrong with you?"

-Jeff is still an intelligent man, he catches on quite quickly.

-he knew you were insecure about something, you wouldn't just sulk at the mirror for like 15 minutes straight for no reason.

-once you tell him what's wrong he kind of just... belittles you?

-that sounds wrong I KNOW. LET ME EXPLAIN.

-it's just that he doesn't understand why you're insecure about some stretch marks on your body.

-he acts like insecurities are useless bullshit as if he doesn't fake his own confidence.

-okay you fucking hypocrite.

-yeah anyways in terms of "comforting" you, said in quotation marks because Jeffrey Woods and comfort in the same sentence is actually diabolical. basically his way of making you feel better about it even if he thinks it's stupid, he forces you to show them to everyone.

-yep. usually when your partner is upset about something physically, you try to make them view said thing in a positive light, and THEN you try to encourage them to try and show it off and be confident about it. right?

-no, Jeff goes straight to the point whether you agree or not. stretch marks on your thighs and legs? you WILL be wearing that short dress. stretch marks on your arms? WEAR that short sleeve top. stretch marks on your stomach? WEAR THAT TANK TO—

-he intends good I swear he's just very mean about it.

-also when other creeps hit on you (specifically BEN) he gets mad like he wasn't the one who threw away half of your closet and forced you to wear something revealing...

-if you sit him down for a serious talk about how this doesn't help with anything and it only makes you even more uncomfortable he might mellow shit down and stop with this whole showing off your body to feel less insecure situation.

-he'll understand but don't expect him to do anything else after that because he claims that "it's not my fuckin' problem... deal with that shit yourself then"

-he is a little pissy about it because he thought he was genuinely helping you.

-having the audacity to get mad when an insufficient way of overcoming your insecurities doesn't work? okay bro.

-anyways I love him guys please request more for this goober.

EYELESS JACK;

-like mentioned in the previous post, Jack never judges others for the way they look physically.

-even when he was normal, he never saw the point in it. that's just the way your body is. why should he make you feel bad about it when you can't do anything to change it? even towards himself. before specific events took place, when he was just a normal college student he saw himself as average looking and didn't have a problem with it and never made an effort to try and "look better"

-but after the whole... failed cult sacrifice it earned him this villain complex mindset.

-he sees himself as an unlovable monstrosity, the fact that you were willing to be near this guy at all is mind-blowing to him.

-naturally, Jack views you as way out of his league. he believes that he doesn't deserve you.

-so, seeing you? the one who changed his life and dragged him out of the hell hole that is his mind, unsatisfied with the way your body looks because of some stretch marks?

-bro is genuinely offended. you're fucking ethereal, you're an angel from above, why can't you see that?

-but seeing you view that part of your body as something bad, he can't help but feel like you're disgusted with his too.

-for context, Jack also has stretch marks scattered all over his body. you don't like yours equals you don't like his. that's his logic.

-he wouldn't say it out loud though, of course not. he knows that it's wrong. his thoughts are just a way to bring him down and make him even more miserable, he just can't help but find any opportunity to convince his brain that he is unlovable.

-i think it's best to not talk about it Infront of him.

-he still thinks you're beautiful though, he's just overthinking :(

TOBY;

-quite similar to Jack, doesn't understand why you view them in such a negative light. he is genuinely borderline obsessed with you. everything... I mean EVERYTHING is perfect in his eyes. yes, including the stretch marks. yes, including the freckle on your left thigh because he is just that observant.

-this man is DETERMINED to make you feel better, he'd do anything to make you see yourself the way he does. quite aggressive with it too. you ARE pretty. stretch marks or not.

-all of the sudden, every single time you stop by a mirror to over-analyse your stretch marks, you're dragged away by Toby to talk about the nice weather outside (anyone who dares to step a foot outside will have to face the consequences of a fucking heatstroke)

-all of the sudden, he starts littering more gentle, almost ghost-like kisses all over your thighs once you two are in the safety of your rooms. it wasn't some out of the ordinary with Toby, he's always had a thing for showing his affection towards you physically. it just stepped up a notch, and the kisses are now directed towards those specific areas.

-he'll do anything to prove to you that your stretch marks are simply a part of you and your body. and he fucking loves it.

-if you don't start loving your stretch marks after all that treatment Toby is giving... the problem is you. mans is actually dedicated.

BEN;

-was never good with comforting people, especially someone he cares about. he is used to always brushing his feelings away, never really confronting himself about shit. but unlike Jeff, he actually tries for you.

-I'll be honest... he probably never knew stretch marks even existed.

-once you told him what you were so upset about, he legitimately went "the fuck is that?"

-he actually has no filter, this guy speaks before he thinks.

-bet you he was typing away on his keyboard too, barely paying any attention to your little rant.

-when you realize his half-assed responses were because he wasn't even listening, you genuinely consider plugging off that ancient ass computer just to get some of his attention.

-he feels bad after that though, he'd attempt, keyword attempt to try and make you feel better.

-it probably doesn't work but you sort of let it him off the hook for it. he doesn't even know what a stretch mark looks like, he is basically trying to convince you that something he doesn't even know and has never seen in his life before is beautiful.

-the attempt is appreciated though, it's genuine enough.

[hopefulatrocity]

Snow And Embers- Part 2

Note: I was not going to do a part 2 for this story but then my brain was like "Part 2? Lucy Gray's POV? Yes." and it wouldn't leave my head. This is my first full smut I've written in years so I hope it's good. Possible OOC dialogue for Coriolanus? Edited by @loganlostitall. Thank you!

Part 1

CW/TW: SMUT!! 18+ only. Unsafe P in v, creampie, breeding kink, oral sex(male receiving), fingering, use of cum as lube, light choking

Please let me know if I forgot anything.

Lucy Gray Baird was many things. Kind, resilient, stubborn, loving. But one thing she wasn't was stupid. 

After her first time with Coriolanus, she thought it was passion, an innate need to claim each other and become one. Coriolanus couldn't keep his hands off of her. Any second they were alone, he was working his hands under her dress and bringing lightning strikes to her nerve endings with every pass of his calloused fingers. To be fair, she couldn't get enough of him either. She had lovers before. But none like this. The boys before, they could hardly be called men, were only focused on themselves. They'd say all the right things but the second they got her under them, it was like she ceased to exist and all they cared for was their own pleasure. He was different. Despite his inexperience, Coryo relished in the pleasure he gave her. Every moan from her lips or arch from her back was just another piece of wood that stoked the flames of his passion for her. 

It was small things that made her realize his intentions were…. More than just being in the moment together. Her experience with men wasn't incredibly extensive but she did know that each man had their own personal desires, things that made them aroused more than others. Her first, Toby Kormin, was extremely aroused by tying Lucy Gray up. And Billy Taupe had an interesting fascination with her feet. Coriolanus…. Well she was fairly certain that Coriolanus liked the idea of getting her pregnant. 

In truth, the first time he came in her, had been a mistake. She was usually very careful in that regard. She made sure her partners knew, in no uncertain terms, they always had to pull out. Lucy Gray had the know-how to deal with any accidents if they did occur. The day she started her monthly, at the tender age of 13, her Momma sat her down and showed her all the herbs to make a preventative tea. But it wasn't fool proof. And having kids was not something she wanted anytime soon. If at all. But that first time with Coriolanus, Lucy Gray lost all common thought when it came to safe sex. All she saw were those deep blue eyes of his staring down at her with a primal need that she had never experienced before. Before she could stop herself, she was wrapping her legs tight around his hips, practically locking him in as he came deep inside her. And that happened twice more that night. 

Lucy Gray came to her senses the next morning. She drank her tea and told Coriolanus that that couldn't happen again. He needed to pull out or they would have to stick to oral or hand play. Along with a bright blush that peppered his pale skin, there was almost a look of disappointment in his eyes. He briefly glanced down at her stomach before he nodded in agreement. 

The next two times they were together, he obliged without problems. He pulled out and came on her stomach like she asked. But it almost felt…. Wrong. 

So the next time, just as Coriolanus was about to pull out, she dug her nails into his tight cheeks and pushed him back inside her. There weren't any words said, but it seemed like they both came to an understanding that night. 

Lucy Gray made sure she carried a bag of her morning-after tea, anytime she saw him. She told him that they should try to be safe if they could, but she knew how they both could get lost in the moment. It was a delusional platitude for herself though. Deep down she knew that he wasn't going to cum anywhere else but inside of her from then on. 

He didn't pull out after that, even if he promised to try. In fact, his need for her became even more evident.  

It started with innocent touches. Often, she found Coriolanus's hands hovering over her stomach. He'd rub the area slowly sometimes, almost reverently. A fight had broken out in the Hob one night, and he had placed himself in front of her. His body a barrier between her and the brawling men, that Sejanus and another peacekeeper were trying to separate. But the only thing she could think of was how his hand was slightly behind his back, pressing into her abdomen. Almost like he was protecting more than just her from the violence in front of them.  

Some nights she woke to him whispering to the area. He claimed it was to help him sleep, reciting old stories to tire his mind. But she always knew when Coriolanus was lying. The intensity of his gaze would magnify and he would press himself closer to her. 

More than once, after their coupling, she woke up to a pillow under her hips. Coriolanus's eyes would be dark as he watched her wake. The plush object had her cunt angled so not a drop of their mixed fluids could escape her. Before she could even ask why he had done it, he would be on her again, using his fingers or his cock to claim her thoroughly. 

It wasn't long before he openly admitted to his desire.

Lucy Gray could feel the orgasm building in him. Her hands pressed to his stomach and she felt the muscles clenching and his hips jerked periodically against her lips. The tightening muscles of his thighs had him bucking into her mouth. His fingers were tight in her dark curls, and she felt his nails prick her skin as he clenched them thoughtlessly.  Coriolanus was a man who loved control. She loved sucking that control straight from his cock and turning him into mud in her hands. 

“Don't you dare swallow, Lucy Gray. Keep my cum in your pretty mouth.”, he growled. His voice was radiating dominance but she knew she had him in the palm of her hands.  The vibrations of his deep voice flowed through her and she clenched her thighs together. Her nipples were peaked and bare and she wished desperately that he was touching them. She could feel the sound in her clit, throbbing in time with her pulse. Nodding slightly around his cock, she took him as deep in her mouth as possible, swallowing around the tip to create a myriad of warmth and suction.  

“I’m about to cum.”, he grunted, his hips stuttering from the familiar feeling. Coriolanus gripped her hair tightly and bucked one last time into her mouth, the tip of himself hitting the back of her throat and making her gag a small bit. Salty seed flooded her mouth and Lucy Gray had to fight not to swallow it on instinct. 

Coriolanus pulled out of her mouth, a string of their fluids leading from the tip of his cock to her pretty pink lips. Her cheeks were puffed out, holding in as much of his cum as possible, just like he told her. 

One large hand gripped under chin, his fingers cupping either side of her cheeks. He used a light pressure on the underside of her chin to wordlessly command her up onto her shaking legs. 

Blue eyes bore into her own, that dark swirl of shadow filling his irises, and he lowered his voice to a deep growl. 

“Spit.”, Coriolanus ordered, holding his other hand up to her lips, cupped to catch all the seed that dripped out. Shock and lust radiated through her body, wondering what he planned to do. The order sending heat to her pussy, and making it clench around thin air. In public, Coriolanus was sweet and needy, a typical boy in love. But behind closed doors, he became more dominate. Lucy Gray wasn't scared though. There was darkness in his eyes, but the brightness of hers tempered it out. 

Taking her lack of response for disobedience, Coriolanus tightened his fingers on both of her cheeks, pinching the skin and forcing her lips open slightly. A small amount of his white fluid slid from the pink flesh and he groaned. He'd love to show the whole Hob how she looked right now. Eyes glazed over, thighs rubbing together seeking any kind of friction, begging him to take her and he hadn't even gotten his hands on her pussy yet. 

“Spit now, Lucy Gray. Or I'll leave you here, dripping wet, and you won't get to cum. ”, they were practically nose to nose at that point. Whimpering at the thought of being left without his touch, Lucy Gray opened her lips and let his cum flow into his offered hand. The seed was warm and mixed with her own spit, a contrast of their two bodies. 

Keeping the cooling liquid in his hand, Coryo pressed a small kiss to her lips, moaning lightly at the salty taste of his cum and her smoky flavor mixed together. 

“On the bed, Songbird.”, the order rumbled from his chest. “Spread your legs. Show me how much you liked the taste of me.”

Another sound of desperation left Lucy Gray's lips and she did exactly as he asked. She quickly stripped her skirt off and tossed her panties to the side with it, landing right next to her torn shirt. The air was chilly against her heated lower lips and the mix of sensations made her thighs shake with wanton need. Part of Lucy Gray was ashamed of how she was acting. She always considered herself to be an independent woman, one who despised the idea of taking orders from a man. But Coryo was different. He was her beautiful Capitol man. The one who saved her life and made her feel things she had never felt before. 

She crawled onto the bed and rolled onto her back, rising her upper half up onto her elbows so she could see her lover's reaction. The predatory gaze from Coryo's ice blue eyes only made her wetter and she slowly parted her legs, exposing her soaking core to the cold air.  

“Fuck.”, the expletive slipped from his red lips, swollen from their heated kisses. Lucy Gray smiled sweetly at him. She loved when she was able to entice such reactions from the normally proper man. 

“Please, Coryo”, she whispered, voice barely audible. 

Coriolanus’ long legs covered the distance between them in two easy steps. His cock was already hardening again against his thigh and Lucy Gray could feel the ache inside her, begging for him. 

“You're so beautiful, Lucy Gray”, his Capitol accent was thick with desire and the sound made her hips instinctively arch up to try to get closer to him. 

With his seed still in his hand, he maneuvered himself between her legs with his knees and leaned over her, his other hand holding him up. The bed gave a loud squeak from their combined weight, but neither of them were in the head space to hear it. 

“Hold your legs apart, love. As wide as you can”, Coryo said using his eyes to look from her hands to her parted legs. 

Submissively, Lucy Gray did as he asked, spreading her legs wider for him, hands grasping her thighs tightly. 

“You're so wet you're sparkling like a diamond, Lucy Gray. Is that all for me? Just from tasting me?”, his deep voice rolled through her body like an early morning breeze, making goosebumps appear on her tanned skin. 

Another whine escaped her lips and she nodded at him. “Only you, Coryo.”

She knew how much he loved hearing how she belonged to him. The narrowing of his eyes and deep intake of breath was a byproduct of that. She felt his length jump against her leg and she resisted the urge to drop her thigh and touch him. But she knew Coryo didn't like it when she didn't listen to him. He would keep his promise and not let her cum if she disobeyed.  

“I don't think we should waste this. Should we, Lucy Gray?”, he pressed his nose against hers, rubbing them together softly. He lifted his hand to indicate the white cum still cupped in his hand. She shook her head vehemently. Although she didn't have an idea as to what he had planned, her body desperately wanted to know. 

Eyes locked together, Coriolanus brought his cupped hand to his mouth and dipped his tongue into his seed, letting the white liquid coat his tongue. Moaning at the visual, Lucy Gray lifted her head and sought his lips out with her own. The salty cum had cooled and was a stark contrast to his burning mouth. And she loved it. The taste was nearly indescribable. Her tongue tangled with his and she searched for every last bit of the flavor. She was so lost in their frantic kiss that she didn't even see him moving his hand between her legs. The jolting sensation of the cold liquid meeting her overheated flesh had her gasping into his mouth. Arching her hips up to meet his hand, she tangled her fingers into his cropped hair, needing him to be closer. But his hair was too short and he easily pulled himself back, smirking at the look of frustration on her face. 

“Watch me, Lucy Gray.”, he guided her eyes down with his own to look between her legs. 

Lucy Gray panted as she watched him angle his hand up and use his fingers to guide his cum into her cunt. There was enough to cover her fluttering pussy and flow back up onto her clit. Her hips jolted at the feeling of her heated flesh being coated with him. 

“This is the only place my cum belongs. Do you hear me, Songbird?”, Coriolanus asked her, his intense blue eyes searing into her soul. He pressed the tips of his index and middle fingers inside of her tight entrance, funneling seed into it's rightful place. Her heated walls clamped down on his fingers and milked the spend off the long digits. He began a slow rhythm, pushing them in and out of her, trying to force his cum as deep as he could. He had pinned her thighs wide open with his hips and she used the reprieve to grasp onto him, needing something to anchor her floating mind. Lucy Gray's nails dug into Coriolanus’ muscled shoulders and he basked in the pain. His Lucy Gray was gentle, and the fact that he pushed her to the point of inflicting damage to him appealed to his pride. She was so lost in the feeling of taking him that she didn't care that her blunt nails were drawing blood, staining the air with a copper scent. 

“Yes, Coryo.”, she breathed out shakily. 

Lucy Gray writhed underneath him. Each press of his fingers deep inside her sent shivers down her spine. He watched her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed her hips up against his hands. 

He slowed the movements of his fingers and she whimpered in protest. “Look at me, Lucy Gray. You don't get to cum unless you're looking at me.”

His order made her clit throb even more, and she quickly opened her eyes, not wanting to lose the feeling he was invoking inside her. 

“Good girl. Always so good for me.”, Coriolanus whispered against her ear, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell of her ear. He increased the thrusts of his fingers, making sure to curl the tips so it brushed that small spongy spot inside of her. That was all it took for the pressure in her stomach to expand, shockwaves of pleasure rolled through her body as she called out his name.

Coryo didn't even wait for her inner muscles to stop clenching before he was retracting his fingers from her and replacing them with the tip of his cock. He slammed in, her wetness and grasping muscles sucking him in like he was already part of her body.  All pretense of softness was gone and his primal desire for her overtook all senses. The seed he had pushed into her with his fingers, bubbled around his cock and formed a white ring around the base of him. It glistened with every thrust and Lucy Gray watched reverently as he pushed in and out of her. 

“Feels so good, Coryo.”, she tightened her grips on his shoulders and used them for leverage to press her hips up into his. She met every thrust with a clench of her inner muscles and the reaction from him was nearly feral. 

The sound that left his mouth was almost a snarl, the hands grasping her hips dug in deep enough to bruise. 

“Fuck you're so beautiful. You're mine, Lucy Gray. Do you understand?”, each word was punctuated with a hard thrust and she swore she could feel him all the way in the back of her throat. Coriolanus was well endowed and the angle he was holding her hips had him slamming as deep inside her as possible. Each movement had his cock squelching in the mess of his previous release and her wetness. 

Her mind was so occluded with pleasure that all she could manage was a nod and a gasp. 

That wasn't enough for him though. Coriolanus growled and moved one of his hands from her hip to her throat. His long fingers, still sticky with their combined fluids, applied pressure to both sides of her neck, slowing the blood flow to her brain. The fogginess of her thoughts only increased her pleasure and she clamped down on his cock, tighter than before. 

“Your pussy is mine, Lucy Gray. Every part of you is mine,” he punctuated with a deep thrust, the tip of himself hitting the entrance to her uterus. He released a little bit of pressure on her neck, Allowing for a rush of blood to fill her head. She gasped but tried to push her throat into his fingers again. If he wasn't so lost in the pleasure of fucking her, he might have smirked.  

Coriolanus released her throat, despite her noises of protest, and brought the fingers down to where they were joined. He could feel the orgasm building inside of him. His balls were tight to his body and he knew he didn't have long. But he refused to come without her. He circled her clit, the mix of their fluids providing enough lube that he was practically slipping off the bundle of nerves with each roll of his fingers. 

“Gonna cum soon, Songbird. Fuck. I'm gonna put a baby in you. Don't care how long it takes. Want everyone to know you're mine. Stomach all full of me.”, His hips began to stutter, his thrusts frantic. His normal, proper speech pattern was husky and shortened. His only thoughts on the pleasure her pussy was causing him, and the need to breed her. 

His words sent a spike of heat right to her clit. It was something she had suspected for awhile. But to hear him say the words in the heat of the moment, it brushed a primal part of her brain that she didn't know existed. The sounds he was making in her ear, vocalizations of his ecstasy, were what sent her over the edge. Knowing that she was the one causing his pleasure–that he was using her body to get off–made her feel powerful and in control despite being pinned under him. Lucy Gray felt her pussy clamp down on him, her muscles contracting and inviting him to cum deep inside her. 

Coriolanus came with a guttural moan–the noise muffled by his face pressing into her neck. His final thrust pushed him deep inside, ropes of his seed coating her inner walls and pooling against her cervix. 

They stayed like that for awhile. Chests expanding in sync, and their breathing labored. Coriolanus still buried deep inside her, pressing soft kisses to the curve of her neck. She ran her fingers over the soft fuzz of his hair rhythmically and nuzzled her nose against his ear every minute or so. 

When he finally softened, Coriolanus pulled out of her. The wet sucking noise made her already flushed face turn a deeper shade of red. Looking down, Lucy Gray noticed that his length was coated in the remnants of his seed and her own cum. 

He pressed a deep kiss to her lips and reached over the side of the bed to grab one of the pillows he had brought. Lips still attached to hers, he lifted her hips gently, mindful of the bruises that were already beginning to form on her tanned skin, and pushed the plush cushion under her hips. He pulled back and nuzzled his nose against hers. 

“Keep your hips up, Lucy Gray. I don't want to see a drop of my seed leaving that pretty pussy of yours,” his voice was deep and laden with animal instinct. “You're mine.”

From then on, Coriolanus wasn't quiet about his intentions during their coupling, and even outside of it. His hand was constantly on her stomach, and he was consistently whispering words of his desires in her ear. Sejanus found it particularly funny watching Lucy Gray blush and fan herself during those moments. 

Despite his words and actions of his intentions to get her pregnant, Coriolanus didn't interfere with Lucy Gray drinking her morning after tea. Although the looks of disdain he shot the mug each time made a primal warmth pool in her belly. And the tea worked. 

Until it didn't. 

[stephaniebrownslover]

HELLOOO <33333

Um can we ask weird things? If the answer is 'yes' then I want to ask what main characters do when that person who is very important for them got deadly injured and almost dying in front their eyes?? - Holy crap this be really angsty request-

(And yes in your main AU [I really loved this AU you've made it so well bro'])

(ALSO I WANT TO SAY I REALLY LOVE STEPHANIE SO SO MUCH TOO!!!!)

HIIIIIIIIII<33333333

Oh don't worry at all, it's not weird, it's just a regular angst scenario topic so you're absolutely fine, don't worry. I thought it would be something actually weird that I can't write so you can only imagine how much I relaxed after reading the rest.

I won't let seasonal allergies stop me from writing for you!

And yep that's very very angsty and we love angst in this house so that's fine.

BRO THANK YOU SO MUCH I really like this AU too even though I try to keep it simple. Thank you thank you thank you!!!!!

(STEPH STEPH STEPH WAAAAAA I LOVE HER SO SO MUCH EVEN I IF CAN'T READ COMICS ANYMORE STEPHHHHH MY LOVE IT'S REALLY NICE TO SEE AN ANOTHER STEPH FAN)

(Am I talking too much for introduction parts?)

Main Characters' reaction to someone loved's deadly wounds

-Jeff The Killer

If such a situation happens, Jeff will definitely lose his mind, which has already a little left. Let alone killing one of the few people in the world he considers worthy of caring for, no one has the right to open the slightest wound except himself. Even he has no right to such deep wounds.

He calmly holds the person standing in front of him and puts his ears against his chest so that he can hear his heartbeat. The moment he hears that faint heartbeat sound, he relaxes and tries to take the injured person on his arms and take them to the nearest person with medical knowledge. And along the way, he keeps saying that it's forbidden for that person to die.

He just doesn't want to lose another person he cares about. He doesn't want to feel another ghost's cold hands strangling him on his neck. And he's going to blame himself no matter what the situation is. Until there is news about that person, he will argue with the people who are taking care of them and gain even more hate, but as long as that person is with him, there is no problem.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Liu, Clockwork, Sally, Nina(?)

-Clockwork

She'll just freeze up because she can't understand what's going on. Although she is normally quite a cold-blooded person, she forgets what she should do in a panic because the sight in front of her causes cracks in her frozen heart.

However, she soon recovers herself and runs to that person. Without asking any questions or caring if their heart is still beating, she takes that person to the nearest medical doctor, even though Jack is her preference. She's so angry that she has to get it out of somewhere. But since her stress will dominate her, she waits by their side until the moment they're awake and leaves when they seem to open their eyes. If there is a funeral, she will not attend it and will pay as visit as soon as she gathers courage which will take weeks for her.

The grip of the past once again squeezes her heart. And this time in a more painful way than ever. It's all her fault for not being able to protect the one she loves. No. It's all the fault of the people who love her for making them an important person to her. No matter how painful it is, she will isolate herself because it is the only way she believes they will not be harmed any more.

Possible persons that she will give this reaction: Toby, Jeff, Nina, Zero

- Hoodie

As someone who has already faced the death of his loved ones and almost himself many times, he should be used to such situations, but he's not. No matter how many times it happens, he hasn't gotten used to this painful feeling, and he won't get used to it either. But because he is considered experienced, he knows what he has to do.

First, he will check the pulse of that person, and if it is still beating, he goes to one of the medics while applying some pressure to their wound. Since he called all three of them by phone or transceiver and informed them on the way, it would give them an opportunity to prepare. Along the way, he also tries to convince that person that there is no problem.

Although he wants to be with his business partner until they wake up, he first needs to give a report about what he saw. If that person wakes up, he will take a more careful attitude towards them in the tasks they go out together, because the memories that come before his eyes at any moment are already too painful. If they do not wake up, he visits their grave regularly, even though he buries a part of himself with him every time, he is likely to cry at the first one.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Tim, Toby(?)

-Masky

When he firstly sees that the person in front of him is so seriously injured, he runs to them and calmly asks what is going on while pressing on their wounds. He tries to act as coolly as possible, then goes to the nearest medical person, Ann by preference. During this time, he does not let that person down from his arms, nor does he try to talk to them in any other way.

He goes out often because he can't bear to stand next to that person while they're being treated, but he returns to that environment because he feels guilty, and such a vicious cycle occurs. He stands without saying a word, chain-smoking in the hope of reducing his tension. Tim is ready to do everything for the person takes care of his business partner's needs without opposing it for the first time.

In fact, although he looks very calm on the outside during the entire process, there is a literally devastating storm inside. His emotions are constantly at war, and when no one is looking, he can't control himself and makes fists out of his hands. Since he knows that he absolutely cannot bear to lose another person he will remember, he is ready to do anything so that the angel of death does not knock on that person's door. Even if it means destroying himself in the process.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Brian

-Ticci Toby

The moment Toby sees that sight, his tics triggered by elements such as fear and adrenaline will increase incredibly. Because of the look he sees in front of him, some of his past memories will come back before his eyes, and he will be even worse off, almost unable to do anything. If he is not alone, his partner does the work of taking care of that person, but if he is alone, he tries to collect himself.

Although he hates himself for staying so still, it's not easy for him to shake off the trauma of both the past and the present. As soon as he pulls himself together, he puts pressure on the wounds, calls one of the other people he trusts the most and lets them know. If no one answers the phone or radio call, he will screw everything and call the ambulance.

He can't lose another person. Another person he cares about can't close their eyes forever because of his incompetence. They're not allowed to leave him alone, so that person has to heal no matter what. And if they get well- no, when they get well Toby will never leave after them again. Because he can't bear to see another face he remembers dimly in the darkness that preys on his nightmares.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Natalie, Kate, Rouge, (Eyeless) Jack, Nina

-Eyeless Jack

Since he knows medicine and took care of people he has loved before, he should not worry about this situation. Okay, but then why do his hands shake every time he presses on the bleeding area? Why can't he keep his cool attitude? Why, why, why? He actually knows the reason for this. He knows, but he doesn't want to admit it to himself. He doesn't want to admit that he has a weakness others can use against him.

He tries to take care of their wound on his own and tries to do something using things like bandages, oxygenated water, sewing thread, which he usually carries in his backpack while walking in the forest, but when he realizes that this is not enough, he swears and takes that person on his back. He takes them on his back towards his own infirmary.

He'll let Ann and Smiley know, but he doesn't know why he's calling since he won't let them do anything when they come to his cabin. Eventually, Ann takes control and tells Jack to rest. Jack also waits for the result in a waiting chair with black tears pouring from his eyes. The most intense emotion he feels after sadness is disappointment and fear.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Toby, Sally, Kate

-Jane The Killer

When an injured person comes across, of course, she wants to help them, but when she sees who this person is, she suddenly pauses. She freezes inside her mind and can't do anything. She can only watch the landscape with tears in her eyes until she regains the ability to think again.

And when she becomes able to do something, she calls the ambulance, not caring about her money and things that should remain secret for government's sake. She can't lose the one she loves and she needs to save them. So she presses on the deepest wounds of that person until the ambulance arrives, and tries to keep her voice calm, stroking their hair. It's very important for that person to know that they will be saved, it's maybe for the injured person, maybe for Jane.

She can't afford to lose another person. Having become so strong, she cannot accept returning to the age of thirteen, when she is incapable of protecting her loved ones again. She needed to be a stronger person, she needed to be able to help her loved ones. She couldn't have devoted her whole life to nothing, she couldn't have. Whoever dares to harm the one she loves will taste the bitterest death at her hands.

Possible persons that she will give this reaction: Mary

-X-Virus

Cody is normally someone who is quite overcome by his emotions, and he is calm in the face of this incident in a way that he does not understand either. In fact, he feels as if someone else has taken over his body. He does a little first aid work with the help of his medical knowledge, which he knows more or less, and the painkillers he carries with him, as well as oxygenated water. He also informs the ambulance before starting to administer first aid.

Although he cares a lot about this person, he should disappear when the ambulance arrives. But during this process, he holds the person's hand and tells them to stay calm, that he will always watch over them even if he is not with them, and when they get better, he will help them escape. Since he sucks at this kind of calming stuff, he tries to do his best, but he proceeds with a solution-oriented approach.

He has never lost someone he loves because there was no one who really cared about him before. These feelings are very alien to him and he hates it. He is ready to dislocate his heart to destroy the painful feeling he feels in his heart. As long as se doesn't have to experience the terrible pain he feels all the time for others. Because he doesn't think he can stay as strong as others on this topic.

Possible persons that he will give this reaction: Toby, Ann

-Nina The Killer

She knows the pain of this because she has experienced a big loss before. She killed her parents when Zalgo controlled her to cause difficulty for Slenderman, and she suffered incredibly great emotional pain when she regained control just the moment where she plunged a knife into the heart of her dearest little brother Chris, and she still does. As a nurse who takes it upon herself to wipe the invisible bloodstains on her hands, she has knowledge of first aid, but when she sees this sight, she definitely can't help being shocked. Due to the job of a nurse, she has seen much worse, but none of them was someone she loved so much.

She knows what she has to do. She carries a spare bandage in her bag at all times and is able to wrap some of the wounds and give first aid. She tries to tear off pieces of her own clothes and treats the wounds with missing cloth, she also wants to call the hospital where she works. But later she remembers that this will put her own career at risk, and she calls anyway. An ambulance comes and picks up her injured loved one, while Nina is crying the whole way.

When they arrive at the hospital, her friends won't let her take care of them. She tries to be there for them but no matter what she does, her colleagues who really value her as a friend keep her away. She's absolutely incredibly remorseful, and she knows that when this person gets out, they'll be angry that she didn't take them to Jack or Ann or even Smiley. And her own career was ruined because she brought a killer and cried for them, but she doesn't care. As long as she doesn't lose anyone again. As long as the memory bracelet on her arm doesn't add a new bead.

Possible persons that she will give this reaction: Kate, Clockwork, Toby, Jeff, Sally

-Kate The Chaser

Kate has a lot of experience in this situation. She was also very seriously injured herself and worried other people. Nevertheless, she is angry with herself for not being able to stop her heart from being filled with fear. She runs to that person, puts her unmasked face close to their face and tries to reassure them that they will be fine. After calling all the medics and informing them, she applies a small-scale bandage operation with her clothes.

After deciding that they are better, she takes that person on her arms, regardless of their weight, and takes them to the nearest medical person. If they say that they can't do anything, that it's too late, she threatens them, and if they don't agree again, she'll leave the forest and call the ambulance. She will not allow even the person she allowed herself to love to die. No matter what the cost is.

And during the whole process of taking care of this wound, she gives scary looks and stands next to this person. She's not allowed to sleep or rest until she's sure that they're okay. She had lost her own life before, but thanks to this person, she has a life again, and she will not allow them to lose their own. Even if that person dies, Slenderman will bring them back to life because he wants his best proxy not to disrupt his duties, but Kate knows that this is not the same thing, so she is still trying to make that person live. She's not ready to lose that person and she never will be.

Possible persons that she will give this reaction: Nina, Toby, Rouge(?)

I think I get the request wrong

Also I don't know why Nina's part is always the longest even though she's not my fave, it's Clockwork.

[taxes-evasion]

Hi it's been a while! Do you think you have any Kate the chaser general hcs?

HI!! and of course I have general hcs for Kate, I think she is one of the most underrated characters in the fandom-

Main character: Kate the Chaser

Secondary characters: Toby, Slenderman, Masky, Hoodie, Cody, Rouge, Wilson, The X, The Observer, Jeff.

Warnings: mention of an alter ego, mental and physical manipulation, death, apathy, amnesia, mention of burned (it's Jeff).

(The art is not mine! Credits go to cigarettesinmybackyard. Correct me if I'm wrong.)

GENERAL HCS FOR KATE THE CHASER

𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗛𝗬𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘

It's difficult to understand Kate's physical build;

She wears baggy clothes and, only on missions, her mask;

She still remains very muscular but not excessively;

She is 165 cm tall (5'5'' feet);

Her skin is very pale but not nearly as cadaverous as Toby's;

Her hair is black and straight, slightly dirty, going slightly past her shoulders;

Her eyes change depending on whether she is wearing the mask or not;

If she doesn't wear it, which is very common when she is in the mansion, Kate's eyes will be a deep blue;

If she wears it, her eyes will have completely black sclera and white iris;

This peculiarity of her eyes comes from the abilities that Slenderman "gave" her when he forced her to become his proxy;

Thanks to these particular eyes she can see in the dark but is also very sensitive to light.

Her clothes are most of the time dirty with blood, grass, earth and mud;

Her mask, on the other hand, is mainly very damaged but it's also dirty with soot and only wears it when The Chaser takes control of her body;

𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗚𝗘

Kate doesn't remember how old she is or how much time has passed since she became a proxy for Slenderman;

After all, she doesn't even remember how she became one;

However, her body remains young, given Slenderman's powers, and she looks like a 24 year old woman;

She probably has many more, maybe 30;

Unlike Toby, she isn't aware of having had a past life outside of the one she lives now, so she doesn't have any kind of resentment towards the victims;

𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗦 + 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗫𝗨𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬

Kate uses female pronouns while her alter ego, 'The Chaser', doesn't use any at all;

To me, Kate is asexual and aromantic;

She knows well that her purpose is to serve Slenderman and she knows well how dangerous she is when The Chaser takes over;

She feels like she killed someone important to her a long time ago...

...but she much prefers to hide this feeling in the depths of her heart;

Furthermore, if she's honest, in the state she's in, she's not attracted to anyone;

The only people she remembers are the other proxies and the residents;

And she finds them absolutely disgusting;

Also, just the thought of being loved and loving gives her goosebumps;

The feeling disappears when Kate realizes that she could probably never feel love towards anyone and no one could ever love a person like her;

Obviously The Chaser is also asexual and aromantic, it could never feel attraction to anyone since it was created by Slenderman;

𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬

Kate, since she has basically lost control of her life, has become apathetic;

The few times she is in the mansion her face is stoic;

She has become an empty shell against her will and cannot stop this process of internal deterioration that has already begun for many years;

She may still feel sympathy towards someone but she simply doesn't find anyone worthy of note;

After all, the people Kate meets are simply characterized by different ways of killing and appearance;

If she really wanted to find a friend it would probably be someone a little nicer;

But how could she ever find one in a sick place like the Slenderman's mansion?

Furthermore, she doesn't speak much, Kate doesn't know why but she always has a weak voice and when she tries to communicate her voice is hoarse;

The reason for this phenomenon is quickly explained;

The blame lies mainly with The Chaser, her alter ego doesn't speak and appears mainly during killing missions and since it basically resembles an animal, it emits growls and animalistic noises to scare and incite the victim to run away;

The Chaser has no need to communicate with other proxies and residents, so it is merely a hunting animal that uses Kate's body and mind as a vessel, as a result it doesn't really have a personality;

The only thing that clearly sets it apart from Kate is its violent nature;

In fact Kate can and is, most of the time, calm and reasonable, especially because she doesn't see the point in instigating or continuing a fight;

𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡

Kate doesn't really consider herself a friend or close to anyone in the mansion;

After all, her duty is to give orders to Masky, Hoodie and Toby, and possibly other proxies;

Behind this, there are people that Kate tolerate more than others;

As... if she think about it, she doesn't remember their names very well;

However, she knows very well that many residents don't like her;

In first place are definitely Masky and Jeff;

Kate referred to Jeff as "the burnt guy with that permanent and creepy smile";

She doesn't even do it on purpose not to remember their names, after all she has only had contact with Toby, Masky, Hoodie, Cody, Rouge, Wilson, The X and The Observer;

We already know why Masky hates her, and as for Jeff, the reasons are very similar;

Jeff is, in generale, a big hater of all people who are not himself, moreover Kate has, in fact, more power than him and is much stronger and this is just a plus for being included among "the first to be hated" list of Jeff;

Furthermore, Kate, being the proxy with the highest position in the hierarchical pyramid, can hack Jeff's entrance to the mansion;

This would be very inconvenient for Jeff as he, quite often, uses the comfort of the mansion to hide from the police;

𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗦𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗦

Forest: since she has to check the 8 Pages, she spends quite a bit of time walking around the woods and checking that everything is in its place.

Her cabin: like all proxies, she owns a small cabin, not too far from the mansion, which she uses when she doesn't have to stay close to Slenderman or when she's not on a mission. Kate is the only proxy who, although she has a room in the mansion, does not use it and instead prefers the comfort of her small cabin.

The dark: although her normal eyes are not that sensitive to light, the sun is still a nuisance, as she is used to the darkness of the mines she was in before Slenderman created the mansion.

The cold: I think her body temperature is a little off, she perceives the summer heat excessively and her body feels good in lower temperatures: this is always due to the long stay in the coal mines.

𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗦𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗦

The mansion: I think Kate much preferred it when it was just her, the proxies and the boss. Everything was simpler and more relaxed. Now that the mansion had become home to other psychopaths, ghosts and demons, it was all a confusing and chaotic coming and going.

The Chaser: she feels like The Chaser hasn't always been in her life but she still remembers all the people her alter ego killed and doesn't like it at all. It's raw and animalistic, it makes her feel uncomfortable under her skin that she just wants to rip it away, but can't. She hates the fact that the same hands with which she handles everyday objects such as papers, pens, food, were previously used to kill someone. There was a time when she wanted to kill herself, but what was the point when Slenderman could bring her back to life and punish her?

Her role as a proxy: she doesn't really understand how Masky wants to be in her place. I mean, Masky, not Tim, knows very well what it means to be a proxy like her, why would he want to suffer more and work harder? He probably doesn't and simply wants to not be bossed around by anyone other than Slenderman, Kate can understand this idea, but not totally.

Summer/The heat: Kate becomes completely inactive when her temperature gets even slightly warmer than normal. It's like her brain is going into overload. She feels weak and helpless and she hates it, although she greatly regrets the position she is in, she can't help but feel powerful and strong, and it feels good.

Slenderman: It's his fault, right? She hasn't always worked for him, has she? She feels it's so wrong to side with that pale, faceless creature...

I hope this satisfies the request!!

[posallys]

all right here is my word vomit live watch

IMMEDIATELY i am slapped in the face by toby stephens as poseidon i am FERAL

THE LUKE AND PERCY PARALLEL “LOOK, YOU DIDN’T WANT TO BE A HALFBLOOD” OH MY FUCKING GOD

THE MISSING LUKE AND PERCY TRAINING SCENES OH DEAR LORD THANK YOU THANK YOU

“When am i ever going to use this” percy i LOVE YOU

“So you can use them against your opponent” OH BOY

Finally some action i love a good sword fight

But where's annabeths necklace imma kill people

Ooh some god strength okay okay tasty

HELL YEAH POSEIDON POWERS FUCK HIS SHIT UPPPPPP 

“I WARNED YOU. IF YOU'RE NOT CAREFUL, YOU'LL FIND OUT WHO I AM” OH I LOVE THE ENERGY YESSSS FUCK YEAH

GO OFFF PERCY 

“AND YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST A KID”

Ares didn't curse him i hate it here

OH WHAT IS THAT VOICE

OH MY GOD THE CABIN SOMEBODY SEDATE ME

this can go one of two ways

“Violent seismic activity” MMM YUMMY

UH HULLO THIS IS NOT WHAT I EXPECTED ALECTO!???

I lied there was a secret 3rd way this could have gone and it happened 

OOP THERE’S THE NECKLACE

“Where's the glory in that” wow tell me you don't understand Percy's character without telling me you don't understand Percy's character 

“I don't have an appointment” THATS SO FUCKING ICONIC OF HIM

Wait i kind of fuck with this olympus i was picture all white and pristine but this FUCKS

“SHOULDN'T THEY BE JUST AS AFRAID OF US AS WE ARE OF THEM” OH MY FUCKING GOD. OH MY GOD. HOLY SHIT 

“you're learning fast” OH MY GODDDDDDDDD

“Things that are small and scary….” BROOOOOOOOOOOO

the show has rights for the luke and percy content and posally and percabeth and that's IT

LANCE REDDICK ❤️❤️❤️ greatest of all time rest in peace ❤️ (you'll always be Cedric daniels to me)

Ohhh king he does a bad ass zeus

Where's poseidon though DONT TAKE HIM FROM ME 😭😭😭

Lance ily

Lance reddick zeus you're perfect to ME

OHHHHH YES GOOD SHIT

percy jackson king of audacity 

AGHHHHHJJJDHH POSEIDON I LOVE YOU BRIAN BROMEN OH FUCK YES IM. SNKDKKWKWJFKMQ3LI4HRND IM VIBRATING NRJNW OHMYGID

IM THROWING UP OH MY GOD

“I SURRENDER” OH BROTHER DO I HAVE THOUGHTS THOUGHTS TOO MANY THOUGHTS FUCKKKKK

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDD IM GOING TO PUKE

TOBY STEPHENS LOVE OF MY LIFE

I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE UNWELL IN MY ENTIRE LIFE

SHUT UP NOBODY TOUCH ME

“OBEDIENCE DOESNT COME NATURALLY TO YOU DOES IT” ohhhhhhhh brother call me an ambulance 

“I must take some of the blame i suppose” so you CAN read the books you just chose not to for the other 7 episodes….

THE SEA DOES NOT LIKE TO BE RESTRAINED FUCK YEAHHHHHB BROTHER

HIM ONLY UNDERSTANDING THE WORD FATHER IM GOING TO KILL MYSELF IM SOBBING 

POSEIDON SMILE IM DYING 

I DIDN'T LEARN IT FROM CHIRON AND THEN POSEIDONS FACE OH FUCK IM PUKING SHAKING CRYING

IM SO SO SO UNWELL IM LITERALLY INCOHERENT 

“Ares is a moron, as you noticed” STOP I LOVE HIM THERES THAT ASSHAT POSEIDON ENERGY IM LOOKING FOR

“of course we dream, why do you ask” “DO YOU EVER DREAM ABOUT MOM” I AM DEAD I DIED I ASCENDED IM FLOATING LEVITATING FLYING OH DEAR LORD OH MY GOD IM SO SO SO ILL

TOBY STEPHENS THE MAN THAT YOU ARE POSEIDON THE MAN THAT YOU ARE OH MY GOD HIM GOLDING PERCYS HEA DIM VIMITING SHITING MYSELF KILLING DYING DEAD DJFICJJWOKDKDJN FUCK ME FUCK FICK

TOBY TOBY TOBY YOURE PERFECTVTHE PAIN THE FACIAL EXPTESSUINNS IM DYING DEAD

THE PEARL KILL KILL KJAJDJWKKDJJDJDUEJJ2NH3H

I AM HYPERVENTILATING 

Not to be greedy BUT WHERE IS THE QUEEN AMING WOMEN WHERE THE FUCK WAS IT YOU CANNOT GIVE ME ALL OF THAT AND THEN NOT GIVE ME THE MOST FUCKING ICONIC LINE OF ALL TIME WHAT THE ACTUAL ABSOLUTE FUCK I AM GOING THROUGH SO MANY EMOTIONS WHATBTHEFUCK

there's still 20 minutes left taylor breathe it can still happen 

PERCABETH HUG MY RELIGION

annabeth luke percy trio is SOOOOO interesting to me

I hate percy knowing :( ur a bit too perceptive buddy but it's okay 

“I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D GIVE THEM TO GROVER TO WEAR” SHOOT ME IT WOULD PROBABLY FEEL ABOUT THE SAME

THE GODS ARE MY ENEMY, YOU IM HERE TO RECRUIT OHHHHH BROTHER

OH HELLO BACKBITER LORE OKAY

LUKE I GET YOU I UNDERSTAND

I MET YOUR DAD *SLASH* OH THEY GOT HIM THEY GOT HIM GOOD

LUKE PERCY FIGHT MY EYES HAVE BEEN BLESSED IN THIS DAY

PERCY APOLOGIZING HONEY UR TOO SWEET

ANNABETH OH FUCK OH HELLO

So tell me what are the plans for ttc now lol

I HEARD EVERYTHING ANNABETH HONEY COME HERE I NEED TO HUG YOU

I must ask….where the FUCK was this energy the rest of the season this episode is literally so insane it almost makes up for the rest of everything

“How does she feel abt all of this” ooh yummy i like the foreshadowing 

“I imagine she's thrilled” WRONG thalia would stomp freddy chases head in if given the chance

LEAH UR BRAIDS ARE GORGEOUS

stop percy had HEART EYES 24/7 FOR HER IM GOING TO COMBUST

“JUST BE A KID” IM SOBBING

THE SEARCHERS LICENSE IM CRYING SOBBING UR PERFECT GROVER 

“I'LL FIND YOU” FORESHADDDDDDDOWWWINGGGGGGGG

“NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS WE MEET BACK HERE NEXT YEAR”, OH I LOVE THEM IM CRYING SOBBING OH MY BABIES

MONTAUK IM GOING TO KILL MYSELF FUCK DUDE U CANT DO THIS 

i want poseidon to be there i know he wont be but i NEED it

Stop honey percy ilyyyyy you're such a sweetheart im kissing ur forehead and tucking u in

OH HELLO “IT'S TIME TO WAKE UP” WOOOOAHHHHHHHH OKAY

“WE'RE STILL DOING THIS” LMFAOOOOO

“TURNS OUT IM PRETTY GOOD AT THIS….COME FIND ME” CRAZY 

……MOTHERFUCKER if they dont show gabe dying im gonna riot

WHERE WAS THE REST OF MY POSALLY 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 YOU CAN'T GIVE ME SOME AND THEN TAKE AWAY THE LITTLE FROM THE BOOKS

WHERE IS SALLY MURDERING GABE HELLO

AHHH END SCENE LOL AH THE BOX

THE IMPLICATION THAT IT WAS ALL POSEIDON……..WHAT IF I DIE OH MY GOD