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kabuki-writes · 1 month ago

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The Laugh of Nero

chapter: 4 chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 5

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: General Acacius faces the consequences of his conspiracy, while his daughter unexpectedly meets Emperor Caracalla alone for the first time.

Note: -

word count: 3.6k

Romans loved the story of old philosopher Seneca. He was once the teacher of Emperor Nero almost 200 years ago and although body was dead, his life continued through writings: one of it being the drama 'Octavia'. It was a popular play in the amphitheaters of Ancient Rome and beyond. And it was a favorite of yours.

The plot focused on three days during which the Emperor divorced and exiled his wife Claudia Octavia and married another, his lover Poppaea Sabina. It was indeed a tragedy, that gave the audience a glimpse into the madness of Nero, the wisdom of Seneca and the tragedy of Octavia. Oh how you could relate to Octavia. The divergence between her fear, hatred and sadness against her will to withstand and be wiser than what was thrown against her, it intrigued you. Somehow you felt the same in your current situation. On the one handside you feared the future and displeased the attention of the Emperors on you, yet you wanted to do everything to persevere. In a way, the stoic nature of Seneca's character in this play gave you some kind of guidance too. Stoicism, maybe you needed to stick to that even more as you were not able to control your surroundings as it seemed?

You took your seat in the upper-ranks of the amphitheater, accompanied by two of your closest friends. Cicero was one of the grandsons of senator Gracchus and now served as one of the senate’s transcriptors for as long as he was not old enough to candidate for a political mandate himself. The other one was Lydia, the daughter of General Britannicus, who fought alongside your father countless of times and was now fighting with his legions in the far north of the Empire. "Oh, i hope Scato is going to play Octavia this time! The last time i saw him in the role of Electra - it was just mesmerizing. He is just so handsome", Lydia sighed, as she always seemed to be that actor's number one supporter. You and Cicero laughed in response before you gave your friend a small pat on the shoulder. "I already heard that you approached him after the last play. Beware actors, Lydia. They might be charming, but they're also free spirits," you explained with a smirk on your lips, before Cicero added. "Oh everyone would run, when they hear about her father."

"Come on! Stop it! I am just daydreaming! I know he will never let me spend time with someone that isn't a boring military officer!" Lydia turned her face away because she turned completely red, but as she did, she noticed the black armory of the Praetorian guards, who escorted one of the Emperors to the royal box of the Amphitheater. "y/n, Cicero, look!"

You quickly turned your eyes to the scene and your face went pale in an instant, when you saw the luxurious decorated robe, the blonde-ginger hair and the golden laurel wreath. That profile, the curved nose and the make up... you instantly noticed, which brother was here to witness the play of 'Octavia'.

Nero.

In that very moment, he turned his head in an attempt to take a look at the crowd and you tried your best to keep your head low, while your sight was locked to the stage in front of you.

"Is everything alright, y/n?", Cicero asked irritated, while he tried to make sense of your sudden change of behavior.

"Yes, yes i just... i've never seen Emperor Caracalla here."

"Really? He comes to the theater quite often to watch plays", Lydia managed to say, before the crowd slowly fell silent as the first actor slowly walked on stage. The young woman next to you blushed and you could feel Lydia's hand clinging on your arm as if she needed something to hold on - the actor was indeed Scato and the costume he wore was 'Octavia' - a flowing robe with a long, curled wig and extravagant make-up that captured the sadness of her character perfectly.

But you couldn't really focus. Your eyes went to the royal box, the best place to watch the play in a comfortable isolation from the rest of the spectators. Here he sat, accompanied by an entourage of 'friends' and a little monkey which sat on his lap. Suddenly his eyes went from the stage over the crowd and suddenly, he saw you. Your heart sunk to your feet and you instantly turned back to the stage to witness Scato's monologue. He had seen you... and what you were not able to witness now was how he turned to one of his Praetorian Guards, to which he whispered an order.

You tried to keep calm as you stared at the stage, where Octavia was now accompanied by a chorus, who wept for the terrible treason she had to endure when Nero decided to take another woman as his wife. Meanwhile your fingers clinged into the fabric of your toga-styled dress as you gathered your thoughts. You still recalled the words you'd talked with him at the Collosseum - the way you had his attention. Women would kill for what you were able to get if you just continue - but then you heard the words of your father, you saw his worried eyes in front of you and you knew something was terribly wrong.

You were so encaptured in your own thoughts that Lydia grabbed your arm again, but this time it was not because she was about to fall for the man on stage, but because a Praetorian Guard was standing right at the side of your seats and pointed at you. "You. Follow me," he ordered in a very demanding tone, while your friends looked at you in shock. They didn't know what you'd witnessed before, so you grabbed their hands and just gave them an encouraging smile. "Don't worry about me, we see each other soon, alright?", you whispered before you stood up and followed the guard upstairs to the place where Emperor Caracalla had his seat.

_________________________________

"y/n, what a pleasant surprise to meet you here! Please, take a seat!", you heard the voice of Emperor Caracalla as you stepped into the royal box of the amphitheater and bowed to him.

"Leave us, Go!", he hissed quickly to his entourage, who - without a word - got up from their seats and left as quickly as they could, but not without giving you a two-faced look. It was almost as if they already knew something you didn't, as if they both pitied and envied you at the same time. You hold their glances to not give in to any mockery they might've had in their minds and would speak out to each other when they were gone. Then it was only you and the young Emperor,... and his pet monkey, which was seemingly busy eating grapes from a bowl of fruit.

With slow, careful movements you approached the seats in the front and sat down beside Caracalla, his eyes never leaving you as you did. "A funny coincidence, is it not? I remember that we talked about 'Octavia' and here we are now", he chuckled, while he leaned back and for a moment, he watched the stage, where Seneca approached Nero about the divorce of his first wife.

"A coincidence, indeed", you answered and followed his glance. There he was, the mad Emperor, who complained about the unfair treatment of him through his own mother, which he cursed over and over again. At that point she was already dead - believed to be murdered by an order of Nero himself.

"You haven't fully answered me back then, when i asked why you see yourself as Nero". The question came from your mouth while you still followed the actor's movements in his luxurious decorated robes, a red wig on his head - it somehow reminded you of Caracalla.

"The play is written to portray him as a monster, am i sitting next to one?"

Maybe it was almost too bold to ask that. You already regretted speaking those words out loud, when his view instantly switched to you, his blue eyes digging into you like a sharp blade. Suddenly, he simply burst into a resounding laughter, that made your lose your breath for a moment, as you stared at him with irritation.

"Gods, you're really amusing", Caracalla grinned wide, showing off his gold tooth. Nonetheless he gave you an answer. "It depends..."

He raised his hand and let his little monkey climb on it. When he reached his shoulder, Caracalla took a grape and fed it to the animal, before it started to groom his wild hair. Not caring about it, he continued. "Everyone views Nero as mad for breaking the chains that his mother and his predecessor layed on him. He never loved Octavia, yet he had to marry her. He never wanted to be Emperor, yet he became one. His mother tried to control him, so much so, that he needed to get rid of this old hag." The last words were almost a hissing tone, as if he was speaking of something he could truly relate to.

"Now everyone is plotting against him, the Gods, his damned first wife, his teacher, all of Rome, only because he started to follow his own path and married the woman he loved. A tragedy, truly - not just for Octavia, don't you think?"

He looked straight into your eyes, waiting for your answer and you sensed that this was a key moment, where you could say something wrong. In a way, you could see what he meant, but there was something he didn't see. Nero broke the chains, yes, but he broke them with cruelty, murder and terror.

"Isn't everything in our lives a tragedy?", you asked and it seemed to please Caracalla, as his bright grin returned, before he turned to the stage once more, crawling his pet monkey while he followed the next scene.

Oh how he could relate to those words. No one could understand the tragedy of his own life, always being seen as the underestimated, 'weaker' and younger brother. But he enjoyed this talk more than he was willing to admit. And he was sure that you were able to understand him to a certain degree, the first woman to do so.

Suddenly, his pet jumped over to you, climbing onto your shoulder and taking a strain of hair to look at your curls.

"Dondus, no! Don't hurt the fair lady!" In an instant, Caracalla jumped from his seat, but before he tried to take the monkey again, he noticed your sudden yet beautiful laugh and how you reached out to pat Dondus carefully, softly, with your filigran fingers. How he wished that those fingers would touch him in that very moment, while his hands stiffened.

"It is fine, please - don't worry", you said quickly, since the monkey didn't hurt you in any way - in fact the way he climbed on your shoulders, touched your hair with his tiny fingers and groomed them with interest in his dark eyes, was very cute. And your reaction was honest.

"I think, he likes you", Caracalla mumbled, while he returned to his seat, still watching you how gentle you were with Dondus, one of his only 'real friends'. It was his own pet, his alone and caring for him often calmed his mind. Just as you did in this very moment since no word came from his mouth - he just watched. Why, just why does he have to share you with Geta soon...

Slowly he reached for his cup of wine and poured it down in an attempt to numb his thoughts over this damn fact.

"You said you see yourself in Octavia, but you could be Poppaea", he whispered, his eyes locked on yours.

"I could be," you responded, the focus laying on 'could', while you were still playing with the little monkey. In a way you started to find your path in this game. "Either way my fate would end in death then."

Caracalla laughed boisterous once again in response to your words, while he raised his cup. "And yet you would live in delight instead of agony. Let us toast to the inevitable death of us all". You took your cup and followed his toast.

"To the tragedy of us all." As you drank a first sip of your wine, you still saw how he looked you straight into the eyes. It was clear that he just waited for the next chance to say something and this time he was closer than before, leaning over the armrest of his throne. The Emperor was close enough for you to smell the scent of his perfumes and the wine on him.

"I just know we will have a lot of fun, once we see each other more often," he chuckled. His words hit you, but you tried your best not to drop your mask of neutrality. You'd almost began to enjoy this conversation up to this point. What did he mean by that?

Should you ask? No, it would be terribly impolite to question something like that in the presence of an Emperor. Only your lips parted, while you searched for your next words. Caracalla was the one to grin again, his gold tooth shimmering in the lights that came from the stage of the theater. And his next words rang through your ears like a bell.

"Don't forget to thank your dear father, once you're back home."

_________________________________

Marcus Acacius walked through the hallways of the Imperial Palace, escorted by the Praetorian Guard. He was not in chains, but wore his dark brown leather armor with the wine red whool cloak and his helmet under his arm - the armor of a General. In fact, he didn't really know why he was even here in the first place. It was quite early for a new war campaign, but he stopped to question them long ago anyways. It wouldn't be a surprise, if the Emperors had already found a new target for their obsession. The mere hunger for expansion was enough to never satisfy both Geta and Caracalla, who simply took military like Acacius and moved them on a map as if they were simple toy figures. The glory of Rome was what they promised the people, yet all the older man had seen was death and despair over and over again - even though he always came back with a victory laurel wreath on his head. What an irony.

The fact that everything was like the last times he was called to the palace, made him unobservant to the fact that he was walking straight into a trap. He was sure that his secret was still a secret - that he and the senators were safe in a way. Maybe safe enough to carry out their plan once the time was ready for it. How wrong he was on this...

When he stepped into the throne room, the guards behind him closed the door and he greeted Emperor Geta according to the protocol in situations like these. "My Emperor", he said with his fist on his chest and his eyes locked on the young man, who stood in front of one of the two elaborately designed thrones, which were placed on a platform at the center of the room.

"General Acacius! It is good to see you again. Come forward...," Geta called and his waving hand was a signal for him to move, to come closer. As he did, Marcus noticed that the other twin was missing, but this wasn't a surprise too since Caracalla was often 'occupied' with other things. In reality, he simply hated politics and rather threw himself into diffent forms of pleasure in an attempt to escape the stuffiness.

They were not alone, a couple of Praetorian guards stood at their distinct positions as they always did and therefore the general simply ignored them.

Meanwhile Geta had to force himself to keep a straight face, when the traitor approached him as if nothing happened at all, as if he was not about to put a sword into his neck with those filthy senators - just as Julius Caesar got betrayed by his kin and the senate as well. The young Emperor would not let this happen again.

"Tell me, General, why did i call for you?"

Acacius brows furrowed, while he looked to the map table, which was standing alone in front of the great window. It was untouched.

"I thought you might answer me that, your Grace. The last time we talked, you granted me a pause before i will regroup my legions in Ostia and start the next campaign in Numidia."

Geta's laughter filled the room in response to the General's words and it took him even more strength to not scream at him.

"Oh, don't worry, Acacius. This plan hasn't changed yet."

Yet. A feeling of unease creeped up his body, as he stood still, his eyes locked on the pale, gingerblonde royal, who stood in front of him in a toga of black and gold.

"But let us be honest now, shall we? I question your loyality to me and my brother, to Rome. As i know, you're meeting with members of the senate," Geta called out and even though this was true, Acacius kept a straight face, hiding his fear in trained perfection.

"As you know, my dear wife is the daughter of senator Galba. Is it now regarded as treason to meet with my father-in-law?"

Geta stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Acacius in an instant, while his jaw clenched in anger. His mind was like a volcano, ready to erupt at any second.

"Do you think we're fools!?", he hissed with an even more aggressive undertone that grew louder with each word. Marcus had to tackle the urge to say 'Yes', in fact there was even so much more he wanted to say right now. That they were tyrants, mad, arrogant and overall spoiled little brats, which he cursed at every given second of his life.

"We know what you're up to Acacius - a snake amongst the men we regarded as the most loyal to our father and to us. How dare you turn against us and plot with those maggots from the senate, even though you've seen that they were not able to rule an Empire for yourself! Have you no respect for Emperor Septimius Severus, who gave you all what you're now!?"

It was too late, he obviously knew. And Acacius was not even able to put in words how much he hated himself for not being able to keep it as a secret long enough. It not only put his own life in danger but the rest of his family too, his wife... his daughter. His jaw clenched at the mere thought of the consequences that might errupt in the aftermath of this audience. Yet he couldn't hold back what was laying under his tongue for so long: "You father still holds my greatest respect and loyalty even after his passing... may the gods grant him peace in elysium. But i've seen your shortcomings many, many times. You lack the wisdom and restraint he had, yes maybe even the love he had for Rome and its people. You and your brother are not worthy of the crowns he placed upon your heads."

Geta's eye twitched and he grabbed a dagger, placing it right in front of Acacius' throat. His whole body trembled in pure wrath at the audacity of that General's words.

"I should kill you now Acacius! I should kill you and all those filthy senators for that treason!", he screamed at him, while his opponent only responded with a cold and collected gaze. This look alone made him Geta even more aggressive and hateful towards Marcus, but killing him would only create another problem - so he went with the path he had already planned in his mind.

"My brother was right, you are a Brutus. But we're not Julius Caesar", Geta hissed against Acacius, leaning his head to the side for a moment, as he studied his stern facial expression. Oh how much he hated it that he didn't fear him. The Emperor wanted to change that.

"We should start all over again, shall we? As a hero of Rome, the people won't be pleased with you being crucified publically... But we can still kill your wife... your daughter?", he started and noticed how - even for a second - the corners of Acacius' mouth twitched, as if he wanted to say something against this. Now there was fear, something Acacius tried desperately not to show, but Geta still noticed.

A wide, knowing smile appeared on his face and he nodded in silent agreement. "Ah, now you see the consequences. Yes, i am not above killing you kin and let you watch... but it would be such a shame, such a waste... especially for your beautiful daughter. I wonder how you will explain to her, that you threw her young life away because of your pride"

The blade of his dagger was dangerously close as the tip touched his skin at his neck, while Acacius stood in an almost frozen position.

"I have a proposal for you, Acacius...it is the only option to safe your own life and the ones of those you love the most - wed your daughter to me."

Geta's word hit Marcus like a lightning bolt. His eyes widened in response to the request of the Emperor in front of him. And his heart broke in that very moment.

"I will not sell out my daughter like this", he answered with a firm tone in his voice, but Geta only smirked and leaned forward, whispering in his ear with an amused undertone. He knew that Marcus wasn't able to say 'No' in any way. He loved his daughter too much to watch her die.

"One option, General. She either becomes my wife - and i will make her Empress of Rome. Or she will be crucified alongside your pathetic senators..."

He would always choose her life, but at what cost.

_________________________________

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#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fic #kabuki writes

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flowerandblood · 7 months ago

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Play with my heart (2/3)

[ modern actors • Aemond x Strong • female ]

[ warnings: masturbation, kissing, sexual tension, eavesdropping, discomfort associated with the loss of an eye, remorse, doubts, anxiety, unprofessional behavior ]

[ description: He gets the main role in a series about a great family and dragons, which could change his career. He is set to play the uncle and love interest of his childhood friend. When he meets the actress who plays her role, he begins to lose track of what is an acting and what is his real feelings. Sexual tension, grumpy, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: Yeah. I talked about it and I did it. You don't even know how much fun I had doing this. Of course, my characters play in a series whose script is an exact copy of my story The Fall from the Heavens. In this universe, Aemond (playing the One-Eyed Prince) and Rhaenys (playing the Princess) are of course not related – the other characters are also just actors. This three-part series is my gift to all fans of the original series, thank you so much for your support. "Rhaenys" in this story is her artistic pseudonym which she use instead of her real name.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After filming the scene, they rose from the bed as if nothing had happened. The director complimented her acting, saying that she was able to wonderfully portray both the innocence and temptation her character evoked. She smiled at him as he unscrewed the water bottle and took a sip from it, walking towards him.

"They say the beginnings are the hardest." She said softly, looking around, waiting for the director to review again what they had managed to record and decide if anything needed to be repeated.

"Mmm." He hummed, taking another sip of water, feeling uncomfortable now that he was standing in front of her without a script, not knowing what to say.

They stood side by side in awkward silence for a while, looking at their director – he finally said that he liked everything and they would now shoot the scene where the Prince wakes her up in the middle of the night, dragging her out of her chamber after returning from Storm's End.

When he returned to his hotel room he collapsed on his bed, tired but also content. He felt ashamed that he had forgotten the line and at the same time he was grateful that his partner on set had helped him and been supportive, warm and understanding.

He didn't know how he felt about getting aroused during the scene of them kissing – he wondered where the limit of method acting was and whether he had gotten that much into his character or whether it was something else.

He decided he wouldn't think about it, and as long as they played their parts well, nothing else mattered.

The next day there was a big breakfast together in the hotel restaurant. At the table sat the director and his deputies, the writers, producers, actors, stylists and the many other people who contributed to this gigantic production.

She smiled at him from afar and waved at him, sitting at the table in her hair tied up in a braid, on her body only a T-shirt with the Pokemon logo and yellow tracksuit shorts.

He swallowed quietly, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, and sat down next to her, greeting her and everyone else along the way, unsure of how to act. Aegon sitting on the other side of the table extended his hand to him and he shook it.

"– how are you two doing? – you already have some passionate scenes behind you, right? – he's hot, isn't he? –" He asked her partner with amusement, who laughed out loud, trying to turn his question into a joke.

"– everyone here is beautiful and talented – I'm in heaven –" She said softly, deftly avoiding answering. Aegon laughed at her words and stretched in his chair, yawning loudly, losing interest in the subject.

He reached for the cheese toast, watching out of the corner of his eye as her hands placed the pancakes on her plate, which she covered next with pouring chocolate. She lifted her gaze to him and smiled at him warmly as their gazes met – he turned his face away, feeling like a mute, his heart stuck in his throat.

Why was he acting like an idiot in front of her?

It seemed to him that she took his silence as a signal that he simply wanted to eat his breakfast in peace, so she spoke animatedly to the woman to her right, Alys Rivers, who was to play the Witch of Harrenhal.

Aegon was talking to him across the table, mentioning something about their shared scene with him and Helaena. He nodded, sipping his toast with a gulp of coffee, absorbed in his thoughts, for some reason returning to their kiss.

He'd kissed many women in his career before, but this time it was something different.

He thought she was an excellent young actress.

In the following scenes they played he saw her in a gown for the first time. He thought she looked like some immortal elf in it, beautiful and light, a warm, gentle smile directed towards him on her face.

Her gown consisted of two colours – her long, floor-length sleeves were red, and the material hugging her breasts, hips and waist was light blue. Her shoulders were bare; other than that, she wore no other jewellery, her long hair falling softly down her back, accentuating her long neck.

He swallowed hard, feeling a twinge in his gut for some reason, and turned his face away, sitting down with her at the table where, together with Aegon and Helaena, they played out the scene in which the King informed them that they would be marrying for a second time, this time before the Septon.

They spent the rest of the day in the courtyard, filming shots of them meeting years later, and their conversation after they married, when the Princess came out to speak to him.

He felt a pleasant tingling in his lower abdomen at the thought of kissing her again: to his surprise, cupping her chin and placing a tender, soft kiss on her mouth came to him with ease. Her moist, fleshy lips didn't close against his caress, on the contrary, they parted invitingly, her hand tightening on his wrist.

Encouraged, though it wasn't in the script, he took a step forward and deepened the kiss, lazily brushing her soft mouth with his, her eyes closed, a quiet, sweet sigh left her mouth.

When he pulled away, he met her gaze, warm and misty, her cheeks flushed. He stroked her jaw with his thumb and she surprised him by rising on her toes, kissing the tip of his nose.

He felt his heart pound hard at the thought that this was not in the script.

However, he checked it quickly afterwards as he prepared for the next scene and saw that the director had added it as a suggestion.

He was furious with himself for feeling disappointed.

What was he thinking?

He didn't think it would be a problem for him, but he actually felt discomfort when it was time for them to play the scene where the Prince pulls off his eye patch in front of his beloved.

A new prosthetic eye was created especially for him which looked like a sapphire to represent his character well.

He was to wear it that day instead of his usual artificial left eye.

The sapphire eye was cleaned and prepared for him by the doctor who supervised, staying with him in private in the dressing room, that all was well. The very moment he closed his eyelid and opened it he felt that it was not.

Although its surface was smooth, something was wrong about its shape, rubbing his eye socket, once in a while pressing on a nerve under his skin from which shivers ran through him.

"It will take at least a few days to polish and change it."

He thought with a pursed lips that they didn't have that much time.

The shooting schedule was set to the hour.

He figured he would just get into his character's suffering more than he should.

As he walked onto the set he was met by her warm, comforting smile. He closed his eyes, clamping his fingers on the base of his nose, trying to listen in peace to what their director had to say to them.

"It's a scene of their tenderness, their closeness, at last devoid of subconscious brutality. In that one moment they reclaim each other." He said, and they nodded their heads.

In the original, this was accompanied by a sex scene, but the screenwriters decided that affectionate, passionate kissing would suffice here.

The thought that he would be able to do this to her made his heart pound like crazy, but he couldn't enjoy it: he clenched his eyes again and again, feeling discomfort.

Feeling pain.

For some reason, he thought he deserved it for his inability to be professional, for what they were doing was out of his control.

Rhaenys sat down on the desk and he stepped in front of her, between her thighs, her dark blue dress with exposed shoulders and sleeves reaching the ground perfectly accentuated her graceful figure.

She smiled, placing her hands on his shoulders, his fingers involuntarily running over her waist.

"Action!"

He took a step towards her, cupping her face in his hands, trying to focus only on her gentle gaze, only on her warm breath, only on how soft her skin was, instead of the fact that pain was filling his skull.

"Rhaenys." He whispered tenderly, pleadingly – the discomfort he felt made his words resound as if he was in pain – in pain because of the fact that they were separate.

She blinked, surprised and somehow touched, clearly appreciating his acting, which was only a matter of coincidence. She lifted her hand to his eye patch and he grabbed her wrist violently, her breath stuck in her throat.

"No." He said coldly and closed his eyes, feeling the pain as if a bolt of electricity surged through the left side of his face.

"You're my husband. That's enough." She whispered, wanting to soften her words by taking his face in her hands, making him involuntarily moan in pain. She let go of him, terrified.

"Are you okay?" She asked leaning over him and he nodded his head.

"What's going on?" The director asked them. "We're going to have to repeat the whole scene."

Fuck.

"Are you in pain? Please tell me." She whispered pleadingly and he shook his head.

"No. No, I….FUCK!" He hissed, leaning over, clasping his hand over the left side of his face, feeling such excruciating ache that he felt like ripping off his skin and tearing out all the nerves that were there.

"Call a doctor, he is in pain!" She called out, startling him by pulling the eye patch off his face. He heard her sigh in horror and cover her mouth with her hand, his stomach clenched in discomfort at the thought.

That she saw it.

That she felt disgusted.

"My God, his eye is all swollen up, what have you done to him? Can you take it out? Come." She said, taking his hand, and he walked out of the room with her like a small child, bumping into the doctor on the way.

"I warned him" He said.

"I can stay and help. If you don't mind." She said sitting down next to him on the couch in his dressing room.

He wanted to reply for her to leave, but he only groaned, unable to stand it, and as soon as the doctor had disinfected his hand he removed the sapphire prosthesis from his eye socket.

He did not know why he burst out crying.

He hid his face in his hands, feeling humiliated, thinking that the reason he had been taken for the role was because they hoped they wouldn't have to spend money on expensive CGI, but in fact he had wasted their entire day of filming.

He swallowed hard when he felt her arms embrace his head and let her lean over as she hugged him to her breasts, her pleasant scent, her warm hands stroking his jaw and back.

"Leave us alone for a moment." He heard her voice. The man nodded and said he would fetch an ointment that should soothe the abrasions.

"It would be best if you didn't wear your artificial eye today and let your eye socket rest." The man said.

"Get the FUCK out!" He growled, closing his eyes, thinking it was wonderful news, going around the set with an empty eye.

He thought it was the worst day of his life.

He swallowed hard as her forehead pressed against the top of his head, her gentle hands stroking his face, shoulders and back giving him a feeling of comfort and security.

It was so hard for him, and she was by his side.

"I admire you for holding out for so long. They should have checked that the prosthesis fit earlier, not on the day of filming. It's the production's fault and the director knows that. I'm sure he appreciates your commitment and will reorganise the work." She whispered calmly, as if she wanted to comfort him, and indeed, her words made him feel relieved.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled.

"Don't apologise."

"Can I lay my head on your lap?" He asked in a trembling voice, wondering if his request was disrespectful.

He just wanted to close his eyes for a moment and relax.

"Yes. Yes, of course, come here." She said, turning so that he could lie down.

He turned his head so that she couldn't see his left eye socket and rested his cheek on her thighs, placing his hand on her knee. He closed his eyes and sighed quietly when he felt one of her hands on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin.

There was complete silence between them.

"I got really attached to you, you know? I hope we still keep in touch after the shooting." She whispered making him swallow hard, cold sweat trickling down his neck as he felt his manhood react to her words with an aggressive throbbing.

"Yes." He muttered. "Yes, me too."

He spent the evening in the hotel bar, meant for guests only, feeling reasonably safe there, wanting to ease his mind a little, wearing a thin bandage over his left eye that allowed air to pass through.

He resented himself for being unprofessional, for having his real feelings mixed up with what he was supposed to be playing as a Prince character.

For the first time, he doubted whether he should really be an actor.

His grandfather surprised him by walking up to him from behind, patting him on the back.

"Don't worry about the issue with the artificial eye: it was their fault and the director came to me to apologise for the prosthesis not being tested earlier. You both do a wonderful job on set. The chemistry between you two is palpable and it shows on camera." He said, sitting down next to him at the bar table.

He pressed his lips together at his words, wondering if he should confide in him.

"I don't know myself. I'm confused." He confessed, embarrassed. His grandfather looked at him in surprise as soon as he ordered a double whisky for himself.

"Confused? Because of that girl? It's normal. She's kind and pretty. If you're feeling desire, that's good. Turn it into your acting." He said lightly, however, making him feel not relief but discomfort in his stomach. He stared dully into his glass for a moment, feeling the aggressive pounding of his heart.

"… I'm not sure if what's going on inside my head is good." He said in a trembling voice. His grandfather hummed under his breath, taking a sip from the glass the man had placed in front of him.

"As usual, you think too much. Even if… well, something happens between you two, one or two nights, it's nothing terrible. On set it happens all the time. The tension is high and you have to find an outlet for it somewhere." He said.

He got up from his seat and just left, feeling that he had made him sick.

He didn't agree with him, and he didn't think that using her to get off sexually was a normal thing to do.

She was young, younger than him, still filled with enthusiasm and naivety.

He didn't want to be one of those men who would take advantage of that, seduce her and then leave her humiliated as soon as the shooting was over, saying it was just a fun.

He had casual sex with actresses, but never with those he worked with directly. Nothing came of it because their paths quickly diverged and he didn't have the desire or strength for a long-distance relationship.

He didn't care.

He took a shower, brushed his teeth, changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants and went to bed, trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow they were to play a scene in which he exposes her breasts.

Not all love scenes were left in the script, however, this one was one of them, because it was significant moment – their first real intimacy and reunion after years.

They knew there was enormous pressure on them. He could see it in her face the next day – also dressed in a night gown she was looking down at her fingers, stressed, not a trace of her smile and confidence from the auditions.

He approached her, for some reason feeling that he should comfort her, lift her spirits, let her know that they didn't have to rush.

"– do you want to talk about how we're going to do this? –" He asked quietly and she nodded, unable to even look him in the eye.

"– yes –" She mumbled.

"– so –" He began, feeling for some reason that his heart started pounding like crazy, his hands clenched into fists. "– I'd start with kisses first – on the lips, on the neck, on the shoulders – they're rubbing against each other in this scene because they're feeling arousal, so it would be a good idea to try and mimic similar…movements – then I'll slide your nightgown off your shoulders – we can agree that you will guide my hand yourself when you think you're ready for me to touch you there –" He said quickly, forcing himself to be calm and composed, feeling a cold sweat run down his back.

Why was he so terrified?

He saw that she swallowed hard and nodded, looking up at him and lowering her gaze quickly, red with embarrassment.

"– yes – yes, that's a good idea –" She said and looked at him, her gaze warm, comforting.

Kind.

"– how's your eye? –"

He lowered his gaze, looking down at his boots, embarrassed.

"It's better now. Thank you. For everything. I don't want you to be scared today. Tell me if you feel something is wrong. Okay?" He hummed, and she nodded quickly, giving him a grateful smile.

"– thank you – I will –"

He swallowed heavily when the director told them to take their places. He sat down in a chair and she walked over to him, looking at him questioningly. He nodded, extending his hand to her to help her up, and she sat awkwardly on his thighs. He gently placed his hand on her hip, forcing her to slide closer to his chest, just as scripted.

They both swallowed hard as his manhood pulsed between her thighs under the material of his breeches, touching the material of her flesh-coloured panties, but neither of them said anything.

"– we will take it slow – okay? –" He encouraged her, gently cupping her cheek in his hand, bringing her face close to his. She nodded and smiled warmly at him, as if he had said exactly what she needed to hear.

"– okay –" She said.

Their director nodded at them.

"Let's try to get a feel for it first. This scene is about building tension slowly. If you feel discomfort, speak up, we'll try to do something about it. Ready?" He asked, and they nodded their heads like little children.

"Action!"

Apart from the sizzle of the fire in the fireplace to their right, surrounding their faces with warm light, there was complete silence around them.

He waited a moment before he pulled her face closer to him and his lips tentatively brushed hers in a slow, shy, moist kiss. He felt her body involuntarily move closer to him, her arms closing his neck in an tender embrace.

He felt her soft breasts through the material of his tunic, his hands traveled down her waist to her hip which he began to stroke in a soft, lazy, affectionate motion. She sighed softly into his mouth making his half-hard erection hit the space between her thighs again.

They froze in mid-motion and he was already about to apologise to her, telling her to stop, when this time it was she who leaned in. His voice went dead in his throat as her lips pressed against his, her body rubbing uncertainly against what was beneath her.

Fuck.

He thought as his hips tentatively came out to meet her, pressing what was in his breeches between her thighs, making it swell and pulsate, that this was not a good idea.

He knew she could feel it and that turned him on even more.

Her breath had become heavy and accelerated, their kisses messier, stickier, warmer, his fingers involuntarily dug into the skin of her hips hidden beneath the thin material.

"– uncle –" She mewled into his mouth in a way from which his erection became completely hard, his hand clamped down on her neck, forcing her to stay still as he slid his tongue deep into her throat.

She moaned, startled, gripping his shoulders, rolling her hips back and forth as if in a trance, teasing him deliberately, squeezing his length between his lower abdomen and her body again and again, the tip of her slick tongue licking his.

"– it tickles – here –" She mumbled helplessly, pressing her forehead against his, looking down, between her thighs, watching his bulge twitching in his breeches, which, however, only they could see.

He should have said his line, but instead, completely stunned by her behaviour and smell, he grabbed the material of her nightgown and slid it off her shoulders, snuggling his face between her sweet breasts.

She opened her mouth wide, shocked and moaned, hugging his head to her heart, making his cock throb hard. She took his hand in hers and guided it up, to her breast – he gasped, shocked how good it felt, squeezing tentatively her plump softness with his fingers, placing sticky, wet kisses on her sternum, her hands buried in his hair pressed him tighter against her bare, hot skin.

It seemed to him that she was as shocked by this sensation as he was, for she began to moan quietly – her nipple became hard under his thumb as he began to rub and tease it, his free hand clamped down on her buttock, again and again rubbing his painfully swollen erection against her.

He was turned on.

"Cut! What chemistry, I'm at a loss for words!" The director called out, and he let her go immediately.

She jumped back and got off his lap, inhaling heavily as if she was out of breath, putting the material of her nightgown quickly over her shoulders and breasts, the stylist said something to her and she just nodded, looking at him with big eyes.

He crossed his legs quickly and grunted, covering his mouth with his hand, looking towards the fire, pretending to listen to one of the assistants saying that now that they were all in emotion they would try to film their conversation years later.

Although they tried, neither of them could concentrate and they forgot their lines over and over again.

"What's going on with you two? Do you need a break?" The director asked them, and they replied at the same time that they did.

It frightened him to see her leave immediately, the thought that she might nevertheless have felt uncomfortable, that he had done something that crossed the line for her, but she was afraid to tell him.

He got up and followed her, heading for the rooms where they were changing and getting their make-up done, standing in front of the door with her name on it.

He froze when he heard a strange sound that seemed to him to be a moan of pain. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask if she was all right, if he could come inside, but then she made a different sound, a more familiar one that made his erection throb hard in his breeches.

He heard her quiet panting mixed with sweet, innocent mewls of pleasure, from which he himself began to breathe through his mouth, shocked.

He leaned his forehead against the door, wanting to hear it better, with the corner of his eye looking to see if anyone was around, but they were all on the set. He thought he was just a pervert when his hand travelled deep under the material of his trousers, clamping down on his long, swollen cock, twitching painfully with desire in his hand.

He imagined what she looked like now, digging her delicate fingers into her fleshy walls, leaking with moisture, pulsing because of him, because of what he had done to her, because of his kisses and touch.

He drew in a loud breath and pressed his lips together, giving himself a firmer squeeze at the base, imagining that he had grasped her thighs in his hands and spread them in front of his face, sinking his mouth into her wonderful, delicate folds, licking and caressing her little cunt.

He sped up, hearing the quiet sounds in her room become more vulnerable and helpless, and after a moment she moaned a little louder with some kind of relief.

He opened his mouth wide when he felt his warm semen spurt out onto his fingers at the thought that she had just come because of him.

He cursed under his breath as he looked at his hand and headed quickly to the bathroom, afraid that anyone would see him.

As he washed his hands in the sink he looked at his reflection, at his white wig and eye patch, and decided that he was beginning to lose control, that he no longer knew which feelings were his and which were his character's.

He was terrified and had no one to tell about it.

He only saw her at dinner that evening, and although she sat next to him, she didn't look at him. He pressed his lips together at the thought that she was as ashamed as he was, only she had no idea that he knew what she had done and that he had done exactly the same thing himself.

He was crushed by a sense of guilt that he didn't know what to do with.

He decided to finally speak to her, feeling his heart in his throat, playing with his fingers.

"Did I overdo it? Today during our scene." He asked in a trembling voice, trying to sound indifferent and cool. She looked at him surprised, putting her glass of juice down on the table.

"– I – no, I'm sorry I left so suddenly – it's just that all of this – all of this has overwhelmed me –" She muttered, looking down at her hands lying on her lap.

He looked at her in silence, feeling a squeeze in his throat at the thought that he understood her, that perhaps they felt the same way.

"– if you don't mind – I'd like to rehearse scenes with you before we play them – I'd like to talk to you about them – I have too much chaos in my head and no one to share it with –" She said, looking up at him finally, her brow furrowed in fear that he would not take her suggestion well.

He, however, felt some wonderful kind of relief.

"– yes – yes, that's a great idea –"

They spent the next few days acting out scenes, talking to each other for hours in the evenings in the hotel restaurant or her room about how they wanted to portray particular dialogues.

"– then when they're arguing I think to approach it more along the lines that: he just wants forgiveness and she's tired of him always expecting her to forgive him, even though he himself has held a grudge against her for so many years – something like: what should I do now? – divorce you? –" She asked sternly, getting into character for a moment, wanting to show him what she meant.

He hummed at her words and nodded, intrigued.

"– yes – yes, I think it's a good track – he's broken, exposed, afraid of the visions of that witch – he tries to push it away, but because of the way he represses it, everything he's afraid of comes back to him in nightmares –" He said, half lying half sitting on her bed with a copy of the script in his hand, the other gesturing as if he were a lecturer.

She nodded quickly at his words, sitting down next to him on the sheets, excited.

"– yes, exactly – he locks too much inside himself, and everything he fears then manifests itself in his dreams – his thoughts overwhelming him more and more and filled his mind like water that finally bursts his skull –"

"– a drop drills a rock –" He murmured and she snapped her fingers.

"– exactly –" She said, swinging her legs.

Unintentionally, his gaze traveled over her figure – her light-coloured sweatshirt with Jigglypuff from Pokemons seemed very fluffy to him, white tracksuit shorts and pretty white floral socks on her legs.

"– are you still watching this? –" He grinned with amusement. She cocked her head, smiling broadly.

"– what? –"

"– Pokemons –"

She giggled, embarrassed; the sound, innocent and sweet, made him feel a tightening in his throat and a pleasant tingling in his lower abdomen.

"– yes, but only the first few seasons – you know – the classics –" She said, closing her eyes proudly, as if she were speaking some work of Shakespeare.

"– mmm – I watched this when I was a kid –" He confessed, and she shifted towards him, delighted, surprising him completely.

"– I have a laptop – do you want to watch the first episodes together and order a pizza? –"

Though the suggestion seemed absurd to him, he agreed, and it wasn't long before he was watching, lying next to her on her bed, with a big carton of pizza lying on their bellies, as Ash tried to tame Pikachu.

"– God, how long it's been since I've watched this –" He muttered, feeling some kind of melancholy. He heard her melodious, joyful laughter.

"– I know this episode by heart –" She said between one greedy bite of pizza and another, clearly pleased and happy.

For some reason, despite his rather solitary nature, he felt comfortable around her. Her behavior made him feel like he wasn't being judged or watched – he knew he could say at any time that he was going back to his room to rest, and she wouldn't hold it against him.

He caught himself thinking that he really liked her.

What made him involuntarily distance himself from closer acquaintanceships with actresses was that it often seemed to him that they played offstage as well – they stepped into the role of innocent, sweet, dreamy romantics or passionate unapproachable women, but in fact he had no idea if he knew them at all.

With her, however, it was different – her sudden, unexpected reactions, the glint in her eye, her smile and unthinking remarks were real.

For some reason, her character, her presence had a soothing effect on him.

He was ashamed to admit that he liked her a little too much.

He kept repeating to himself that just one more episode and he would go, but another and another flew by. Her warm, soft body was wonderfully close, their arms were pressed against each other, their heads lying side by side on the pillow, as they looked at the laptop lying between their legs.

For some reason he felt like a little child again who was about to spend the night with his mate.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and noticed that her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, her head tilted to one side in deep sleep.

Something captured him in this sight – the thought that she felt comfortable and good enough with him that she had fallen asleep.

He rose slowly, taking the large pizza box from their thighs, setting it down on the floor and rose, trying to be quiet. She twisted around and hummed something as he covered her with the duvet and turned off the lamp, feeling somehow proud of himself for treating her the way she deserved it.

It was as if he had a friend.

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ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

Text

In Silent Screams (2/3)

Several weeks into her affair with Vision, the voice inside Wanda's head urging her to end things diminishes to faint murmurs, eventually fading away entirely.

Chapter word count: 8k+ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision Warnings: Smut (F/M), Cheating, Angst, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Dubious Consent, Toxic Relationships

Notes: M rating this time. It gets spicier because what's between them is just pure lust. There will be a full smut scene that is a bit triggering given the context of how it happens, why it happens. I will mark it in red so you can skip it. Again, you will probably hate Wanda here more than the previous part, be warned.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Part II

Comfort starts to creep in, wrapping around Wanda like a cozy blanket.

Several weeks into her affair with Vision, the voice inside Wanda's head urging her to end things diminishes to faint murmurs, eventually fading away entirely. And as she allows herself to indulge in the newness of his body and all the ways he is different and not what she’s used to, it becomes even more pleasurable (and addicting) for her when they come together.

Wanda starts to think that maybe being with Vision like this doesn't take away from the love she has for you. It's almost as if she's compartmentalized herself—her relationship with you remains sacred, undisturbed by the dalliances that occupy her days. Vision has become a separate chapter, a deviation from the norm, but he's not taking the place of what she's built with you over time. Every night, regardless of how late it gets or how entangled she becomes in her meetings with Vision, she finds herself retracing her steps back to you. Her days begin with your face, and they end with your arms around her. There's a routine in that, a certainty she clings to.

Being with Vision helps her forget she's even in Westview. She's less haunted by the child she couldn't have with you, by the job she left behind for your sake. She dwells less on missing you, on feeling like she's become a secondary character in your life as you work tirelessly to provide for her. And isn't that what marriage truly is? More than the vows and the rings, it's about choosing the same person every day. It's about finding ways not to hold grudges, to keep the bond strong, to maintain a balance, right?

Her friendship with Vision, devoid of the usual societal filters, feels pure. They share, they debate, they laugh. But as the sun sets, Wanda always knows where she belongs.

To you.

“You’re kidding.”

Vision glances back at her over his shoulder, flashing a playful grin. They're in a park just outside of town, a result of those spontaneous drives they occasionally take. They've found a quiet corner, a place where they can be with each other, away from the rules of their complicated lives. Him being her student makes everything that much more delicate.

“Why would I joke about something like that?” he says, looking pleased with himself.

Wanda puts down the essay she’s reviewing and leans back on the picnic blanket, shielding her eyes from the sun. “You seriously want to buy art from the gallery?”

He shrugs, “I like what they showcase. Plus, I thought... well, it might be a good opportunity for you to earn a commission.”

It’s a weak argument and they both know it. She smirks, “Trying to impress someone?”

Vision pauses, taking a deep breath, serious as he says, “Maybe.”

Wanda sighs, feeling a knot tighten in her stomach. “Vision, we need to be careful.”

“Careful? Wanda, we're miles away from Westview. I'd say we're being pretty meticulous about this.” He smirks, pointing to the tall trees that shield them from any possible onlookers. “With all these trees and not a bird in sight, we could even fuck right here in the open if we wanted to.”

Wanda fixes him with a sharp gaze, one that immediately conveys her disapproval. Immediately, the smirk fades from his lips, replaced by a realization that he might have gone too far with his teasing. He reads the message in her eyes loud and clear. Not only is his suggestion off the table, but he also senses that he may have jeopardized his luck in the coming days.

“I… I’m sorry,” he murmurs, going back to his sketchpad. They don’t speak to each other for a while. Wanda is deeply engrossed in the essays she has to review, already behind the deadline she set for herself, while Vision gives her space to cool down from his mistake. Their arguments are always brief but intense, and lately, they haven't been leading to sex as often as Vision would prefer.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Vision starts, “How is it, being with Y/N? Being married, I mean.”

Wanda stiffens at the mention of your name. She's never discussed you with Vision, and a surge of panic begins to rise within her. She hides her reaction by neatly rearranging the papers alphabetically in front of her.

“I told you she’s off limits,” she answers a moment later.

Vision feigns surprise, tilting his head slightly. “Ah, my apologies. I meant no disrespect,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

Wanda purses her lips, her posture tensing further. “Just... let's not go there.”

Vision nods, though he can't help but steal a quick glance at the wedding ring on her finger. It taunts him everytime he sees it, reminding him of the life she shares with someone else—a life he often finds himself yearning to be a part of. He's been daydreaming about a different reality, where Wanda is by his side not on borrowed time, where he is the one she turns to at the end of a long day.

He's persuaded her to share her thoughts with him, to spread her legs for him; how much more challenging could it be to win her heart next? He'll take it one day at a time if he has to. Patience is something he doesn't mind exercising.

Cleverly masking his intentions behind a facade of casual curiosity, Vision continues, “Hypothetically speaking, if you were to give insights on marriage, just in general...What are your thoughts?” He leans back, making the conversation seem casual, though every word is carefully calculated.

She glances at him, slightly suspicious but not fully alarmed. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Oh, you know," Vision waves his hand dismissively. “It's just something that's been on my mind lately. As a concept, I mean.”

Wanda narrows her eyes slightly, studying him. She knows Vision well enough to understand that behind his seemingly innocent inquiries, there's often an ulterior motive. But she also knows that he's persistent, and sometimes, the best way to deal with him is to play along, to a point.

“It’s…” Wanda finds herself grappling for an answer. She hadn’t expected that the answer would be much more complex now given recent events. She used to look at it in an idealized way, where marriage is what happens at the end of an epic love story, the banner over the path that the two main characters continue their journey on; the natural conclusion when people say 'happily ever after'.

Perhaps she's been wrong to view it that way all along. Perhaps marriage is just a tool to peel back the facade meticulously crafted during dating, for nothing remains hidden in marriage. To enforce a commitment that's always existed. To harness the rights it bestows between two individuals. To—

Wanda can list countless facets of marriage, and yet it wouldn’t change the way she feels about you, with or without it. She can change—she has, and marriage can vanish from the world, her love for you would persist unscathed. While every fiber of her being might be judged for her actions, she believes her love can’t be tainted. She’s sure of it. And so, essentially, marriage is—

“...it’s an indemnity.”

It’s not at all what he assumed she’d say. “An indemnity? That's an... interesting choice of word.”

Wanda nods, pushing a stray hair behind her ear with a thoughtful look. “Right. It's like our safety net, not just from what's out there but from our own doubts too. It's us saying to ourselves—and to anyone watching—that no matter how tough things get, we're in it together. It's a promise that even in the darkest times, we'll stand by each other.”

Vision absorbs her words, trying to see the cracks, the spaces where he could insert doubt or lay the groundwork for his plans. “But don’t you think,” he ventures cautiously, “that sometimes, that very protection, that indemnity, becomes the chain that binds? Don’t you ever feel... trapped?”

Wanda takes a deep breath, sensing the subtext of his question. He has a knack for drawing out the very things she's trying so hard to keep from him. In the end, she still ends up talking about you. If he's truly eager to hear what she has to say about you, then Wanda doesn’t care if he won’t like what he hears.

“I know what you’re trying to do here,” Wanda says with a wry smile. “To assume she's the one trapping me would be a gross misunderstanding.”

He laughs for a long moment. It's loud and over the top, and somewhere in the midst of it, it begins to feel like an insult. Wanda lifts her chin, unfazed by his antics.

After a few moments, Vision's laughter subsides, replaced by a somber look. “I apologize,” he says, even as Wanda goes back to her readings. “I didn’t mean to make light of your feelings. It's just... sometimes I feel like you're still lying to yourself, Wanda.”

Wanda's eyes narrow, her stance firm, but she doesn't rise to the bait immediately. “How am I lying?”

There it is—his opening.

“Yes. Sometimes, I wonder if you're using these philosophical explanations as a way to protect yourself from confronting something deeper. Something you might not want to face,” he says.

She chuckles, but it's devoid of any real amusement. “And what might that be?”

“That maybe,” Vision says, crawling closer to her until they're just a breath away. “Maybe being with her isn't everything you once believed it to be.”

A retort forms on Wanda's lips, ready to be unleashed. But as she looks into Vision's eyes, she notices something genuine and disarming in them.

“All I’m saying is that you don’t need to defend yourself around me,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, fingers lightly grazing her cheek. “You don't need to explain yourself. Not about this, not about anything.”

His lips find the curve of her neck, placing a chaste kiss there, sending a shiver down her spine, making her sigh softly.

“You can enjoy that,” he whispers against her skin, voice husky. His lips move upward, caressing her cheek before they meet hers. His hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer, until she’s on his lap, straddling him. Her skirt rides up her thighs, allowing him easy access to her dampening underwear.

Wanda shifts nervously. “Vision, we're in public,” she whispers sharply, but doesn’t make any move to get away from him.

His lips twitch into a confident smirk. “I know.” His fingers daringly slide beneath the hem of her skirt, edging towards her panties. “Don't worry,” he assures her, “I just wanted to see if your body tells the truth, even if your words might not.”

Her breath catches as his fingers find the growing wetness there. “See?” he murmurs, his mouth twisting into a boyish grin. “Your body doesn't lie.”

She enjoys it. To be brutally honest, without the haunting thought of your reaction if you were to find out, she concedes she savors their meetings. She’s attracted to him and it’s consuming her every thought.

Wanda blushes furiously, coupled with the fear of being discovered like this, she’s surrendered to this wicked game. He doesn’t worship her like you do. He doesn’t try to make her feel like nothing is her fault the way you do. Why weren’t you disappointed that she couldn’t get pregnant? Couldn’t contribute to your household like equals? Why didn’t you agonize over the financial repercussions of her relentless quest to start a family with you?

Why won’t you ever, ever hate her?

It's twisted that she even thinks of you as she tilts her hips upwards, urging Vision to touch her just right.

Without warning, Vision plunges his long middle finger inside her, causing Wanda to gasp and grip onto him. The intimate intrusion is brief, and she barely has time to process the sensation when he withdraws, pushing her off his lap and onto the soft grass beside him. He holds his glistening finger up to the light, then brings it to his lips, never breaking eye contact with her. She watches, entranced, as he deliberately savors her taste.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls rapidly, every nerve in her body alive and buzzing. She feels exposed, laid bare both by his actions and by the force of her own arousal. There's a delicious humiliation in it, a thrill of being seen and wanted so openly.

But before she can get a chance to speak, Vision reaches into his pocket, producing an envelope thick with cash and hands it to her. She doesn't need to count it to know it's a significant amount.

“What the fuck is this?” Wanda asks, looking down at the cash in her hands.

He laughs again. He enjoys riling her up. Makes this all the more charged and exciting.

“It's for the painting from your old gallery,” Vision explains calmly. “Going back to that, yes, I want to purchase it. And that’s just 50% of my intended offer.”

Wanda reflects on all the support you've offered her, the financial aid you generously extended without ever demanding explanations. A portion of the money in the envelope—her future commission— could be a start, a way to repay some of the debts she owes you, even if it doesn't cover everything.

Not that you’ve ever asked her to pay you back. You’ve never once hinted at any imbalance in financial obligations in your relationship.

“I shouldn't take this,” she mumbles, yet her fingers clutch the envelope a little tighter.

“I want to,” he insists. “Although, I want a special request.”

Wanda's eyebrow arches in skepticism. “Which is?”

“A handwritten dedication from you, when the painting is delivered,” he replies.

She averts her gaze. “I’ll think about it.”

Vision nods. “Keep the money while you do.”

Wanda starts leaving the house early too, going to her lover’s apartment before they go to the university together.

Vision sits comfortably on the plush couch, engrossed in his video game, his fingers swiftly moving over the controller. Wanda enters, shrugging off her light jacket, her simple, functional underwear visible from the thin material of her dress.

“You know, Wanda,” he begins casually, “Have you ever considered just... being in your natural state here?”

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks, helping herself to some tea.

“Your body is a work of art,” he replies, pausing the game now and turning to face her fully. “And as someone who appreciates art...” His gaze travels to her current choice of undergarments and back up to her eyes, leaving his sentence hanging.

“Are you suggesting I walk around here naked?”

He grins cheekily. “The thought did cross my mind.”

Wanda's cheeks flush. “That’s not happening.”

“Alright, maybe not that,” he relents with a mock sigh. “But perhaps wear something more... refined? Exquisite?” His emphasis on 'exquisite' draws a clear line between what she currently wears and what he's suggesting.

She's always prided herself on being confident, knowing her worth. But Vision’s playful, yet sharp suggestion chips away at her armor just a bit. For a split second, she wonders if this is how he truly sees her. If her choice of underwear, something so personal and intimate, is a reflection of her self-worth in his eyes. It's crazy to let his comment get to her; she's aware of that. But she can't help but think of you, of the intimate times you both share, the mornings she finds herself waking up beside you, and the nights you take off her clothes.

Do you notice? She wonders. Do you think the same?

It's all these tiny moments, insignificant on their own, but together they build a narrative in her mind. A story where maybe you don't desire her as you once did. That thought affects her more than Vision's words. The insecurity, an old nemesis she thought she had left far behind, resurfaces.

Wanda forces a nonchalant smile. “Why don't you mind your own business, and focus on your own wardrobe choices?” she retorts, but there's a lack of her usual sharpness in her tone.

He snickers, going back to his game. She hopes you don't see her the way he does.

She buys a new set of lingerie—for you.

Wanda decides she’ll do it by the end of the week. Determined to finalize the sale, she picks up the phone while dinner simmers on the stove. With you still out, Sparky remains her only companion, and a pang of guilt strikes her for having neglected him lately.

She dials the gallery. After a few rings, the familiar voice perkily answers. “Hello?”

“Agatha, it's Wanda,” she says. “About the painting I texted you earlier. My buyer is all in.”

“There's already a bid on it,” Agatha interrupts, “with a deposit ready to go. But if you can secure the painting by tomorrow at the latest, it’s yours to sell.”

“Thanks. I'll make it happen.”

Only after hanging up does she understand that she'll need your help to ensure everything goes smoothly. The next morning, she broaches the subject, and, thankfully, doesn’t have to jump through many hoops to convince you. She loathes bending the truth about the gallery's closing hours, but she's pressed to secure the painting promptly.

Of course, you're there for her again. You even go as far as to offer her lunch, but she has to decline; she genuinely has an appointment with the dean. She reluctantly agrees to dinner, already having said yes to Vision to visit the Museum of Modern Art, where he's also set to give her the remaining 50% for the painting.

“We can have dinner,” Wanda proposes tentatively. “Maybe drive to the city for some steaks and a dive bar after?” It’s tiring to drive back and forth like Manhattan isn’t at least one and a half hours away without traffic, but she wants to spend time with you, and thank you for your effort.

“I'll pick you up at seven,” you say. “It's a date.”

She's excited, but deep down she's aware of the tight schedule. It would be nothing short of a miracle if Vision gets her back to Westview on time.

Wanda cancels dinner at the last minute. She's relieved that you're amenable and just texts to ask her what time she’ll be home.

When she gets her hands on the painting, it takes her a long time to think of a dedication message. Truthfully, writing heartfelt letters has never been her strong suit; she struggles to articulate her feelings. But as she contemplates her feelings for Vision, she draws a blank. She considers simply thanking him for engaging her in conversations she hasn't had with anyone in so long, conveniently omitting their other indulgences. At the same time, she doesn’t want to leave a piece of herself behind, not even something as trivial as a personal dedication.

So she settles on a quote:

‘To Vision, the only secret people keep is immortality.’ - W

On a particular plane, it speaks to her. It's a phrase that mirrors the fundamental human longing for significance and a sense of purpose—something she has unknowingly let slip along the way.

Surprisingly, Vision appears content with the note. Wanda doesn't bother to inquire about his thoughts on it. He doesn't make a spectacle of his appreciation for the painting either, and it becomes apparent that he's indulging in a fantasy from some porno, where an older woman brings him something before he takes her to bed.

The sex is always intoxicating in its own messy way, now that she’s ready to admit she’s not after perfection whenever she comes to him. She doesn’t go to him because there’s something wrong with you. It might be because something is wrong with her, but there isn’t really any room to psychoanalyze her own mental state when she’s being taken from behind, facing a full length mirror. As pleasure builds, her eyes roll back, she briefly toys with the idea that she might be harboring deeper feelings for him.

Then, out of the blue, a red flash catches her eye, but with two quick blinks, it vanishes.

“What’s that?” Wanda whispers, momentarily distracted before a moan escapes her lips.

“What?” he mutters distractedly, pulling her hair, when her head starts to droop.

But before Wanda can form a coherent thought, he adjusts, lifting one of her legs and shifting his angle. With a few deliberate thrusts, she's spiraling into an overwhelming climax. And as pleasure washes over her, any lingering thoughts of deeper feelings for him evaporates along with the haze of lust.

Later, she would brush aside the memory of that brief red flash as she stealthily slipped into your shared home, careful not to disturb Sparky, who slept soundly. With a day off scheduled for tomorrow, she had completely lost track of time, fooling around a couple more times with a college kid.

“D-Did I hurt you?”

Right this second, Wanda feels like she'd welcome the ground opening up to take her or a random bullet finding its mark in her heart. Anything, if it would end her anguish.

She watches your face crumple with guilt and hurt, and she can't believe she's caused you to feel this way when you’re just aching for her.

Without missing a beat, Wanda draws you into an embrace, feeling your heart race against her chest. “No, you didn’t. I shouldn’t have made you feel that way,” she whispers. The mere thought of you second-guessing your intentions with her shatters her heart.

You lean into her completely, feeling like a child in her arms. “I’ve been missing you so much lately, and I thought... I thought we were on the same page.”

Wanda insists it's not your fault. None of this is your fault. She desires closeness with you, but she hadn't expected it to make her feel so uneasy beneath her skin, especially considering she had been touched by another less than 24 hours ago. She has to remind herself that you aren't aware. But she knows, and it plagues her mind, why you’d want to touch her.

Your reply, soaked in typical selflessness, is, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Your apology, the earnestness in your tone is starting to make her feel dizzy. The fact that you feel this way, that she has led you to question your privilege—something she has always granted you—to touch her, is agonizing.

“Stop saying you're sorry,” Wanda snaps, her words sharper than she intends, fervently hoping that you understand her outburst isn't aimed at you. “You do everything right. It's me. I've missed you too, more than you can possibly imagine.”

When you softly say, “I love you,” it's filled with so much emotion that it brings tears to Wanda's eyes. It takes her too long to respond with an “I love you, too,” because there’s many more she wants to say. And she can’t say it without revealing the one thing that she fears will drive you away.

She can only hope that you believe her because she means it more than anything.

Wanda can't pinpoint exactly when she developed the habit of locking the bathroom door. It likely started around the time Vision would text her, innocently asking about her lectures. Then, one day, she received a short video clip of him pleasuring himself and moaning her name. She promptly deleted the clip, but from that point on, she learned to check her messages at home only when she was about to step into the shower.

Natasha visits and something inside Wanda unfurls itself. She becomes hyper-aware of her activities with Vision, how she conducts them and where. Before relocating to New Jersey, you mentioned that Natasha had taken an open-ended break from her job, suggesting she might be ready to leave her old life behind. Still, she’s uneasy when she learns about it too late, and Natasha’s already outside, waiting to be let into the house.

You're still in your office attire, donning a pristine suit that would have captured her attention for the entire evening, if not for the fact that she's on the verge of breaking down at the mere thought of you discovering her affair with Vision.

“Why didn't you tell me she was coming?” she snaps, gesturing at the dinner table set for two and the disorderly state of their living room. Her eyes dart to a stack of her students' reaction papers lying exposed on the coffee table, and the unkempt pillows. To you, it might seem trivial, but to Wanda, every small detail could give away something she'd rather keep private.

“You could've at least warned me,” she continues, her tone reflecting more than just her concerns about dinner and the state of the living room, but you fail to catch it. You try to help, reaching out to straighten the living room, but she's too frazzled. Seeing the frustrated look on your face, she can't help but feel cornered. She hastily scatters the pillows about, her movement nothing short of hysterical.

Sensing that things might take a worse turn than they should, you make the decision to be the one to step back.

“If it's too much trouble for you, we can just grab dinner elsewhere,” you suggest, struggling not to lose your own patience.

She can't help but throw you a sharp look, feeling as though your words only made things worse. The mere idea of you and Natasha, alone, maybe sharing stories or opinions about her, feels threatening. But there’s nothing she can do but hope you will veer away from talking about her, that you won’t confide in Natasha how you haven’t had sex in months.

“Fine,” she snaps and quickly retreats up the stairs. “Send my regards to Natasha,” she throws over her shoulder, the guest bedroom door shutting loudly behind her.

She sighs heavily, pressing her back to the door, heart racing. From the window, she sees you walk back to the car, your frustration evident in every step. Natasha looks at you with that questioning glance Wanda knows all too well. She watches as you speak before handing Natasha the car keys.

She gazes up at the ceiling, determined to hold back the tears that are on the verge of spilling. She doesn't want to push you away, but her fear of Natasha, and what might be revealed, leaves her feeling trapped.

Out of frustration, she calls Vision, and they meet in his car, about two blocks from their house.

In the cramped confines of the backseat, Vision is quick to slide into her, the condom barely in place before he's thrusting with a fervor.

She peaks once, but not from him being inside her. She's too tense, too tightly wound for that. So Vision, realizing this, drops to his knees to truly bring her over the edge.

Later, Wanda lies on her side, every muscle tense, acutely aware of the presence beside her, all the while pretending to be deep in sleep.

“She used to crash at our place almost every week,” you murmur into the stillness.

A hint of irritation passes through Wanda, though she can't really tell why. “What?” she asks, her voice low and weary.

“Natasha,” you specify. “I didn't think to mention it because it was just our norm. She'd drop by unannounced all the time.”

You want to have a conversation about it, to work through this issue. She knows how you’ve been trying to give her space, thinking she hasn’t adjusted yet to life in Westview. You’re always thinking about her. Always putting her needs first above yours.

And Wanda can see how it’s worn you down, how you're starting to doubt your own logical reasoning, and how you're piecing together facts to present your case, hoping for her to be more receptive and listen. She despises the fact that she's putting you through all of this, merely because she's determined to prevent her different worlds from colliding.

She can sense you searching her face, looking for answers, trying to understand the wall she’s erected between you too. It’s so tall now, casting a shadow over both of you.

“Wands?”

“Baby?” you try again. It seems like it's all you ever do these days. “Please?”

Wanda resists the urge to turn toward you and pull you into her arms. She knows that if she does, the tears will flow uncontrollably, and she understands that you won't let her keep her troubles to herself. She composes herself, letting out a shuddering sigh.

“We're fine, Y/N. Let's just go to sleep.”

You give into her wishes, because you will always give her what she wants. She extends her hand, delicately interlocking your fingers with hers. It's the smallest gesture she can manage. She pretends not to hear you, feel you shake, as you cry on your own.

She'd planned to watch the movie alone, in the middle of the day. So, when Vision discreetly takes the seat next to her, Wanda stiffens. A few others are scattered in the front rows of the dark theater, chatting softly as they munch on popcorn.

Without turning to face him, she whispers accusingly, “Are you stalking me?”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd catch a movie. Pure coincidence.”

“You hate cinemas,” she counters.

He chuckles softly. “Maybe I'm learning to appreciate them.”

She’s about to retort when she feels a gentle touch on her hip. Wanda's muscles tense under his soft fingers as they start tracing the curve of her waist, moving slowly downwards, caressing her thigh. Her breath hitches, and she turns sharply to face him.

“What are you doing?”

Vision just smirks, leaning back in his seat. “Thought you might want to spice up the afternoon.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “I'm not in the mood, Vision. Hands off.”

His laugh is a bit too loud, drawing “shhhs” and glares from the front row. Seeing him unmoved by the stares, Wanda huffs and stands up, making it clear she's moving seats. As she shimmies past him, Vision's hand snakes out, gripping her wrist. “Stay,” he murmurs, eyes serious. “I promise to behave.”

She hesitates, looking at him skeptically. Finally, with a sigh, she slides back into her seat. For the most part, Vision keeps his promise. They sit in silence, engrossed in the movie, but Wanda can't help but notice Vision's restlessness. Twice, he excuses himself, claiming he needs the restroom. She can't help but wonder what he's really up to, but she refrains from asking. Whatever it is, she's not sure she wants to know.

Later, when they step out of the theater, they're greeted by the aftermath of a rainstorm. Puddles dot the pavement, making it tricky for Wanda in her heels. Vision holds out his hand, and she takes it, especially when she almost trips trying to leap over a particularly large puddle.

For some reason, she suddenly feels like she's being watched. From the corner of her eye, she spots the black SUV, parked in the same spot as when she arrived at the cinema. But before she can give it more thought, Vision pulls her towards a bookstore, quickly diverting her attention. She brushes off the odd sensation, attributing it to anxiety since the theater she picked is quite far from town.

Wanda stares, open mouthed and shocked, as Vision shows her his final project for her course.

It's a charcoal drawing on canvas featuring a nude woman, with only her mouth visible, reclining on a bench. Wanda doesn't need a second glance to realize that the woman in the painting is her. From the curve of her jaw to the birthmark on her left hip and down to the fold of her knees, the resemblance is remarkable.

There's no way she can allow him to submit this.

His audacity to draw her in such an intimate manner without her consent leaves her momentarily speechless. She briefly wonders what other liberties he’s taken without her permission.

“What the hell is this?” Wanda questions in barely contained rage.

Vision smirks, arrogance dripping from every word. “It's you, obviously. Pretty accurate, don't you think?”

She clenches her fists, anger rising. “You had absolutely no right. This is beyond inappropriate. What were you thinking?”

Leaning against the table, he shrugs nonchalantly. “I was thinking about how hot you were and I wanted to immortalize it.”

She frowns, crossing her arms defensively. “This was private, between us. How could you think it's okay to make it public?”

“I thought you liked when I took control,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dripping with insinuation.

Wanda feels like throwing up. “This isn't a game,” she snaps. “You can't just use our personal moments as fodder for your projects!”

“You never seemed to mind before.”

Wanda replies sharply, “There's a difference between us being together in private and you broadcasting it to the world.”

He squares his shoulders, firming up his stance. “Maybe I wanted them to see.”

“To see what exactly?” Wanda yells, but the fear in her voice is unmistakable.

“How good we are together,” he says. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding, Wanda. Ever thought of that?”

Wanda's mind races, a thousand thoughts crashing into one another. She's always been able to control the narrative, always had the situation in her grip. But now, Vision's defiance, his blatant challenge, terrifies her. The realization that Vision could, and possibly would, spill their secret terrifies her more than she thought possible. For the first time, she's faced with the real possibility of losing everything she holds dear. Of losing you.

“So, what's it going to be, Professor?” Vision challenges, towering over her in a display of intimidation. “Should I submit this, or maybe...” his voice drops to a whisper, “show it to your wife?”

She grits her teeth, trying to gain some semblance of control. “Destroy it. Now.”

Vision grins, leaning in closer until their faces are inches apart. “Make me.”

“Vis—”

Vision's lips crush down on hers in a fierce, demanding kiss. His hand clamps around the back of her neck, holding her in place as he ravishes her mouth. It’s fervent, consuming, and fueled by a hunger she hasn't felt from him before. Her brain screams at her to resist, to push him away, to regain control of this spiraling situation. She shoves at his chest, her nails digging in, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he deepens the kiss, his tongue demanding entry, which she denies him.

In her mounting frustration, she raises her hand and slaps him hard across the face. Vision barely flinches, his gaze never leaving hers. His determination only fans the flames of her anger further, but beneath it all simmers an irrefutable want. Without a word, Vision's hands descend to her waist, deftly unbuttoning and pushing down her pants and off her legs. She makes quick work of his belt, discarding them recklessly to the side.

As he inches closer, his breath hot on her ear, Vision murmurs, “Say it, Wanda… say 'I want you to fuck me’.”

She can feel the solid length of him pressing against her, and despite her anger, the way he slowly gyrates his hips makes her weak. She draws a shaky breath, the words stuck in her throat. It’s wrong, and he shouldn’t have this much power on her.

He moves in, his lips trailing down her neck, as his hands find their way around her waist, pulling her in even closer. “Say it,” he murmurs again.

“I want you to... fuck me,” she finally breathes out, her voice breaking into a whiny plea that she would never have believed she could utter, especially under these circumstances.

His response is immediate. Before she can fully register what's happening, he has her lifted, her back pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist. With a sharp thrust, he's inside her, filling her completely. While Vision usually found his release before she did, this time was different. She notices he's holding back, which confuses her. Why would he? Especially now. Wanda, lost in the sensation of him inside her, is curious but also a little apprehensive.

She soon realizes why. His fingers find her clit, rubbing it in a rough, almost painful manner that sends shockwaves of pleasure through her. “Come on,” he urges, almost impatiently, his voice strained.

She feels herself spiraling, the coil inside her tightening. His cock angles and adjusts, targeting her sweet spot, making her clench around him. The slickness between them grows, and his fingers work in tandem with his thrusts, pressing, rubbing, coaxing her closer and closer.

“I'm gonna... I'm coming,” she warns, feeling the walls of her pussy fluttering.

And then she feels it—the unmistakable warmth, the pulsing. Her eyes widen in realization as Vision buries himself deeper, releasing inside her.

“No!” Wanda screams silently, the sounds failing to escape her throat as the knowledge that he's come unprotected pushes her further into her own climax. Her instinct is to flee, to pull away from him, but Vision's grip is ironclad. He feels her panic and responds with more pressure on her clit, manipulating the nub with determined fingers. Each stroke sends her further into ecstasy, locking her in place as his other arm wraps around her waist, preventing any escape.

“Stay,” he murmurs into her ear, his voice filled with a possessiveness that she's never heard before. As he continues to spurt inside her, their hips still weakly grinding against one another, the reality of the situation dawns on her. He didn't use protection. He could—he could get her—

Terror claws at Wanda's insides. Was this all premeditated? Had he planned to trap her like this? She struggles to pull away, but Vision holds her even tighter, keeping her pressed against him as the last of his release fills her. He languidly rests his forehead against Wanda's shoulder, taking a moment to revel in the afterglow. When he finally dares to look at her, he expects to see anger or fury or maybe even forgiveness. Instead, he's met with wide, bloodshot eyes swimming with tears that violently spill over, tracing the contours of her cheeks.

His smugness dissipates and his brow furrows in confusion. “Wanda?”

She chokes on her tears, desperately trying to speak. “Did you—did you do this on purpose?” Using every ounce of strength she can summon, she pushes him away, stumbling slightly as her legs threaten to give out. Hastily, she starts grabbing her clothes.

Vision, looking lost for once, reaches out, but she recoils away from his touch.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“Wanda, please. Let's talk about this.”

As Wanda attempts to regain her balance, she can feel the telltale wetness slide down her inner thighs. The physical evidence of their tryst, the proof of Vision's seed making its way out of her, sends a sharp pang of revulsion through her. Her hand moves instinctively, trying to wipe away the residue, a feeble attempt to erase the aftermath—or perhaps the entirety of their history. Her vision blurs as tears continue to stream down her face, her breathing jagged. Vision, looking both remorseful and lost, reaches out in an attempt to console her, but she flinches at the barest contact of his fingertips.

“Please, at least let me drive you to—”

“To where?” she spits out, her voice mocking. “Home? To my...? I can't—not now.”

Vision's eyes widen, and suddenly he looks much younger.

“Wanda,” he starts, voice shaky and eyes beginning to tear up, “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I didn't think… I-It’ll never happen again.”

But the pitiable sight of him, looking scared and unsure, only adds fuel to the fire. “You think a simple 'sorry' is enough?”

The door is her escape, and she's quick to reach it. As she’s about to leave, he whimpers, almost begging, “Please don't go. I... I'm sorry.”

But she's done. With one final, withering glance, she exits, leaving the door to swing shut behind her.

While Wanda waits for her period to come, she can't focus on anything else. She feels disoriented during the day, and it keeps her awake at night.

In her world, everything's spiraling into a fragmented mess, like a vintage vinyl record that's been smashed to bits.

She tosses out reading assignments like candy at a twisted parade, tells the kids to scribble down essays. For them, it's almost like a holiday. For Wanda, it's a desperate lifeline. By the window, she stands. Watching. Waiting. But not really seeing anything. Vision's eyes, burning into her, but she never meets his gaze. She hasn't been responding to his texts or calls, discarding them immediately without even opening them. The classroom exit strategy is always the same: blend in with the herd, avoid the predator. She doesn't give him even the slightest opportunity to get her alone.

Home should be her fortress. Instead, it's like quicksand. Sparky, always eager for her attention, brings toys to her feet, his tail wagging in hopeful anticipation. But her patience is thin, and she finds herself shooing him outside, much to the dog's confusion. She's been bringing home takeout repeatedly, and the repetition isn't lost on you. While you never openly complain, she notices when you start to take the reins, cooking dinner, a quiet acknowledgment of her current state.

She waits and waits—a ghost haunting a lover, a home, a school, a town, waiting for salvation.

She’s more than a week late for her period when she (terrifyingly) decides to buy a pregnancy test kit. Wanda clutches her coat tighter around herself, hesitating for a moment before pushing the door open. Inside, she avoids making eye contact, moving purposefully towards the aisle she's dreading. As her fingers wrap around a pregnancy test kit, her heart hammers in her chest. With the box safely tucked inside her bag, she hurries back home, sneaking glances over her shoulder, feeling as though the world knows her secret.

When she arrives home, she pretends as if she had simply stopped by the grocery store. She musters a smile as she begins to prepare dinner, maintaining a light and cheerful conversation with you. You savor her food as if it were your last meal, showering her with compliments like a discerning food critic, which brings a slight chuckle from Wanda. You peck her lips when you’re finished, thanking her for it. For a while, it seems like everything is back to normal, and that nothing will shatter the illusion that she’s still living her happily-ever-after with you.

She waits, counting the minutes, ensuring you're deep in sleep before she tiptoes into the bathroom. She reads the instructions multiple times, her eyes scanning over each word as if hoping they'd change. It's as though she hasn’t been through this ritual numerous times before, back when her deepest desire was to bear your child. The irony isn't lost on her: in just a few months, she's transitioned from yearning for a baby to fervently hoping she isn't pregnant.

Finally gathering enough courage, she rips the packaging. Just get it over with, Wanda muses. The minutes that follow feel like hours. The silence is suffocating, the potential consequences bearing down on her. She jumps at the slightest noise, every creak of the floorboards or rustle of sheets convincing her that you've woken up.

The alarm on her phone finally goes off, signaling that it's time. With bated breath, she looks down at the test, her world teetering on the brink of change.

She’s hidden the pregnancy test deep in the trash bin, concealed under tissues and other refuse. It’s the middle of the night, and she ensured it is further out of sight by taking the trash outside.

As the initial relief floods through her, it is swiftly replaced by a profound sense of shame. She sits curled up on the couch, hugging her knees, desperately wishing to escape from herself and her crimes. She realizes, with a piercing clarity, that she can't compartmentalize or keep secrets when it comes to you, because you're not just a part of her life—you are her life. The mere thought of you finding out fills her with a terror so profound, she's left gasping for breath. She'd rather face any consequence, even death, than watch the love fade from your eyes, replaced by hurt, anger, and betrayal.

She loves you, but Wanda doesn’t—she doesn’t know what to do, how to move forward.

But in the midst of her life falling apart, an unexpected sentiment finds its way to the forefront: hope.

A fragile, quivering kind of hope. Wanda's lips twitch, trembling as they pull into a weak smile. Maybe the universe is giving her a second chance. Maybe her not being pregnant is a sign, a way out. It's as if fate is holding out a lifeline, imploring her to take it and mend the fractures in her life. With renewed determination, she silently promises herself that she'll devote every bit of her being to you. She knows she can't change the past, but she believes, fervently, in the possibility of a future where she remains true, where she will never stray again.

Still, the weight of her deeds anchors her to the couch, each sob a violent reminder that she's the villain in her own story. And that’s how you find her, in the dark living room, crying and blaming a nonexistent movie for being in such a mess.

“Wanda?”

She looks up and every cell in her body threatens to crumble. “Hey, baby,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing away the tears.

“Have you been crying?”

“Just a movie,” she lies still, “You know how emotional they make me.”

You smile, your eyes full of that nurturing love. “My big crybaby.” Wanda can't believe a pregnancy scare was what it took to finally wake her up.

Looking into your eyes, a surge of need overtakes her. She longs to claim you, to solidify her stake, and leave no doubt in your mind about where her heart truly lies. She wants to show you just how much she loves you, to make up for all the times she has strayed.

She doesn't hesitate. Before she fully processes her actions, she's on top of you, her weight pinning you down, her eyes blazing with an intensity that threatens to consume. “Take off your shorts,” her voice trembles. Your obedient response sends a thrill through her, but she's barely registered the progress you've made before she's swiping a teasing finger, tasting the essence that's uniquely yours. She watches, entranced, as a shiver runs through you, your voice shaky with desire.

“Patience, baby.”

She barely shakes her head, lips parted. “Don't have any.”

And then she's tasting you, each slow, deliberate stroke of her tongue designed to drive both of you mad. Your body responds fervently, and she can sense your need building, mirroring her own desperate longing. “Please, Wanda, more…” Your whisper is a plea she can't resist. Her lips part to take in more of you, savoring the intoxicating flavor that she had missed so much.

“I've missed you so much, Y/N,” she says, deliriously lost in your pleasure. “I've missed making you feel good. Missed feeling this way with you…” She doesn't quite realize the hints she's dropping, but she doesn't care. This moment is real, and she wants it to be as honest as it can be.

Lifting your legs, Wanda applies gentle pressure, pushing them back until they're almost touching the couch cushions on either side of your head. The sight of you, so openly displayed for Wanda, sends a rush of heat and desire through her core. She can feel the power she has, not just from the position but from the trust placed in her to have you in such a vulnerable state. It feels so good, being this close to you. How could she have ever desired anything else when she had this all along?

Wanda pauses for a moment, mouth watering, her eyes hungrily tracing the sight before her. She senses a slight shift, seeing your eyes flit away, perhaps overwhelmed. But Wanda can't allow that retreat. Gently cradling your face, she guides those eyes she loves back, sealing their return home to her with a tender, grounding kiss.

“I love you,” she breathes against your lips.

You smile up at her. “I love you. More than you could ever know.”

Wanda shuts her eyes, letting your reassurance wash over her. Nothing lasts forever, but perhaps this could be an exception.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x vision #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #my writing #category: angst #iss #my fic #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n

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nanabansama · 8 months ago

Text

Tsukasa Is Tsukasa

Recently I discovered a poll asking if people thought the Supernatural Tsukasa and the Red House Tsukasa were different, and the results surprised me! A majority of voters thought they were not the same. Not only that, but I've seen many people in the fandom start believing they are separate people, if they hadn't already believed it before.

I think this stance can very easily be explained by the scene in Chapter 111 where Amane comes to the conclusion that the Tsukasa who went missing isn't the same as the one who came back:

While people might be divided on the details, the conclusion is basically the same: whatever that is inside of him, it's not Amane's brother.

And I can see why they think this! In fact, it used to be a popular theory back during the release of chapters 78-82 when we didn't know the specifics of what happened. Heck, we still don't know many of the specifics...and many people continued believing the Tsukasas were different anyway!

There's decent evidence to support this, too. When Tsukasa returned, he had sharp teeth and supernatural powers. He knew that Kunishige's wish was that the head priest would die. He's demonstrably different from the innocent little Tsukasa that sacrificed his life for Amane.

If that wasn't enough, even his own mom came to the conclusion that Tsukasa wasn't her son! This is basically the same conclusion Amane comes to in Chapter 111. That's 2/3 of Tsukasa's family members thinking some evil entity is larping around in his skin--not a good look!

In any case, while I could try and convince you guys there are two Tsukasas and the Tsukasas are different, that's not what I'm here to do. If you read my blog you already know I'm 100% on the side that Tsukasa is Tsukasa and always has been, and nothing AidaIro has shown me so far has been convincing enough to change my mind. In this post, I am here to argue that the Red House Tsukasa is the same as the Supernatural Tsukasa and that he merely works in tandem with the ancient god living inside him.

1. Chapter 82

This is the chapter when a lot of people dropped the theory that there are two Tsukasas, including me. (Yes, I used to believe there were two Tsukasas--people change!)

Kou and Nene had determined that the Red House Tsukasa was the real Tsukasa and that the one Amane killed was a fake. They come to this conclusion because this Tsukasa was trapped in the Red House for 50 years and acts a lot nicer and sweeter than the one we know.

The issue is, Kou tells this Tsukasa that Amane is going to kill Tsukasa and die at the age of 13...and unbeknownst to Kou, the seemingly innocent little Red House Tsukasa is EXCITED at the idea! Tsukasa, thankful to Kou and Nene, helps them escape the house but stays behind. This scene is when a lot of cool stuff happens.

First, we learn that Tsukasa wasn't actually trapped in the Red House and he always knew how to get back home, but that he never left because he was worried about what would happen to Amane. However, once Kou told him that Amane wasn't happy after Tsukasa left and that Amane kills not just Tsukasa but also himself, Tsukasa realizes he doesn't know that much about Amane and wants to learn more. The most shocking part of this scene to me was that Tsukasa's excitement at dying was very similar to the lighthearted way the Supernatural Tsukasa brings up his death with Amane.

Second, we see Tsukasa not only has the entity he sacrificed himself to to save Amane stored in his chest, but that he holds a conversation with it.

The entity being shown in his chest is actually a popular argument for the "Tsukasa isn't Tsukasa" theory, but I feel this scene proves otherwise. Tsukasa is not the unwilling host of this entity, as one might expect, but instead almost treats it as a friend. They have a sort of symbiotic relationship going on, and Tsukasa makes the decision to go back wholly of his own, despite them both knowing how to get back the entire time. He even says "let's go back TOGETHER," which supports the idea that they work together and that it isn't simply piloting a Tsukasa meat puppet.

We can argue Tsukasa is the victim to the entity's machinations, that the entity needed Tsukasa to do it willingly or that the entity took full control of Tsukasa after he succumbed to the flames or what not and tricked him, but so far AidaIro has only shown cooperation between these two characters. It's not unreasonable to suggest that Tsukasa gaining supernatural powers after he comes back isn't a sign that he's a different being entirely but that he's just working with one.

2. Mother Doesn't Always Know Best

This one will be a quick section, but considering Mother Yugi is basically the origin of "Tsukasa isn't Tsukasa" I wanted to cover why I think she's wrong.

In Chapter 79 Kunishige recounts how Mother Yugi took Tsukasa to their shrine because she thought her son was possessed by a demon after being spirited away. Kunishige thinks she's crazy at first, and so do the priests, who find nothing wrong with Tsukasa. Put a pin in that btw.

However, Kunishige later learns she was onto something because Tsukasa is not only an incredibly unsettling child but he correctly predicts the death of the head priest of the shrine and tells Kunishige his wish, for the head priest to disappear, would be granted tomorrow. This proves Tsukasa has otherworldly power, since he knows Kunishige's wish without Kunishige telling him, and also might have the ability to grant wishes, something the entity in his chest is shown to be capable of.

Now, I personally think the fact that the priests found nothing wrong with Tsukasa is HUGELY in favor of my theory. I understand how you can argue that the entity somehow avoided detection because it's powerful, or because there was nothing left of the original Tsukasa or something, but I still think the fact the priests detected nothing wrong is extremely weird. What if that's because Tsukasa is still in control?

I think the fact Mother Yugi was convinced Tsukasa isn't her son and wasn't persuaded otherwise is important, too. In fact, I think it might directly correlate with the conclusion Amane makes in Chapter 111. I think Amane is more or less coming to the same conclusion his mother made, something he hadn't wanted to believe at first but eventually, finally, succumbed to. I have to imagine his mother's insistence that Tsukasa wasn't Tsukasa left a big impression on Amane, and it's something that's bothered him for years.

I can't exactly blame them both, either. By the time Tsukasa came back, he'd lost a lot of his innocence. Keep in mind that they think Tsukasa was gone for six months. Any normal 4-year-old kid might have been traumatized by leaving his family for six months, but Tsukasa just acts creepy and possessed. And despite him meeting Nene and Kou 50 years in the future, it's possible it really was only six months for Tsukasa! Time worked differently there. Still, it's not hard to see how the extreme circumstances he was in might have changed him. Not only was he stuck in a haunted death house, he later learns the wish he granted for Amane wasn't Amane's true wish and that Amane kills Tsukasa. This is all pretty life-changing information, and when you tack on the fact that he's buddy-buddy with an ancient man-eating god, it's really not that surprising Tsukasa has changed so dramatically, especially when he's still at the tender age of 4.

3. Behavior

For something that's supposedly replaced Tsukasa entirely, it certainly gets very personal with Amane, doesn't it?

I said before that Red House Tsukasa in Chapter 82 acts similar to Supernatural Tsukasa. How they find delight in death. But I don't think this is the only point of similarity between them, either. In Chapter 81, Red House Tsukasa is under the impression that Amane hates him.

In Chapter 111, after Amane tells Tsukasa he hates him, Tsukasa tells him he already knew that.

Mind you, this line comes seconds before Amane comes to the conclusion that Tsukasa isn't Tsukasa.

Think about it. Tsukasa tells Amane that he knows Amane hates him, echoing a sentiment that the Red House Tsukasa shares. And Amane, after hearing this, comes to the conclusion that this Tsukasa is an impostor.

Isn't that... really sad?! I mean, I'm not going to say that Amane's whole reasoning for Tsukasa being a fake is that he thinks Amane hates him, but...before this scene, Amane was saying he couldn't destroy his yorishiro because he cared about Tsukasa too much. And for Tsukasa to say something he's thought ever since Amane pushed him as a little kid, and for THAT to make Amane say he thinks Tsukasa is fake... it really shows they've never understood each other at all.

Tsukasa's never been shown to get extremely upset about being hated by Amane, either, so you can't say Amane is right just because Tsukasa is laughing in Chapter 111. Tsukasa initially seems shocked when he was pushed, and overall seems a little sad about it in Chapter 81, but he still remarks that Amane hates him with a smile. He's selfless about it. And later, when he learns Amane kills him, this feeling gets more complex. Despite Kou's attempts to convince him otherwise, I think Kou's reveal only made Tsukasa more convinced that Amane hates him, and this is shown in Chapter 111 when he laughs about it. It's just a funny joke to him at this point.

I...genuinely cannot reconcile this behavior with Tsukasa being a fake. I just can't! Why would the entity be this personal with Amane? Why would it share opinions that the supposedly "real" Tsukasa had? If AidaIro really is trying to write a story about a little boy being replaced by a supernatural entity, then they could at least do a better job of making them act different. TBHK makes it clear that supernaturals can experience human emotions just as strongly as actual humans, so it wouldn't surprise me if the god has its own personality and feelings, but for them to just...be the exact same as the human it replaced? I'm not buying it.

There is no difference between the Red House Tsukasa and the Supernatural Tsukasa that can't be explained away by the fact that people change as they grow older. Everything about Tsukasa's character arc as I've presented it is completely logical.

Conclusion

With so little info on the ancient man-eating god, it's kind of impossible to reach a proper conclusion at this point. All we really know about its personality is that it hungers for flesh and will grant any wish in exchange for it. With this in mind, it's incredibly easy to see why people think the god and Supernatural Tsukasa are one and the same, especially when the cast tends to treat them as such. I could just as easily write a post in favor of them being different as I could of them being the same.

And I think this is what AidaIro ultimately wants! I think AidaIro wants us to second guess ourselves. If I know anything about Aidairo, it's that they like to keep up on our toes and shock us with surprising twists. Who really knows what they have hiding up their sleeves?

Still, I feel the theory that the god replaced Tsukasa raises more questions than answers, and I hope I managed to explain my side of things.

#jshk #tbhk #tsukasa yugi #pit god #yugi twins #my theories

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lemurianwaves · 25 days ago

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Tones of Love

Of all chapters he adore, yours is the one, most.

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author's note: before you guys get into this, may i suggest listening to isn't she lovely by stevie wonder (spotify link is included in the story!) as this song implies how sylus thinks of [your name] ! this is my first fanfic ever since... i was getting busier with my degree somewhere between 2022 or 2023. but now that i am free, i am slowly coming back to tumblr and write <3. as always.. so not proof-read. but please give Tones of Love well, tons of love!

word count: 2,441 words

theme: fluff, just sweet ol' fluff. romance. comedy/crack

taglist: @grimmweepers @shadowarchon @nkogneatho @noritoshiikamo @aphoticfirefly @abyssal-blossoms @olderthanthestars @afortoru @diaferia-dhades

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Sylus. The voice actor to the very stars.

The man has always loved the energy of fan meetings—from the nervous excitement in the air, the shine and twinkle in the eyes of his fans, to the lovely words of encouragement and support that blesses his ears and heart. These moments reminded him of the path he chose, and why; to bring the characters to live, to connect with the ones who work hard behind the scenes and of course, to inspire lingering emotions long after the credits roll. Sylus slipped into his charming persona with ease, welcoming the fans with a warm grin. He read iconic lines from his roles, answered questions about his process, and reenacted fan-favorite scenes, much to the delight of the crowd.

Adjusting the cat ears headband given to him by manager, Sylus scanned through the crowd of 40 lucky attendees. His ash silver locks caught under the soft stage lights, his gaze landed on the first row. There... there she was, sitting quietly with her hair tied up in a bun, and in matching cat ears headband. The love of his life. The one person who knew not just Sylus, one, if not, Linkon's most loved voice actor, but Sylus the man who whispered sweet nothings during the nighttime and laughed at his siblings, Luke and Kieran's pun jokes.

The room vibrated with a gentle buzz of anticipation as over 40 lucky fans filled the small, well-lit hall. It felt like an intimate space—designed to feel less of a staged event but akin to a reunion, friends of old. Posters of Sylus’ photoshoots, along the characters he played, from his role as Jacaerys Spellman, a famed painter with the ability to sew memories into each pigment, to his most recent one, James Kinsley III, a widower left to rule a state after the death of his wife, hung neatly on the walls.

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“Hey, you guys,” he greeted, his voice warm and rich, exactly like his characters he portrayed.

“Woah, you guys, you all look amazing. Are you ready to spend a long afternoon together?"

The crowd cheered, and Sylus chuckled, setting his microphone down, giving his audience 2 thumbs up. Soon, the meet and greet session began. Sylus made sure to give each fan his full attention, accepting gifts, signing posters, and gave every person his undivided attention, listening with much intent to their stories of how his performances have brought them much comfort, emotionally and mentally.

One fan, a university student with a notebook full of sketches, hesitantly slid their notebook towards him, a water painting displayed for him to look at.

"I know you get loads of these, but I— uhm, drew your character from Abyssal Mark... I believe that this is one of my best piece."

Examining the artwork, his eyes lit up. "Are you kidding me? This is amazing. Look at this— hey! Manager, look, look at the details of this. You've something going on here, you know?"

The student’s face turned a deep shade of red, silently thanking him, with looks of admiration planted upon Sylus from fans waiting for their turn, for his genuine expression for his own fans. Another 4 minutes passed by and a fan presented him with a keychain featuring one of his most memorable quotes: "There's no love is purer than mine." He turned it over in his hand, a soft grin plastered on his face.

"That line... man. I remember when the director told me to say that line. Think of the happiest memory you could ever think of, and say that line with much love in your heart, she said."

He paused, his thumb grazed across the quote once more. "Did it in one take and it's probably the best line I've ever recorded. Thank you for this— it's going on my bag."

The line kept moving and as it was about to end, there she was, right in front of Sylus. "Well, well, well, if it isn't my biggest fan," he teased softly, the tone of his voice professional yet carrying that familiar warmth enough for her to melt under.

“Hmm... I don't really know, Sylus,” [your name] replied, her voice light.

“It seems like I've lots of competition here today, heh."

He smirked, leaning in a little closer. "But there's only one of you, sweetie,” he whispered.

The words words hung between the two of them like a secret, hidden in plain sight. As he signed her copy of an artbook belonging to a game called Love and Deepspace, in which served as one of the main characters, he added a quick note at the bottom: Dinner’s on me tonight. Same place as always, sweetie?

[Your name] exchanged one last fleeting smile before stepping aside, blending seamlessly back into the crowd. Once Sylus went through with the individual meet and greet, he moved onto the next event, which was the Q&A session. During the Q&A session, Sylus leaned forward with a grin as a fan asked about his university days.

“Hmm.. university life was definitely a hectic point in my life, but don’t get me wrong, I loved it. Every single second,” he said.

“I majored in theater, with a minor of… Ancient Chinese Mythology, so I was constantly juggling rehearsals, assignments, and late night study sessions. I think because of the routine where I have to be at my best, it really shaped me.”

Another fan asked, eagerly, about his love for voice acting and what made him pursue this particular path of performing arts, to which he responded with a spark in his eyes.

“I believe that it’s the freedom to become anyone, theater allowed me to do that as well, but there is something about telling stories, voicing characters with just your vocals alone, without having to show your face that much, it gives both me and the audience a chance to use their imagination to. There’s a certain magic to it.” And when asked if he’d take on another live action role, Sylus chuckled, with a playful shake of his head.

“I’m not and never ruling it out! I loved my experiences in front of the screen, and the perks of taking props home for decor, but for now, I am happy bringing characters to life from behind the mic! Never say, never, though!” Sylus’ answers were met with laughters, oohs, ahhs and applause, the sincerity of how he consider each questiona lighting up the room.

Moving on, his manager hands him a stack of fan letters, adorned in ribbons, stickers and colourful envelopes, Sylus placing it on his lap. Picking one at random, he smiled and began reading.

“Dear Sylus,

Your voice has been nothing but a delight to my ears. I’ve been a fan from your first role to your most current one and every time I hear it, it feels like I am reuniting with an old friend. Well, except for your villainous role, where fear made friends with my spine. But it goes to show just how much effort you put into your lines. Thank you, for the ones you inspired and for everything you do.”

The audience let out a collective “aww”, and he chuckled, placing the letter down carefully. Another letter described a fan’s struggles, and how his role as a dragon, feared and hated by the people yet never once he lost his spirit inspired them to keep on moving with life and that even though their current situation feels hard to go through, they should never give up. Sylus’ expression softened as he said,

“Well, thank you for sharing that with me. It means the entire world to know I’ve done a small part in your journey in life. It feels surreal whenever I’ve people come up to me and say how much my work and to some extent, myself, impacted them. It’s.. wow.” The room went silent, with the occasional sniffles and soft “aww” as Sylus continued to read his fan letters, his voice laced of love, gratitude and adoration for his fans.

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As soon as the reading event was done, Sylus spent 10 minutes backstage to change his outfit and took some time to stretch. As he returned, he stood on the small stage set up at the front of the room, with a mike in his hand and a smile on his face.

"Alright, guys." he began, holding a script, that was read one too many times, in the other.

"You guys know this one animated series I am doing, right? And there's this one argument scene from Radiant Bonds?"

The crowd cheered for Sylus as he cleared his throat and stepped into character, his tone shifting effortlessly to match the vulnerability of his character dialogue rolled off of his tongue, and the fans hung onto every word. But... every now and then, Sylus couldn't help but lose focus. Something feels, a tad bit off.

Taking a deep, deep breath, the young man of red eyes and ash silver hair smiled and said "I apologize, you guys. I don't think this dialogue can be delivered... with me alone. It wouldn't be the same without my partner in crime. Rafayel! Get in here!"

The room erupted with cheers and gasps. Fans whooped as Rafayel, his co-star and longtime friend, took steps to the centre of the stage, bowing to the audience before giving Sylus a hug, earning the duo a round of applause.

"You're lucky I like you, Sylus. Hearing just how real that scene was in the recording booth, I swear, I thought of an early retirement right after." he joked, the audience laughing at his words.

The two then launched themselves into a spirited reenactment of the scene, complete with exaggerated gestures and improvised lines that had the crowd in gasps and sighs. By the end the two voice actors broke character, laughing themselves to bits they couldn’t finish the last dialogues.

As the event is coming to its end, Sylus and Rafayel gathered everyone for a group photo. “Alright everyone, scrunch in! Raf! C’mere! I know you miss your bodyguard but come!” he teased.

Fans reluctantly started filing out, thanking Sylus and Rafayel for their time. Before each and everyone of them left, his team handed everyone with a gift box, a cap, two bracelets and a ticket to his upcoming movie airing in theaters next week, as well as Sylus personally paying for their ride. He addressed everyone one final time.

“Thank you for being here. Honestly, your support is what makes all of this worth it. I’ll see you guys at the next event—promise.” And with that, Sylus gave them all a wave and a now, and remained in that position till the doors closed.

The event wrapped up after nearly five hours, and once the venue cleared out, he helped his team to clear the space and before he took his leave, he thank everyone and informed the head of the team that dinner is on him, handing his manager his black card,

“You’ll meet me next week at work, it’s fine. You guys worked really hard.”

Once all was done, Sylus walked his way to through the building and slipped away through the back door, where his lover waited for him just out of sight.

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“Oh my god~ it’s Sylus, the greatest voice actor of all time!” she said, her voice warm with playfulness, Sylus grinned, brushing his digits through his tousled hair.

“Oh my god, if it isn’t the love of my live, [your name].”

A kiss was planted on her cheek, before he wrapped his arms around her in a lingering hug, just happy to finally have her next to him, [your name’s ] body warmth settling against his skin. As she pulled away from the hug, he gentle held her hand, guiding across the softly lit parking lot towards their car; the air was cool, the sun is slowly setting, carrying the faint smell of its rays, a grin never leaving her face as they both moved in sync.

Once she was seated in the passenger seat, [your name] waited for him to start up the car, and scrolled through her playlist, before connecting to the car’s system, letting Isn’t She Lovely by Stevie Wonder play with her voice joined the melody, soft and slightly off key. Sylus glanced at her a smile tugging at his lips as he gripped the wheel; the hum of the engine and her carefree singing blending in perfectly as he drove them towards the bistro. In that moment, everything felt right.

They walked hand in hand to the entrance of the bistro, and inside, they chose a tucked away spot where they wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. Sylus took a deep breath, patting his chest, finally allowing himself to relax, he, no longer a confident star, but just he, himself.

“You were incredible today,” she said, before popping a peanut into her mouth, giggling as she looked at him with unfiltered pride in her eyes.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetie,” he responded, a chuckle leaving his lips after, reaching across the table to hold her hand.

“But since it comes from you, I’ll gladly take it.” Their conversation flowed effortlessly, as it always did. He did silly impressions of his own characters, including an imitation of a crow named Mephisto, earning delighted laughs that makes him feel happier than ever. As their cocktails and desserts came, [your name] and Sylus swapped bites, his grin widening, eyes softened each time he gazed at his lover’s face light up.

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The two love birds took their time after finishing dinner, and decided to take a stroll beneath the city lights, not really wanting to go home just yet, with her arm tucked into his, leaning close against Sylus under the crisp breeze of the night.

“It’s funny,” she murmured, her tone thoughtful.

“Seeing you up there, knowing how many people adore you. But what really warms my heart?” she paused, Sylus looking at her with his brow raised, emitting a soft “hm?”.

“It’s that, at the end of day, you’re my Sylus. Mine and mine alone.”

He stopped, in the midst of his tracks, cupping her face, lips pressed against her forehead for a gentle kiss. The world around them blurred, leaving only the two of them in a quiet, perfect moment. It was an ending as heartfelt as any of Sylus’ performance—a reminder that yes, while he might be a voice actor for countless stories, his favourite chapter will always be the one they star in.

“And I’ll always will be.”

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#lemurianwaveswrites #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #qin che #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus fluff #rafayel fluff #fanfic #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #fluff fanfic

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ghostfanwriter · 6 months ago

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🎀🧰 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐭 𝟖 🧰🎀

←Previous

🎀 Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Again!Reader

🧰 Setting: Lincoln. It is 2023 but Joel, Frank and Bill are as young as they were when they met in episode 3.

🎀 Synopsis: Your suffering was too much for your father to handle, so he decides to make you happy again.

🧰 Warnings: Angst, fluff, smut (no details for spoilers but... It's mouths everywhere and very graphic descriptions), softdom!Joel, Joel talking her through, a few descriptions of reader's hair being long.

🎀 Word count: Sixteen thousand....? (I wish I was joking, it is actually 16.5k, I can't control myself)

🧰 A/n: Finally it is here and finally you can read it and I'm sorry it took me so long, (also sorry it is so long and wordy) but I hope you cry and smile a lot!!! Thank you all so much for the support with this series all this time. I don't deserve you 🩷 I'm really happy with it and really proud of it. I hope it meets your expectations and I hope you feel it is a good way to give closure to the last chapter.

Comments, reblogs and all that sweet love are as always so, so appreciated. It makes my day to read all the kind and sweet ways in which you all relate to this story and how it resonates with all of you 🩷🧰🎀

"Does she need anything?" Joel asks, almost panting as he ran to the radio. Whatever it is. Your dad just has to say it and he's gonna go after it for you.

He hates every second it takes Bill to respond.

It is another sunny yet slightly chilly afternoon, the leaves in the trees begining to fall as summer comes to an end.

You're on your porch, practicing the part you remember of the song Joel told you he used to play for Sarah, when someone walks close to you. You look behind your shoulder, finding Frank with a wide smile on his face.

"Hi, dad... Is everything ok?" You ask, smiling softly at him, a smile that — as usually now — doesn't quite meet your eyes.

"I got you a gift." He says, and you carefully put the guitar beside your chair, looking curiously at your father. He hands you a medium sized canvas, and your temples tense when you see it.

The view from your bedroom window, except this time the weather isn't the focus of it, nor the reason why he painted it.

It's the house across the street. With fences around the large and grassy front yard, the sheep, the greenhouse in the back, and a simple, black shilhouete of a tall man. Of him.

You feel a pang of pain looking at the scene you know is never gonna happen. It's not like the painting of a sunny day, that you know will happen again after the rain ceases. It's something you'll never have, something — someone — you want, you need, and you just won't get to experience. Your eyes burn with a mixture of sadness and anger — a feeling you've never felt towards Frank before —, but you hide them from him, a single tear betraying you and rolling down your cheek.

"It's nothing compared to the drawing I did over the photo, but..." You joke, forcing a smile, mentioning the polaroid you took and drew on top of as you quickly dry your tear.

He nudges your arm playfully, sitting on the armrest of the chair you're seated on. "Guess I still have a lot to learn from you." He smiles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

"Thank you, dad." You say, but you can't shake the confusion as to why your would dad gift you this.

So you could see it everyday as a reminder of what you could've had? Of what you're never gonna have?

About a week after you've hung that painting up on your bedroom wall — which is what you fall asleep to every night now, hoping to dream with it, with him—, you notice your dad working again on Sarah's painting.

"Why are you finishing it? It's too big for him to take it back with him." You say almost bitterly as you enter your dad's studio, startling him.

"Oh... I thought you were helping your dad in the garage." He takes a second before answering, seemingly nervous to see you. "You know I don't like unfinished work." He tries to sound nonchalant, a typical Frank smile on his lips. "Also maybe you could take a photo of it and gift it to him. Well... give, uhm, give it to Tess so she can give it to him." He corrects himself, his smile faltering. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that." Frank says, his face lightening up again with a smile packed with... Anticipation?

A glint of hope ignites inside you, combusting inside your chest, suddenly too big to fit inside you, but you kill it as quickly as it's born.

He's not coming back, don't nurture those roots any more.

"Alright." You sigh, your voice restrained. "Do you have anything here to throw away? Dad's gonna burn a few things from the garage, there's too much accumulating." You say.

Since the bonfire never happened — there wasn't really a mood for it —, the unusable wood and inflammable material started to pile up even more then they already were.

"A bonfire?" Frank's face twists with a mischievous smile, and you can't help but giggle.

"Not that dad will ever admit it." You smile softly, and he cheers.

He gives you a few broken or moldy frames, and you take them back to the middle of the street in front of your house, assembling them with the rest of the disposable wood your dad is gonna burn.

You sigh at the thought that this should've happened over two months ago. That Joel was supposed to help, to be there with you. To enjoy the bonfire, to play his guitar, to hold you afterwards...

Stop it. You promised you wouldn't cry over it.

You look at the house across the street and let out another sigh before drying a few tears from your cheeks and going to the garage to help your dad bring the rest of the things outside.

For the next two days your dad refuses to light up the bonfire, for whatever reason he didn't wanna tell you, and you didn't give it much thought.

"I think it's gonna rain." He said exasperatedly as an excuse while he covered the pile with a tarp, and you just went with it, despite the clear sky.

But today he came from a run for supplies with an urge to do it, and while he unpacked his truck, Frank took you inside to prepare a few pretty platters with some snacks for you all to eat at the bonfire.

"Now let's go get you ready." Frank says after you're done.

Your dad can't help but be performatic.

"Get ready?" You ask, confused, looking down at your baggy shirt and shorts, clothes you'd only ever wear on your period or when the weather was gloomy, and that since Joel went away became your everyday choices.

"Yes, sweetheart. Get ready. Take a shower, put on a nice dress, fix your hair and put some makeup on." Frank's face lightens up with his own words.

"You're still not over your doll phase, I see." You joke. Your dad always loved to dress you up.

You'd hop into the shower and come back to see your bed covered in different clothing options, and you were always amazed by how well he learned to do complex hairstyles just from teen and vintage magazines Bill found while outside. He'd dress you up in different outfits and you'd walk down the stairs in every single one of them while Bill judged them all.

Your family's very own little fashion show.

Needless to say, Bill always loved you in every single one of them, and your childhood is full of fond memories like that.

"I have a perfect doll at home, of course I'm gonna wanna dress her up." He kisses your temple.

"I don't... I'm not feeling it, dad. I'm sorry." You say quietly, looking down while you clean the counters, feeling bad for letting your father down on such a sweet tradition of the two of you, that always turns whatever you're doing into a special event.

And you can't help but remember how he helped you get ready the day Joel and Tess first arrived. How he said if they were to see you for some reason, you should be as pretty as you could. It makes you remember how Joel looked at you, how he smiled at you, how he said you were everything he thought he'd never see again.

"Hey, look at me." Frank says almost sternly, calling your attention, and you look up at him, your eyes watering already. "Darling... I want my daughter back!" He says, almost whining, frustration mixed with sadness making his voice shaky and his eyes watery.

"Dad..." You cry quietly, feeling bad. You know he is right. You can barely recognize yourself. But you feel powerless, you've just convinced yourself that there's no point.

He is not here to see your dresses, to smell your perfume, to praise your soft skin and hair. He's not here to see your smile.

"Honey, you gotta take care of yourself for you, even if he's not here anymore." Your dad can definitely read your mind. "Just like you always did. I want my sunny, giggly and happy girl back. I want you smiling, laughing, being silly. I want you in summer dresses and with your hair shinning, lipgloss on and smelling like our garden." He says, caressing your hair. "I know how happy all that makes you."

"I do miss it." You admit, with a pout and a smile, taking his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers with his and swinging your hands gently.

"Then c'mon, my silly doll. Let's get ready. Try to have fun. Even if it lasts for just a little bit." He smiles. "Then tomorrow we try again, fresh." He says, guiding you upstairs to your bedroom.

Frank went pale when he saw the pairs of lingerie Joel got you, but you told him what happened the night you put them on — that last night, and how Joel told you to get changed — and he sighed, telling you to put on a more... Simple one. You choose a romantic white and embroidered set.

You take a slow and warm shower, and leave the bathroom smelling like berries and roses, dressed in your lingerie and a robe. You walk out of your bathroom to find the dress Joel picked for you that day, carefully placed on the center of your bed, your dad smiling softly at you, his hand on his right cheek.

The dress is short, made of a light blue fabric with some small white and yellow daisies embroidered on the neckline, that has a lettuce trim. It has thin tie-up spaghetti straps and a defined waistline. It's supposed to hug your back and waist while having a more loose grip around your chest and thighs.

"He did choose the right one." Frank almost whispers, looking at you and then the dress.

"He did." You smile softly, your eyes watering just from thinking about that day as you run your fingers through the delicate embroidered flowers.

"Do you wanna wear it?" Your dad suggests, his eyes glimmering with both excitement and the glowy, warm dance of the flames of the bonfire — that Bill lit up while you showered — bouncing on the walls around your room.

"I don't know, dad..." You whisper, your sight blurry because of all the tears.

"You should wear the one the chose." Frank lifts your face. "It's a sweet memory you have with him." He dries the tears that roll down your cheeks.

You smile weakly, remembering him sitting down on your bathroom floor, his legs spread while he fixed your cabinet, talking about the QZ and thoughtfully helping you pick a dress even though he clearly had more important things to do.

You nod and Frank helps you in it, telling you how pretty you look while he ties the straps up your shoulders, before browsing through a few vintage catalogs after a simple and romantic hairstyle.

You sit in front of the mirror so he can start curling and doing your hair, and for the first time since Joel left, you have a sincere smile on your face. You've missed this, these simple moments with your dad, doing your hair, dressing up, talking about nothing, making up gossip (usually about your poor dad Bill) like you're in a beauty salon — or at least how Frank described women's beauty salons to be in the past.

After an hour of playful; "I heard Bill hasn't cut his hair in like... Three years" and "Oh, but they say he's so lovely under all that beard and grumpiness", your dad finishes up, his eyes watering as he takes a step back to take you in.

The romantic dress, your delicate white shoe and sheer socks, your soft hair cascading down your shoulders, with two delicate and small white ribbons on the back — a new addition he saw in a beauty catalog and begged Bill to find when your poor dad went out to look for supplies—, your rosey cheeks — courtesy of the beetroot blush —and glossy lips.

"You're perfect, my dove. You're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen." Frank says, his voice tangled with emotion, and you smile.

"Got your good genetics." You joke, and he chuckles.

"I wish, my love." He whispers lovingly, running a hand on your hair. "But even though my blood doesn't run in your veins..." He starts, his voice thick and uncharacteristically serious as he takes your hands in his. "I guess all the time we've spent together passed some of my good looks to you." He jokes, and you laugh, giving him a hug.

"I love you, daddy." You say, and he tightens his embrace, his eyebrows furrowing at the sweet name.

"Long time since you last called me that." He smiles, his tears — that he tried so hard to hold back — now flowing freely down his cheeks.

"And now I love you even more than the last time I said it." You smile even wider, and you two only let go when you hear a gentle knock on your bedroom door.

"You're gorgeous, honeybun." Bill says from the doorway, his eyes red and watery, his expression soft and tender as he looks at you.

"I'm starting to think you two are gonna throw me in the fire as an offering." You say playfully, wondering why they're being so affectionate about the bonfire.

Maybe...

No. You're just hurting yourself.

"Well, now that you mentioned it... That's not a bad idea." Bill chuckles softly. "I think the Gods would love you. Probably the best offering they've ever had. We'd have good crops and healthy animals for the rest of our lives." He says, playfully looking at Frank, and you remember how Joel used to call you angel, the memory of his low and husky voice in your ear making your eyes wetter.

Bill nods at Frank, who nods back. "I'll be by the fire." Frank says, kissing your forehead one last time before holding your chin. "My pretty girl." He smiles at you, leaving your bedroom, drying his face with his sleeves before touching Bill's shoulder and giving him a peck on the lips as he passes by him on the doorway, whispering something to him.

Bill steps closer to you, taking your hands in his, caressing the back of them, his eyes lovingly roaming around your face. "You are my daughter." He starts, his voice proud and shaking. He has never let you doubt that you're his child, even if you don't share the same blood. "And you know I'd do anything to see you safe and happy. Anything. Even if it doesn't make me happy." He says, his eyes reddening, and you tilt your head, softly squeezing and caressing his hands, soothing him.

"Daddy..." You say softly, your heart aching.

"But that's not possible because if you're happy I'm also happy." He smiles, his voice barely coming out. "There's no scenario I can imagine in which you are happy and safe — his voice breaks — and I'm not happy for seeing you happy and safe." He says, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I love you more than anything, my love. You're the best and most important thing this life has ever given me, and I only am the man I am today because I've had you with me all those years." He says between tears, and you tenderly dry his face with your thumbs.

"And I couldn't ever ask for a better family. A better father. I know all you do is to protect me. Even if it hurts at times." You say softly, finally coming to peace with what Joel asked you.

How could you ever hate your father for doing that he thinks is best for you? For trying to protect you?

"I want you to forgive me." He whispers, his head tilted down and his eyes looking up at you. "Forgive me for not allowing you to experience love." He cries, and your heart breaks along with his voice.

"Daddy." You cry, squeezing his hands. "You love me so much, you show it to me everyday. I know love. I know your love, dad's love... And for a while I knew Joel's love too." You whisper the last part, but he doesn't react to it.

"I'd be so miserable without you and your father, my love. You two are everything I care about. The only reason I'm still here. The only reason why I've made this place so good and comfortable." He says, his crying intensifying while his trembling hands move to tenderly caress your hair.

"And I know I'd be happy as long as I were with the two of you, no matter where we were. Even if we lived in a QZ, in the middle of the woods or anywhere. It's not this place that makes me greatful. It's the both of you." You smile, kissing his wet and salty cheek, and he smiles back.

"Damn good thing we have the fences though, right?" He chuckles playfully, giving you a side look as you kiss him.

"Absolutely." You smile. "The hot water and fruits may also make me love you a little more." You giggle softly, and he chuckles.

"I'm charming like that." He laughs, taking your arm in his. "I love you, I always will. And I love the woman you've become. You're strong, you're beautiful and you deserve all the happiness you can manage to have in what's left of this world." He says, for the first time — except while teaching you how to survive and defend yourself — talking to you like you're an adult.

"I'm only all that because I'm your daughter. Because you raised me." You whisper, your voice full of pride and love. "I love you too." You touch your head to his shoulder tenderly, your love for each other filling the air around you while he holds you for what feels like forever — but still not long enough.

"C'mon, your dad is waiting for us." He says after a while, and he fixes your hair before walking you downstairs, his arm tangled with yours.

He goes slowly, no rush as he sometimes steals glances at you and smiles. You don't understand why, but this moment feels special. If feels like you're gonna remember this feeling forever.

You find the front door open, and he guides you towards it. From inside you see Frank smiling by the bonfire as he looks at you, and you see his lips moving, whispering 'my princess', making you smile back at him.

You walk outside your house with your arms still tangled with your dad's, and as soon as you look at the bonfire...

It can't be.

"You. She needs you." Bill cried on the radio, inviting Joel to come back, to stay with you. To help him make you happy.

You eyes well up instantly, your mouth hanging open and your nose burning with the sudden rush of tears flooding your eyes, and you try to run, but your dad holds you back, taking your face in his hands.

"Honeybun..." His voice is shaking. "You know I love you more than anything in this life, don't you?" He asks and you nod emphatically, repeating 'yes' over and over as tears roll down your cheeks. "Promise me you'll always love me more than anything too?" He asks, his eyes watering as he smiles adoringly down at you.

"I could never love anything more than I love you, daddy." You cry, hugging your dad tight. He kisses the top of your head and gives you a reassuring look.

"I love you." He whispers, releasing your arm. You look at Frank, and he nods, his cheeks wet.

You turn back to the bonfire. To him. And you run.

You run desperately into his arms, open and ready to hold you. His body stumbles back as you jump into his embrace.

God, how you missed his arms, how you missed his smell, his warmth. You can't even speak, letting the tightness of your embrace speak for itself as you grip his shirt and shoulder blades tight and he almost lifts you off the ground, his heart beating so fast that you can feel it against your chest.

"Joel..." You cry in his ear, squeezing him as much as you can to make sure this is real. He is here. With you.

He cries your name back, holding the back of your head and wrapping his other arm protectively and tightly around your waist, his tears wetting your hair. Your hair that he missed so much, with the softness and the scent he craved so much, the scent of your skin, the feel of it, the glow you emanate, that seems to leave your pores and intoxicate him.

He pulls back slightly, his hands holding your waist and cupping your face — that way he always cups your face —, his thumb caressing the delicate skin underneath your eye, his eyes looking adoringly down at you, like you're the most precious, most special and delicate thing left in this planet. Like if you're the sole reason behind his wide smile, that seems to mimic yours. Wider than you've ever seen before.

Your presence gives him an instant sense of peace, a sense of belonging, of purpose. He wants to preserve this. Your wellbeing, your safety, your peace, your smile. Make sure you're well fed, healthy, taken care of. Make sure you're happy and loved.

It makes him want to forget about the old Joel. The sad and bitter, stoic and practical man that wouldn't want to get involved with you under the cowardice of not being good enough for you. He will be good enough. Vulnerable enough, open enough, romantic enough. He will allow himself to love you. He is gonna make damn sure of it everyday, he promises to himself. There won't be one day he won't do everything in his power to make you the happiest woman alive.

The old violent and deadly Joel will be preserved though. Kept quiet in a corner, always vigilant and attentive, ready to surface if he ever has to protect your town, your parents or especially you. Ready to not measure means to keep you safe.

You look behind him and see three big bags on the floor. "Are you... Are you staying?" You ask with a wide and contagious smile, almost out of breath, and he nods, his eyes somehow becoming even softer.

"Only if you want me to." He smiles, like you could ever say no to him, like if you could ever not want him to stay. Ever not want him.

Your smile somehow widens even more and you hug him tight again, like if any inch between you two could perhaps give him a chance to leave again. A chance he'd of course never take, never leave you again, never not have you again.

You enjoy his warmth for a little longer, remembering how soft and comfortable his embrace feels, how his fluffy flannel makes his chest feel like a pillow. How safe and special you feel in his arms. The arms that had no responsibility to love you, to choose you, but that did anyway.

And he holds you close. His strong arms keeping you shielded and protected, warm and safe. He never wants to forget what it feels like to hold you again. His heart seems to find a calmer pace as it feels your own beating against his chest.

A few moments later you remember that Joel isn't the only person last on earth and turn back to your parents, their arms holding each other's, Frank resting his head on Bil shoulder, with a smile that almost matches yours and Joel's, and Bill with a stiff expression that breaks when he sees the pure bliss and joy on your face. Any remnant of doubt or uncertainty leaving his shoulders as he sees the smile and the glow he missed so much these past few months.

You run to them, hugging both at the same time, your face nesting between their shoulders, and they hug you back, protectively wrapping you in their arms. You all share a silent understanding.

This is what life must be. Full of love and trust. Full of people who wouldn't hesitate before doing what's best for one another. Who wouldn't hesitate to protect and care for each other.

"He moves one finger you didn't want him to and you tell me, you hear?" Bill says as you pull back a little, still in their arms.

"Bill..." Frank laughs.

"You raised me, dad. You know I'd kill him myself." You joke, and Bill's eyes glimmer with amusement.

"That's my girl." He laughs proudly. "She's my daughter." He playfully nudges Frank, like it'd be news to him.

"Yeah, it shows." Frank laughs back, and you hug them tight again. "Go stay with him, love. Your dad and I are gonna bring out the food." Frank says, and you nod, walking back to Joel, who once again takes you in his arms, holding you tightly, as if trying to make up for lost time before letting go and sitting down at one of the benches your dad put by the bonfire.

You sit beside him, your body facing him, and he fixes your hair tenderly.

"The ribbons look nice." He compliments, and you smile. He notices the smallest new details about you, and it makes you feel special and pretty.

"Thank you." You purr, feeling your cheeks warmer than before.

"I got you something." He smiles at you, reaching behind himself to pick a bouquet he made with some wild flowers he found on his way back to Lincoln and some craft paper Tess helped him sort out in the QZ. It makes you smile, your eyes welling up.

"Joel... They're beautiful." You manage to say, your voice barely there.

"Some are already dying, but they are the ones closer to the QZ. The closer to you, the brighter they are." He says softly as he fixes the tie-up straps of your dress, and your heart melts. "Just like me." He whispers, his eyes red, and you smile lovingly at him.

You notice there's a paper amidst the flowers, and you take it in your hands, finding it to be a photo of Joel, that's all wrinkled, like he was planning to throw it away.

"When is this from?" You ask curiously, smiling up at him, his cheeks covered by a small blush.

"That's..." He clears his throat. "The photo I took when I got you the polaroid camera, to test it. I took it before eating the food you made me." He chuckles. "I thought it looked terrible, but then I thought you'd kill me if I ever told you it existed and I never gave it to you." He smiles, gently taking your free hand in his.

"I would." You smile, tenderly caressing his cheeks in the photo, feeling his thumb caress the back of your hand.

"Sometimes I'd doubt myself." He whispers, like he's just thinking out loud, his eyes traveling around your face, a small and silly smile on his lips. You frown, tilting your head slightly as you turn to face him. "I'd wonder if you were really like this." He smiles, and you feel your cheeks heating up even more, in a way only he can make them. "Not even the photo you gave me would convince me that you were this sweet." He says with an adoring smile.

"Do you remember this dress?" You ask quietly, and he gently plays with the fabric covering your thighs.

"I knew you'd look perfect on it." He smiles. "It's like it was made for you." He says.

"Just like I was made for you." You whisper back, a shameless smile on your lips.

His eyes are wet as he looks at you. "I missed you." He whispers, his lower lip trembling.

"I missed you too." You whisper back, resting the bouquet on your lap and cupping his face, bringing his forehead to touch yours.

He nuzzles your nose, fighting back the instinct to lean forward for a kiss.

"Guess we're doing it... The little ranch." He says instead, sniffing softly and beckoning to the house across the street, a single tear falling from his cheek onto yours.

"Am I still invited to move in with you?" You laugh softly, caressing his stubble, and he responds the laughter.

"Meh... We'll see how it goes." He playfully shrugs with a smile. "I wouldn't wanna do it without you. You're the most important part of any of my plans." He whispers, his tone soft and serious as he squeezes your hand and turns it to kiss the delicate skin of your palm. "We're gonna stay with your parents while I renovate our house �� our house... — and then when it is perfect, we're gonna move in. We're gonna be patient until then." He says, and you frown. You know exactly what he means.

"Joel..." You half whine. Why does he has to be such a good man?

"I know, baby. But that's not what I want from you. And I promised your father I'd have everything settled before I touched you. So both of you know I want this." He sounds sincere, so sincere, so honest, it breaks your heart. "All of this. And mostly you." He smiles.

You've been through it, but your stomach freezes at the thought of your dad and Joel talking about whether the two of you did... That.

"Did he ask you if we had s-...?" You ask, your voice small and mortified, your always sweet eyes wide open.

"We didn't use the words themselves." He quickly says when he sees the panic in your eyes, caressing your hand soothingly. "But I assured him we haven't... Actually done it yet." He says. "And he made me vow to keep it that way until I'm settled here."

Your dads return before you can respond, with trays of kebabs, some savory oat muffins you made earlier that day, fruits and a few drinks.

You all start eating, and you notice how hungry Joel seems, how he eats like he's hiding his real hunger, and it breaks your heart. But as you cook him another kebab over the bonfire flame, you get a glimpse of what life's gonna look like from now on. Taking care of him, making sure he never has to go for a day without being well fed and loved.

"Only thing missing here is some s'mores." He chuckles, looking down at you with a full mouth and a silly smile.

"Oh, I've never had those...!" You gasp, almost whine, your eyes shining with the idea of it.

"They're amazing, you would've loved them." He smiles, cleaning a few crumbs on your cheeks.

You and Frank talk and have fun while Joel and Bill mostly just watch, both still testing the waters with each other. Bill tries to read Joel, noticing how his eyes shine when he looks at you and how happy you seem with him, how close together the two of you are sitting, with your thighs glued to each other's; and Joel tries to not be too invasive or physical for Bill's liking, even though he wants nothing more than to keep you close and his arms around you for good measure.

Bill eventually joins in the conversation, asking Joel about the path from the QZ to Lincoln. About what he saw, if he noticed anything different or concerning. Joel explains how he covered his trail and describes his encounters with the dead and the infected, and you worriedly try to check his arms under his flannel, making him laugh softly at your worry, reassuring you he's fine.

···

After you're all full, Frank asks your help to bring the dishes back inside, and you follow him. After you set everything in the sink he tells you to leave it to clean the next morning and takes you to his studio, where he hands you the finished painting of Sarah.

"He gave you flowers, right? Go give him your gift." He smiles at you, and you smile back.

You walk outside the house with the canvas behind your back, and you spot Joel and your dad talking to each other. There aren't any big smiles yet, but it's happened before, so you hope it's gonna happen again.

You go to them, turning the canvas towards him, and his eyes swell as soon as he sees it, his eyebrows moving and his lips quivering.

Frank captured Sarah perfectly. Her soft eyes, her hair, her freckles and dimples. Her silly smile is almost as bright as the real thing used to be. He can't help but caress the canvas, like he could feel the soft skin of her cheeks.

Joel cries like he's seeing his girl again, like she's there with them, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a breeze pass by him when he saw the painting. Like she's by his side, present, approving of his much longed and deserved happiness. Like she's smiling from wherever she is, finally resting now that he has all this. Now that he has a safe and loving environment for himself. Now that he has you, like she knows you're gonna take care and love her father.

He hugs you, no words needed to express his gratefulness, how much he loved it.

"It's perfect. It's her. My babygirl." He manages to say between tears anyway, and when you pull back, Bill walks closer to Joel, looking at the painting, his own eyes watering.

"I know you're gonna be everything my daughter needs, Joel." He says. "Because you are a father too." His voice breaks. "You know exactly how much she means to me. I... I Promise I'll do my best to rebuild my trust in you. For her. We're gonna make this work." He whispers, and Joel nods, a determined look in his eyes. He knows it's not easy for Bill, and he wants to earn his respect once again. "And besides... She's my daughter. I know she'd deal with you before I had to step in." He chuckles, and Joel laughs.

"I know she would." Joel agrees, his eyes watering as he looks at you.

"You take good care of my little girl. You make her happy. You keep her safe. You keep that gorgeous smile on her face." He says, turning back to point at you and your wide smile, tears pouring from his eyes. "And we ain't ever gonna have a problem again." He tells Joel, who once again nods, offering his hand for your dad to shake.

He's not good at being vulnerable around others, but he hopes that's another feeling you might restore in him.

"That's everything I'll ever do." Joel says, and they shake hands, a mutual feeling of respect and trust being established between the two men. When Frank joins them, Joel offers his hand for him to shake.

"Oh, c'mon, I'm not Bill!" Frank laughs, pulling Joel into a hug that he happily responds to, feeling grateful for Frank's trust in him this whole time, and for the portrait he's still holding.

"Thank you, Frank." He whispers as they hug. "For trusting me even when I didn't deserve your trust. And for giving my girl back to me." He says, his eyes once again down to Sarah's painting.

"It was an honor to paint her." Frank smiles. "And she's not the only girl I manage to get back to you." He smiles back at you. "You take good care of my baby. Her father is a psycho, you know that." He jokes, and Joel chuckles.

"We all are to protect who we love." He nods, the old Joel speaking. Lethal when it comes to protecting you.

"You're part of our family now. Thank you for making our daughter so happy." Frank says, nudging Bill for him to say something.

"Yeah, yeah. Family." He says, his voice dry and choked in his throat. "We'll do our best to make her happy." He says, and Joel nods.

They all turn to look at you, and you feel like you could burst with love and happiness. Your parents and the man you love. All going out of their way to make you safe and happy.

"Love! Photos!" Frank tells you excitedly, and you run inside to get your camera.

"Frank..." Bill mumbles, but Frank shushes him.

"Bill today is a special day for our daughter." He says, his voice firm. "We are taking photos." He fixes Bill's hair tenderly, Joel smiling as he watches the two of them.

No wonder you're so special. Being raised by these two.

You come back with the camera Joel got you, and you first take a photo of the three of them together. Frank standing in between as they all give you their best smiles.

Then Joel takes a picture of you and your dads, smiling to himself at your bright smile.

"It looks perfect." He smiles, and Frank takes the camera from him.

"Go on, love. You two. Get the flowers, where are the flowers?" He says, and you and Joel pose together, his arm around your waist while you're wrapped around him, holding your bouquet, a happy and loving smile on your lips, and a wide one on his. "Beautiful. Now a kiss!" Frank says, and Bill shifts on his feet.

Joel is a little hesitant, but you gently cradle his face and touch your lips to his for the very first time since he went away, wanting to save the real kiss for when it's just the two of you. His arms tighten around you, and your dad cheers.

"Beautiful!" He says, showing you the photo.

"Our second first kiss." You smile, looking at the photo, then at Joel.

"You haven't kissed yet?" Frank gasps, and you shake your head. "Oh, and I got it on camera! That's so precious, my love." Frank says lovingly, and Bill smiles as he looks at the photo as well, your smile even as your lips are pressing against Joel's leave no room for him to doubt just how happy you're gonna be with him.

After a few more conversations and photos you all decide to get some rest. Your parents kiss the top of your head and go to their bedroom, Bill glancing at Joel one last before going inside, nodding at him.

All of the dishes are forgotten in the sink. "A tomorrow morning problem!", like Frank said earlier. And the bonfire, still burning its last flames, to be dismantled and cleaned the next morning as well.

You help Joel put his bags and the painting in the living room, only his backpack on him as the two of you go upstairs, holding hands, a peaceful sense of belonging consuming him as he thinks about how this is his life now. About how you don't have to hide, to lie, to suppress your feelings or worry about not having each other the next day.

And he doesn't have to worry about trust or boundaries. They're all set, and he wants more than anything to prove to your dads that he's not just after good food and a safe and comfortable bed with a pretty girl laying on it. He wants you. Happy and safe, his.

···

You reach your bedroom and open the door for him to walk in. He closes his eyes and smiles when the sweet, floral and citric scent he missed so much enters his nose.

He sets his backpack down and looks at you while you carefully place the bouquet on your dresser and fix your hair in your mirror.

"I forgot how good your bedroom smells." He smiles, walking behind you and looking lovingly at your reflection on the mirror, placing his hands on your waist. You turn around, wrapping your arms around his waist, inhaling his own scent.

"You smell good, too." You whisper, snuggling your cheek to his chest, indulging in his comforting warmth, in his presence, in his smell, the gentle rhythm of his heart, the rumble of his breathing.

"Your dad told me to shower when I got here." He chuckles, pulling you out of your trance as his hands trace gentle circles on your back.

"He made me get all dressed up." You giggle softly, certain that it was Frank that told him to shower, and he gently releases his grip on you, lifting your chin with his thumb so you look up at him.

"You're beautiful, my angel." He whispers.

The warm and now softer glow from the bonfire below your window casts a beautiful and intimate light on both of you, outlining Joel's face perfectly. All of his features; his big and sculpted nose, his big and soft brown eyes, his pouty lips, his cheekbones and jawline. His hair, that's still a bit wet near the roots, yet already fluffy and messy on its — now slightly longer — curls, his stubble — the tiny little white hairs starting to flourish —. Everything perfectly layed out for your eyes, making you remember exactly why the thoughts of him made you so breathless.

And when your eyes land back on his, you notice their softness towards you. A softness they only acquire when looking at you. A softness that seems to draw your eyes lower, to his lips, that makes you lick your own, anticipating feeling his touch again, his warmth... his taste.

Like you've rehearsed it, at the same time that you get on your tiptoes, he slowly leans down, gently cradling your face and touching his lips to yours. Intoxicating you with his hot breath against your nose, breathing the same breaths as the warm air that leaves his lungs fills your own, his gentle yet firm hands on your lower back and cheek, the roughness of his fingers on your skin, the softness of his wet lips caressing yours.

Feeling his beard tingle your face again makes you melt into his arms, it makes you melt and it makes you moan softly into his mouth, making him hold you tighter and gently tug on your hair, deepening the kiss even more and grunting as he tastes what he's missed for so long. The sweetness he thought he'd never have in his hands again.

Your tongues dance together in a passionate and intense display of intimacy. Intimacy that you've learned not long ago, that he taught you all about. An intimacy that makes him feel like you've known each other your whole lives, like your love follows you way before this life and these bodies. Like your souls have been longing to be reunited for much longer than just a few months.

You tug at his jacket, wanting to squeeze him, to make sure he's real and all yours, to try and make him feel just how much you've missed him, to have him as close as possible to you.

"Baby... We talked about this." He pulls back to whisper breathlessly over you lips when you start pressing your body against his, the kiss going from slow and romantic to hungry and needy, the sensations traveling from your tongue directly to form a pool between your legs.

"Please, Joel. I need you." You moan, burying your face on his neck, kissing the warm skin there.

"Baby..." He tries to protest, feeling that same vulnerability you always erupt inside him.

"We don't have to do anything we haven't done yet." You purr, looking up at him. "Please, Joel. I thought about you every single night." You say, and you see his nostrils widening, his chest expanding and his jaw clenching as you confess to have done what he also did.

Every single night after the first few weeks, when pain and guilt started to give space to the longing and need to be together again. Nights where he laid on his side and held himself tight, imagining what you'd feel like, remembering how warm your skin felt against his, how good you smelled, how much he missed your nails on his back, your fingers curling on his hair, your lips burning his skin, your warm and wet flesh around his fingers. Nights where he held your photo to smell the - fainter by the day - perfume you sprayed on it and to look at your sweet smile, remembering how your face contorted and how you cried his name, the sound still echoing in his mind.

"You're gonna kill me." He whispers, pulling away, leaving you whimpering softly as he walks towards your window, resting his hands on the bottom of the frame, looking at the house across the street. The one he chose to live in with you. To make yours.

You walk towards him, wrapping your arms around his torso and resting your head against his back. "It's ok." You whisper, feeling his back expand with his heavy breathing. "I can wait. I like that you want to wait." You say against his back, your hands caressing his stomach and chest, and after a few moments, he turns around, facing you, his eyes scanning your face.

"Did you tell the truth?" He asks, his voice low and quiet. "Did you think about me like that?"

"I did." You confess again, feeling your cheeks warm up as your gaze drops to his old and dirty boots and your delicate shoes and white sheer socks.

"Then why do you need my help, angel?" He asks with a soft smile, almost a smirk, gently cupping your face and pulling it up so you look at him, his thumb caressing your cheeks.

"Because I couldn't... do it without you." You purr, leaning into his touch until he removes his hand, making you whimper as he once again walks away from you. "Joel..." You whisper, watching him.

He hears it and chuckles softly before sitting on the edge of your bed and looking at you. His gaze just like you remembered it. Hungry and lustful but somehow still soft and lovingly, his dark eyes glistening with the flames of the bonfire that are weakly dancing around your room. The intensity of his gaze makes you shift on your feet while you wait for him to say something, your fingers nervously curling around one another.

He pats his lap, calling your attention. "Come here, angel." He calls, his voice as soft and demanding as always, and before you even process it, your legs are obediently walking towards him, earning an approving smile. "Good. Come here." He instructs again, this time pulling gently on your waist for you to sit across his lap.

"I missed the way you talk to me." You confess in a whisper.

"You did?" He asks, tucking your hair behind your ear while his eyes roam around your face, a silly smile on his lips.

You nod, your eyes catching his gaze as you just stare at each other in silence for a bit.

"I like the way you tell me what to do." You purr, your shaky voice betraying how nervous you are to be so close to him again.

"And I love how you trust me..." He responds quietly, like he's just thinking out loud. "... How responsive you are to me." He whispers.

You look up at him, your eyes glistening behind a thin layer of blissful tears. "Responsive?" You ask softly, and he smiles.

"You'll see what I mean." He reassures you, carefully grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling it above your other shoulder so he can kiss the soft and sensitive skin of your perfumed neck, earning a breathy gasp and a pleased frown from you. In response, he nibs and sucks on it, squeezing your thigh gently, his hands caressing your skin, going underneath your dress to caress the soft spot where your thighs and your hips connect.

"Joel..." You whisper, trying to give him better access and simultaneously wrap your arms around him so you can touch him back.

He places both hands on your waist and gently pushes you off his lap, and you're quick to turn and straddle him, just like you did that first night on your armchair, your hands going under his arms to tug at his shoulder blades while his go to your waist and hips, holding you firmly - squeezing you so good - and tugging at the soft fabric of your dress while his lips trail wet kisses from your neck to you shoulders as his rough fingers gently undo the straps of your dress, kissing his way back from your shoulders to your jaw, and from your jaw to your already open and inviting lips.

You moan into the kiss, his hot breath caressing your skin and his beard burning you and making you lean even closer to him.

He grunts as you tug on his hair, your hips instinctively rolling against his, and he starts pulling your dress up your thighs with the back of his fingers, caressing and kneading the tender skin of your thighs as he reveals them, his worn out and barely-there nails greedily digging in the soft skin of your hips and bottom in an eager attempt to make up for the time apart, to remember and to feel everything he thought about every single night, to never again forget how you feel like under his touch.

He continues pulling your dress up, and you help him by lifting your arms, allowing him to fully reveal your soft and perfect - somehow even better than he remembered - curves, your delicate white set of lace bra and panties... And he goes numb, his eyes locked on your body and his lips apart, his hands moving up your waist, his thumbs caressing your breasts and rolling around your clothed nipples, his chest moving deeply as he tries to catch his breath, lost in the sight of you.

"I missed you so much, my angel." He whispers, his gaze making its way back to your own, his eyes soft and watery, filled with unspoken words of love and passion, with the longing of all those weeks apart, all those nights where he'd have done anything to be by your side.

All the times he caught himself looking into nothingness, lost in thoughts about you, about how you must've been and how much he wished to be doing the same nothing, staring into the same nothingness, but with you. How much he missed all of you. Every single smile, breath and noise you make. Every wrinkle in the corners of your eyes when you smile, every mark, spot and stretch, everything you'd be insecure about if you've grown in a regular setting. Things he'd never change about you.

He couldn't think of a single thing to change about you to make you more special, more perfect for him.

"I thought about you all day long. And you came back to me." You whisper back, your eyes not as shy as his, your tears flowing freely down your cheeks and onto your neck, inspiring some of his own to make the same path, rolling down his cheeks and soaking his beard. "When my dad was dressing me up... I kept thinking that maybe..." You begin crying softly. "That maybe it was because you'd come back. But... Thinking about it, after so long... It hurt... And I kept burying these feelings down but..." You smile brightly up at him, your eyes leaking blissful tears. "But you came back for me."

"I'd always come back for you." He says with a smile, his voice thick as he once again wraps his arms protectively around you, cradling your face against his chest. "I'd never not come back for you. Even if not now... I'd come back for you one day. I'd never let you be alone, my baby." He promises as he holds you behind your right knee and the nape of your neck, standing up with you in his strong arms and effortlessly fliping you over so you're lying on your back, on the edge of your bed.

"I wanna be yours. For the rest of my life." You say, caressing his hair with both hands as he kisses the now salty skin of your neck and collarbones.

"One day." He promises against your skin before looking into your eyes, his face hovering torturingly close to yours. "The day our - our - house is ready for us. That day; or whatever day after that, when you're ready for me..." He says, his voice softer than the dandelions your father planted near your garden, the dandelions that for so many sunsets heard the name 'Joel' as you exhaustively called and cried for him, with the hope that that day he'd finally come back through those gates. "That day I'll make you mine." He whispers before kissing your lips again, a short kiss before his lips move to your cheeks, where he continues. "That day I'll show you what it feels like to be mine. What it feels like to be a woman." He whispers before kissing, biting and sucking on your neck, right where he knows your vein is.

"Joel..." You moan again, squeezing his bicep through his flannel.

"I'll show you what it's like to be my woman." He whispers, his voice now lower and raspier, huskier. "I'll show you what it's like to belong to a man. To belong to me." He promises, his eyes soft and filled with a possessive passion for you.

He kisses your lips again, a short and wet peck that makes you moan for more, tugging at his hair and looking down when he draws a wet path of kisses down your throat... your collarbones... your chest... his wet and warm lips kissing the outline of your bra before engulfing your clothed left nipple in his warm lips, a sensation that makes you ache between your legs and your back arch up into his touch.

You whimper when he lets go, but as soon as you open your eyes, he's leaning in for another kiss, his hands leaving your waist and reaching behind you to unclasp your bra and reveal more of you to his sore — hungrier by the second — eyes.

"Ahnn..." You moan, your back arching higher against his body when he takes your bare nipple in his mouth, the wetness and warmth of his mouth making your legs move in response to the growing warmth and wetness between them, your toes tugging at the sheets.

"You're so fucking soft, baby." He mumbles against your skin, his eyes closed as he rolls your nipple around his tongue, suckling on it.

"Joel... It... So... Good..." You moan nothings into the air, recalling the first and last time he did this to you, how good it feels to have him so close, how special you feel with how he takes his time with you, how he doesn't make you feel like this is about pleasing him, but showing you how much he can pleasure you too.

"I'll make you feel so good, my baby." He says before kissing the lower side of your breast, then your waist, stomach, your bellybutton... Then the skin above the hem of your panties, his hands reaching underneath you and holding and kneading your bottom as he kisses along the whole waistband of your panties, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers tangle on the delicate and thin fabric.

"I know you will." You whisper, making his eyes harden with lust before softening at the sight of your sweet smile. He stands up by the bed and gently pulls your panties down your legs, upwards his chest, and he smells it, closing his eyes and growling at your scent. He places both of your feet on his chest, caressing your legs as he admires the woman — the angel — underneath him.

Seeing you fully exposed to him for the second time, this time knowing he's not betraying your dad's trust, that he's doing it the right way... It makes him forget how to breathe, his hands caressing your thighs, his eyes travelling around your body, pure love and desire burning in their softness. It makes him allow himself to fully drink you in and shamelessly indulge in just how perfect you are, in how every curve of your body seems to have been sculpted in his dreams. Like you were really made just for him, exactly how he wants and needs you.

"You're perfect." He whispers in awe, more like just an observation for himself as he kisses your ankles — with those cute fucking socks — and then his way up your legs, simultaneously lowering himself back between them, kneeling on the floor at the edge of your bed, pulling you closer to the edge. "Mine." He says when his lips reach the inner sides of your knees, his hands squeezing the front of your thighs, his arms under your thighs. "Perfect for me. All for me." He possessively squeezes your thighs as he kisses their inner skin, making you moan when he parts your legs, the air once again leaving his lungs to be filled only with the awe of you.

With the scent of you, the wetness and the color, the softness and the taste... Dammit, he can't wait to finally actually taste you, to finally feel your tender and warm flesh against his lips, your wetness coating his lips and tongue, your muscles contracting underneath and around his tongue.

"I shaved for you again." You purr, removing him from his daydreams, invitingly spreading your legs wider for him, shamelessly offering all of you for him. In a way you'd only ever do for him, even if he never came back and someone else did. "I did all this time... Hoping you'd come back." And you did it, longing to see the same darkness in his eyes you saw the first time you said those words. The same darkness you're seeing right now.

"I'd have loved you either way, angel." He whispers, kissing your mount. "A real man doesn't care about that, baby. Certainly not in a sweet girl like you. But I do appreciate the view." He growls before kissing the skin where your thighs connect to your core, earning a surprised and sweet gasp from you. "I can't think of a thing that'd make me not want you." He whispers, kissing your folds before tasting you.

"Ahhnn..." You moan softly, almost laughing with bliss at the feeling of his tongue licking along your slit, diving onto your clit, swirling around the small nub. "Joel... Hmmm..." You moan, your eyes already closed and your breathing already heavy.

"I haven't even started yet, baby. And that's what I mean with responsive..." He smirks before exploring every corner and fold of you with his tongue, his beard deliciously scratching and bruising your skin. "You're so fucking responsive to me, to the smallest little touches."

You try to spread your legs even further for him, eager to give him as much as possible, and he notices your struggle with the need to give him more and to soothe yourself somehow, your hands desperately gripping the sheets, your whole body already overwhelmed by him and the foreign and delicious sensation of his mouth on you. He lifts your legs, touching your knees to your chest.

"Hold your legs for me, angel, please." He asks softly, and you hug your knees, one in each arm, your legs fully spread and your core in full display for his hungry eyes, leaking with need for more, the sheets connected to you by a thin streak of your leaking juices. He presses both his thumbs on each one of your lips, watching as the arousal seems to leak out of your core as he presses against your flesh, his eyes darkening and becoming hazed as he anticipates watching you come apart for him again.

Vulnerable, responsive and shameless, just like he remembers your outbursts to be like. Your eyes closed shut or looking desperately into his own, your lips curled downwards in whimpers and cries, your hands squeezing him.

"I'mma need you to be real quiet for me, alright, baby? Only for my ears." He whispers, looking up at you, and you nod. "Can you do that for me, angel?" He asks softly.

You nod, words are way past your brain's capacity now.

"Words, my sweet girl." He squeezes your thighs. "Use your pretty words for me."

"Yes." You say in a breathless whisper, your whole body is shaking in anticipation.

"That's my good girl." He praises before parting your folds with his thumbs. He grunts at the view and buries his lips underneath yours, his beard scratching you, only adding to the feeling as he sucks on every bit of flesh, slurping in your juices and pressing his tongue against your aching and pulsing entrance, circling it and teasing pushing in.

"Joel!" You urgently beg for more, your voice quiet and small. You need more. You feel like you're so close already, his teasing and the way he's almost worshipping you making your body run to the edge. Already so close from falling that you want to hold back just to feel this for longer. "Joel, I... I can't hold it!" You purr in delicious agony, begging for both his mercy and more of his touch.

"Let go for me, princess. We've got all night to recover and do it again." He says huskily before once again parting your inner folds with his thumbs, admiring your tightness. "You're gonna feel so good around me, baby." He licks the exposed entrance, indulging in the wetness and warmth of your aching body. His tongue lapping on the pool that's formed inside you.

"More, Joel. More, please." You plead, hugging your knees closer to you in a desperate attempt to soothe your even more desperate body.

He responds by taking your clit in his mouth, licking the bud and pushing the hood back with his tongue, the feeling of his soft and warm tongue on your most sensitive spot making your body jolt with a literal spark of electricity that runs through your flesh, the feeling making you desperate with need, like if you're coming already under his tongue, your eyes snap open.

You gasp as he does it again, your eyes now closing shut. He smirks and lets the hood cover your clit again before he begins sucking on it, the feeling burning, itching and aching, all at the same time as your legs tremble desperately against your chest, your eyes rolled to the back of your skull and your mouth open in a silent scream as you lose complete control, your body tensing up, your juices flowing freely from you to your sheets, and your mind going blank, not a single thought or feeling that isn't the overwhelming pleasure he's giving you crossing your mind.

Only him, his tongue, his hands holding you, his fingers digging into your flesh to hold you in place, his scent, his warm breath against your tenderness, his eyes watching you crumble. You feel an agonizing pleasure washing over you, your body melting underneath his touch.

You come back from your high with tears falling down your cheeks, your legs sore and shaking, your breathing heavy and your throat dry, a sticky pool on the sheets underneath you and Joel gently kissing your folds, trying to help you come down and gather some of the leaking juices that you've just released.

"Joel..." You try to whisper, but the sound half dies on your tongue, the sweetness and need still making their way to his ears, and he smiles up at you, once again kissing his way up from your folds to you mount, through your stomach till your breasts, stopping by your nipple before reaching your collarbones, then your neck... Your throat and jaw, then kissing a tight trail until he reaches the corner of your lips.

"You did so good, my baby." He praises, his voice filled with pride. "So intense but so quiet and sweet for me." He whispers, touching his forehead to yours, and you smile, your cheeks warming up even more.

"Can you do this to me again?" You whisper sweetly, an undeniable amount of innocence and love in your request, making him chuckle.

"Everyday if you want me to, my angel." He smiles, kissing your forehead. "I'd never deny tasting you, making you crumble like that." He kisses you deeply, and you can taste yourself on his lips, your taste mingled with his own making you moan and tug at his curls, needing more, all of him.

"I wanna make you crumble too." You say breathlessly when he pulls back, and he smiles softly.

"Baby..." He starts, and you know that tone.

"Please, Joel!" You furrow your eyebrows. "Please, it's not fair you do it to me and I don't do it for you too." You purr. "I want to do it for you." You reassure him with a smile.

Your eagerness to please him... Something most women did everything in their power to not do... Fuck. He's one lucky son of a bitch.

"Baby... Me doing it to you is one thing... But... You don't have to do the same. We can try something we've already done before." He says, and the honesty, patience and respect in his voice makes you want to ravish him. To make him feel so good for making you feel so comfortable and safe, that he's gonna forget his own name.

"The more you tell me I don't have to... The more I'll wanna do it." You smile, a hint of mischief and innocent curiosity to know what it feels like to finally taste him, to really have him in your mouth, his breathing heavy, his face contorting, his fingers on your hair... "Please." You purr, using the face that gets you everything you want.

And he knows it damn well. He knows you always get what you want. And tonight is not gonna be the first time he says no to you.

"Still trying to kill me, I see." He smiles, kissing you again, his hand once again traveling down your body, gently pinching your nipple and rolling it in between his thumb and index fingers until you whimper in response, then making a ticklish trail down your waist and hips, finding your core again, spreading your folds and pushing the tip of his middle finger inside your - even tighter after your orgasm - entrance. "So fucking tight, baby... Gonna squeeze me so fucking good." He growls against your lips before pushing the finger fully in, curling his finger to masterfully hit your sweetest spot with a precision that not even you have yet.

"Oh... Joel!" You moan, your eyes closed and your eyebrows furrowed as he continuously presses the right button inside you. "Joel?!" You say, your eyes snapping open and confused by the intense and sudden sensation, the feeling increased, as intense as it always is after an orgasm. "Joel I..." You struggle, your face contorted in a perfect display of the blissfulness he's washing your body and soul with.

"Keep saying my name, my sweet girl." He kisses your lips gently before going down and burying his face back between your legs, sucking your clit into his mouth, creating a mind numbing sensation as his finger still pumps your favorite spot.

"Joooel!" You cry out, forgetting to be silent, your upper body jolting up.

"Shhhh... No, baby... Be good for me, c'mon. Not so loud." He frowns before diving back in, his lips glistening with you. Your eyes roll back as your hips eagerly move against his face, making him grunt and squeeze your thigh with his free hand. "That's it..." He encourages, and you move even more intensely, your hands tugging at his curls, the sheets and anything at your reach as you feel another soul crushing orgasm building deep, deeper than ever before, inside your core.

"Jooooel!" You cry out again, more quietly this time, only for his ears, your voice strangled.

"Good girl." He praises. "Give it to me, angel. I know how much you love my attention, baby... And you're doing a really good job for me, so quiet and good for me..." He says before sucking your clit back into his mouth and inserting another thick finger in your tight insides, thrusting them in and out gently and pressing your sweetest spot between thrusts.

"Aaaah!" You whimper before it hits you suddenly and you're gone. Mind blank, legs shaking, body convulsing and hands almost painfully tugging at his hair as you have the orgasm of your life.

He groans when he feels your fingers pulling on his curls and your clit throbbing underneath his tongue, his eyes fixated on your pretty face all twisted and scrunched in almost painful pleasure as he breaks you apart. His fingers getting soaked inside you, your walls gripping him so tightly he can't even pump his fingers, just continuously pressing against your sweetest spot until you finally begin to come down.

"Joel! Joel! God! Joel!" You desperately pull him up onto you, holding tightly onto him, kissing his lips with more need and passion than ever before, tears flowing out of your eyes not only because of the overwhelming feelings he just made you feel, but mostly because you still can't process this is real.

You're not dreaming. This is not one of those dreams. He's here. With you. In your bed. His fingers inside you. He's finally yours again.

"Shhh... It's ok. I got you." He whispers when he breathlessly pulls back, kissing your neck, giving you time to recover and catch your breath.

"Joel..." You whimper against his neck.

"I'm right here, darling. You did so good for me again, my baby." He soothingly caresses your hair. "You always do..." He kisses your shoulder.

"That..." You say breathlessly. "I want you to do that again." You say, giggling a silly giggle as your brain starts to regain its shape.

He chuckles, pepering tender kisses all over your shoulder, collarbones, neck and jaw.

"I'm still gonna make you feel even better than that, baby." He whispers in your ears, his breath tickling your neck, making you laugh and get covered in goosebumps. "Over and over again. Until you get tired of me." He promises.

"Then you won't ever stop." You purr back, caressing his beard and his cheek tenderly, enjoying the feeling of having him in your arms again.

"We've got the rest of our lives for that." He smiles, leaning in for a sweet and slow kiss, his weight pushing you deeper onto the mattress, making you moan and pull him even lower onto you, your hands on his back, tugging at his shirt and squeezing his muscles.

"Can I do it now?" You break the kiss when you feel his bulge pressing against your thigh.

"Angel..." He says softly, kissing your jaw.

"Please, Joel... Just a little bit... I wanna see you again... I thought so much about holding you again..." You whisper, your hand moving down his stomach, testing his resistance.

He presses his thumb against your lower lip as is trying to shush you, pressing against it, caressing it. You don't hesitate in kissing it and licking it gently, swirling your tongue around his digit, and he presses his thumb against your tongue, pushing it inside your mouth. You invitingly part your lips and suckle around his thumb, swirling your tongue around it, watching his face; his eyelids heavy, his lips parted and his breathing heavy. He pulls his thumb back, a thin thread of saliva connecting his thumb to your pink and wet lips.

"Fuck..." He growls breathlessly. He just really can't say no to you. He sits down beside you, patting the mattress between his legs. "Come here, baby." His raspy voice calls, and you don't hesitate, quickly dropping to the floor between his legs. "Listen!" He warns softly before you reach for his belt, and you retract your hands, his hand gripping your chin firmly. "No mouth unless I say so." He sternly says, his mind reeling on the sight of your pink and wet lips around his thumb.

"Joel...!" You whine, frowning in frustration, sitting back on your heels, your hands resting on your thighs. He only looks down at you, his eyes serious and stern.

"No mouth or nothing at all." He says, and you frown.

"Alright." You mumble, making him smile.

"There's my good girl." He says, running his thumb on your cheek before placing his hands beside him to support himself. "Take my pants off, baby." He instructs softly.

You decide to first untie his boots, carefully removing them from his tired and calloused feet, hearing him groan in relief. You remove his socks too before undoing his zíper, your fingers curling underneath the waistband of his jeans and boxers down his legs before looking back up at his cock.

His throbbing, hard and aching cock. Aching for you. For more of you than he'd admit right now. For all of you.

You smile up at him, waiting for his permission to touch him, and he smiles down at you.

"Go on, baby. It's yours." He says, his voice affected by lust and affection as he gives himself to you.

"It's mine?" You whisper, shooting him a tender and playful smile as you loosely wrap your fingers around him, frowning when you feel how hard and warm he is, how tender his skin is despite how really hard he is in his center. Just like you remembered.

God, you missed him.

His pink and glistening tip, his thick and towering length, his vein that travels from his base all the way to his tip, his foreskin involving his tip, his balls heavy with everything you can't wait to begin craving.

"All yours, baby. It likes you. Missed you." He smiles down at you, and you can feel your cheeks a little warmer.

"I like it too. Missed it too." You whisper before stroking him slowly and gently, getting used again to how he feels in your hands.

"I can tell, baby..." He whispers, looking down at you. "Remember how you did it that time in the bathroom?" He asks softly, gently fixing your hair behind your shoulders.

"Uhum". You nod.

"Good. Do it just like that. Slow at first, then faster." He instructs softly, and you smile up at him.

You grip him a bit tighter and move your hand slowly, making him grunt. You watch how his foreskin moves along with your hands, covering and uncovering his tip, his precum pooling in his tip as he allows himself to be consumed by your touch. Your soft hands, your curious gaze and touch, how happy he is to have you again, to know you're his. To do this... And to see you everyday, to take care of you everyday, to kiss and hug you everyday. He moans and cups your cheek, tilting your face up as he leans in, his stomach pressing against your hand as he kisses you again. His lips desperate to never again forget what you taste like.

"You're so beautiful, my angel... You're so, so perfect for me." He says, his eyes travelling around your sweet and flustered face. "It's like you were made for me. Just for me, just so I could find you one day." He whispers.

The thought of being his, of your whole body belonging to him, your whole purpose to please and make him happy is more overwhelming than it should be, and it makes you purr in response. "Maybe I was." You say, making him smile and kiss your forehead before leaning back to give your hands more room to work.

"Maybe you were." He whispers tenderly.

You continue your steady movements, your eyes curiously watching him, and you feel your hands wet. You see his precum leaking out of him and you smear it all over his length, making him grunt as your hands slide easily along him, a wet sound filing your ears, making you lick your lips.

"Joel... Since it is mine...?" You ask sweetly, ready to beg for it if he says no.

"Guess I did say it." He sighs while he sits back. He's not strong enough for this. "It's yous, darling... You can do whatever you want with it." He gently pushes your hair behind your shoulders again, his cock throbbing with the ideas he knows you might have.

"I promise you wont regret it." You smile and lean in, smelling him curiously before gently kissing his very tip, your lips just ghostingly grazing his sensitive skin. He lets out a shaky breath when your warm breath hits his sensitive flesh, his eyelids fluttering closed.

"I know I won't, baby... I know I won't." He grunts quietly.

"Hmmm... Tastes like you." You purr, smiling up at him, your hand never stopping its slow and steady, tight pace on him.

"And is that good?" He chuckles softly.

"Uhum..." You lick it, earning a grunt from him. "Delicious." You purr before a long and firm swirl of your tongue around his head. "Hmmmm... Very, very delicious." You moan, twirling your tongue around him again, feeling how soft and wet the flesh of his tip is. Doing it just like that night, when he breathlessly called your name and let you taste him for the first time. "Better than I remembered."

"God... That's... Jesus, angel... Don't tease me like that..." He groans, and you frown.

"I'm not teasing you." You say, licking him again.

"But you are." He pants.

"I just like kissing it." You whisper with a sly smile, and he frowns.

"Yeah, baby. I... God, I like it too. But I need more, I've waited long enough." He growls, trying to keep himself together, his body desperate for more.

"Teach me how to give you more." You whisper.

Jesus Christ.

"Suck on it, baby. Go slow, not too deep. Do it like you were doing with your tongue, but sucking on it at the same time." He instructs breathlessly.

"Ok." You say before wrapping your soft lips around his throbbing tip again, this time sucking and licking simultaneously, earring a grunt.

"Good, just like that." He praises. "Don't forget your hand." He says, gently wrapping his large ones around yours, and you begin moving it up and down his length, moving your wrists at slightly different paces to increase his sensations. "Good job... Fuck... Just like that." He moans, his hands moving along with yours, their warmth reassuring and comforting.

You continue giving him more, gently suckling on his tip, enjoying the feeling of it against your lips and tongue, the curves of the underside of it, the warmth and taste, how wet and how soft it feels. You lock your lips around it and swirl your tongue around the head, and he moans when the underside of your tongue slides over his aching tip.

"Holy shit... Baby..." He pants, trying not to stop your exploration, even though he wants nothing more than to hold your head and relieve himself. Instead, he looks down at you, reminding himself that it is you, your mouth, your first time doing it, and his hand tenderly tangle on your hair as you continue getting to know him once again.

The feeling of his hand in your hair is soothing and reassuring. It makes you go deeper, taking him halfway through and sucking with your whole mouth, closing your eyes at the feeling of him inside your mouth, your tongue sliding along his underside, exploring a vein that's pulsing against your touch.

"Oh, baby... Fuck, that's it." He moans breathlessly in response, his hand unconciously tugging gently at your hair. "Try hollowing your cheeks now." He commands with a smooth voice.

You do it and as he occupies your whole mouth, for a sweet moment it's almost like the rest of him is gone. All but his cock in your mouth and his hand in your hair. The feeling of his warm, tender and hard flesh in your mouth is foreign yet familiar, like you've imagined it for so long that it's like you've always had it. Like you were always meant to have him.

"You're doing so good, baby... So fucking good for me." He praises, looking adoringly down at you, his face slightly flushed and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He looks Godly, he looks happy and satisfied, and it makes you want to take him in even deeper, to please him even more, so you do, your eyes locked on his.

The sounds he makes in response and the way his face contorted when he hit the back of your throat made you wanna take even more of him, let him fill your mouth. And the way he pulled on your hair and growled when you did it made you wanna do it again, and again, and again...

"Baby...! Fuck...!" He grunts, his voice strangled, unable to tell you to slow down, his chest and stomach rising and falling heavily with every movement of your mouth on him. The sight of how you were affecting him made you hungry for more, it made you want to take him even deeper and even harder, so you go, and you accidentally gag around him, your vision going pitch black for a second.

His hands tighten around yours, pulling himself out of your mouth as you gasp for air. He looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pierced together in concern.

"Angel, hey, baby." He says softly, calling you by your name as well, holding your shoulders to keep you back, and you sit on your heels, looking up at him with red and watery eyes. "Hey, look at me, don't do that, darling." He says, shaking his head while cupping your face and using his thumb to gently clean the precum and saliva dripping down your chin.

"But I wanted to..." You purr, looking up at him, your cheeks burning at your own eagerness. "Did I hurt you?" You ask, your eyes wide with the innocent worry.

He chuckles in response, his gorgeous face lightening up. "You didn't hurt me, baby, no." He fixes your hair. "But you're not ready for that yet. You're learning and you gotta go slow." He explains softly, kissing your forehead.

"Slowly. Alright." You agree before reaching back for him, stroking him slowly and tight.

"See? That feels good already, baby... As long as it's you doing it... It'll always feel good enough." He kisses your swollen lips tenderly. "No going too deep for now, alright? Or I won't let you do it anymore." He smiles softly despite his warning.

"Uhum." You nod before leaning back in, stroking him and cupping his balls.

"Oh... Careful with those, baby..." He says softly, an you gently soften your grip, just rolling them around in your hand.

"Does it feel good when I touch them?" You whisper, and he frowns at the question.

"Yes... Yes, baby. It feels really good when you touch them." He breathes, his voice restrained. "It'd feel really good if you sucked on them too." He pants, giving in to his desires. "Nice and gentle." He instructs.

You smile and take one of them in your mouth, making him hiss, his hand returning to your hair. You suck gently on it, rolling it around your tongue and feeling how it feels underneath the skin, how squishy it feels, how you can feel their outline underneath the stretchy and cool skin. He grunts and moans in response, unable to hide how your curious exploration affects him anymore.

You kiss your way up from his balls to his cock, licking and sucking gently on his base, your hand working near his tip as you place open mouthed kisses along his length.

"Baby... God..." He pants, the way you're so curious to tasting and exploring him makes him feel like he's about to lose his mind and his self-control. "Lick it for me, baby. Suck on it." He groans.

You listen and slide your parted lips up his side, your tongue drawing a wet line across him, making him buckle his hips involuntarily. You begin moving the same way up and down, parted lips and tongue tasting him while your lips suck along his length, paying special attention near his tip.

You suck his tip into your mouth before sliding your lips down, his tip pressing onto the side of your cheek and popping off with a wet "bop" that makes him moan.

"Fuck, that feels so good, baby." He chuckles, caught off guard, and you notice how much he enjoyed it, so you do it again, taking his tip in your mouth an sliding your lips sidesways towards his base, his tip once again pressing against your cheek before popping off, making him pull at your hair.

You moan and suck his head back inside your mouth, whimpering around him, your mouth eager to make him feel good and get the same reactions and sounds out of him as you grow more confident with your touch.

You look up at him, watching how you're affecting him, his chest rising and falling heavily, his lips parted, his eyes closed and his eyebrows furrowed.

The sight is too Godly to resist, so while you suck and Bob your head hungrily around him, you let your hands wander up his stomach and chest, your fingers clawing on his shirt and trying to tug at his skin. Instinctively, he leans back, giving you more room to explore his body as his eyes open to look down at you and his fingers draw soothing and tender circles in your scalp, just above the nape of your neck.

Your hands reach underneath his shirt, touching his sturdy and large torso, gripping his skin and moaning at how good he feels under your fingers. How good his belly feels to hold onto.

He takes one of your hands and squeezes it, his eyes closed in bliss, his eyebrows furrowing every time you swallow what's building up in your mouth and squeeze him a bit in against your lips.

"You're perfect, baby... You're doing it so good for me... Making me feel so good..." He praises, and the confirmation that you're making him feel good ignites the same need that you had before, making you want to go deeper, harder, faster and make his eyes roll back the same way he makes yours. "Let some leak down and use it to move your hands." He instructs, and you let some of his precum and your drool wet his cock.

"So messy..." You mumble around him, looking up at him, and he chuckles.

"Messy is good when you're doing this, baby. Messy feels very good." He explains.

"Hmmmmm..." You moan around him, taking your hands back to his cock and twisting your wrists, his foreskin moving under your wet palms and fingertips as the friction of your hands along with your mouth tightly enclosing around his tip make his hips buckle up, a hiss leaving his lips.

"Fuck... You... You figured all that rest yourself, baby?" He grunts, trying to hold his sensations back and let you enjoy yourself as he shifts his hips, trying to regain some control.

"Uhum." You nod around him, your tongue twirling on his sensitive and leaking tip as you caress him with the underside of your tongue, seeking the same reactions.

"Holy shit. Baby... I'm... Trying but... You're... Fuck... You're gonna have to stop." He pants, the desperation in his voice as he tries to hold back and last more almost making you laugh.

The sight of this big and strong man crumbling under your touch is new and exciting, making you feel powerful and...

Like a woman...?

The realization that his pleasure, his release is under your mercy makes you slow down and harden your movements, exactly like you do to yourself to prolong the feeling of being on the edge.

"Baby... God..." He looks for divine mercy, his eyes locked on the roof as you test his boundaries and limits, as you see how far you can take him before he loses control. "Please, my baby... Just... I need it. I need you." He pants, his eyes now glued to yours, the vulnerability and the honesty with which he gives himself to you makes you fasten your tongue around his tip and stroke him tighter, slowly increasing your hands speed. "Arrnh!" He groans. "Yes, baby, just like that, feels so fucking good."

His response makes you grow more confident, closing your eyes and doing what instinctively feels right to you. Hands tighter and faster with each stroke, lips wrapped underneath his head and tongue twirling and moving up and down, pushing against his urethra.

"Aaaargh! Baby... Pull back... Pull back, fuck..." You hear him grunting almost like he's in pain, and as you open your eyes, the sight makes you moan.

His hair disheveled, his gorgeous face scrunched and pained, his teeth clenched together, his eyes heavy and dark, his neck red, that one vein one second away from exploding. You continue, doing what you think is gonna make him feel even better, hollowing your mouth and suckling on his tip, just like he taught you, and his mouth falls open with a silent gasp, his eyes scrunched together.

"Baby... Pull... Back..." His stern voice sounds more like a pleading as he tries to get you to back off so he can finally let go, but instead, you begin sucking even harder around his tip, almost like you're trying to drink from him.

And he can't hold back anymore. He snaps, his hand tugging hard on your hair, so hard you whimper and furrow your brows, making him tug at your sheets instead, his grip so tight that his knuckles turn white and he pulls the sheets from underneath the mattress, his hips buckling up against his will, pushing more of himself into your mouth as you greedily lock your lips around him and drink every last drop that he gives you, sucking and stroking him progressively more gently and slowly as he comes down from his high.

"Aaaaah!" He pants and gasps for air when you let go of his still semi hard but utterly worn out cock, his arms threatening to give up underneath him as he looks down at you, his eyes hazed and filled with satisfaction and awe. "Baby that was... Amazing... You did so good, my baby, such a good fucking girl for me." He praises, too weak to do much more, and you smile up at him, proud of yourself for making him feel like this.

You climb up his body, and he lays back down, his hands on your waist and hips as you lay your naked body on top of his clothed torso, looking up at his blissful face. All of his wrinkles and the usual stressed frown between his eyebrows gone with the attention you just gave him, his eyes closed and his lips parted as he catches his breath.

"I told you you wouldn't regret it." You whisper, kissing his jaw.

"Regret it? Fuck... Baby... I... Why do you think I've never let you do this before?" He chuckles.

"Why?" You ask playfully, playing with the buttons of his flannel.

"Because I knew you'd make me feel so good, baby." He smiles. "I don't know what I did to deserve you. But I'm also not about to start questioning it and make God realize he sent you to the wrong motherfucker and take you away from me again." He chuckles.

You giggle and snuggle closer to him, letting go of your weight and feeling his body moving with his heavy breathing, the movement soothing you, like you're swimming in a sea of Joel Miller.

"Joel...?" You say quietly as you two just breathe and enjoy the warmth of one another.

"Yes, baby?" He whispers back, his hands caressing your back and holding you close.

"We need to take a shower... And put some clothes on." You say softly, lifting yourself and looking down at him, his face relaxed and almost silly, his eyes as soft and happy as always when they're looking at you.

"Guess we do." He smiles, pulling you down for a kiss, tongue tracing your lips before you grant him entrance and he deepens the kiss with renewed passion and tenderness. "I love you." He whispers against your lips, the words rolling easily from his lips, as if he's said them multiple times when you weren't there to hear it.

You pull back, looking into his eyes as he smiles at you. "I love you too." You whisper, your eyes welling up. "I love you, Joel." You repeat, smiling widely, and he flips you both around, his body hovering above yours.

"I love you, my precious angel... And finally you're with me to hear me say it." His eyes water. "I said it so many times... Looking at the picture you gave me... With that pretty smile... I couldn't stop thinking about you." He says, his voice loving and vulnerable.

"I waited for you to come back. Every single day, until yesterday..." Your voice breaks. "... I spent the sunsets looking at the gates, hoping I'd see you walk in again." You cry softly. "And I'd keep doing it. Eery single day... I'd always wait for you." You purr, and he cups your cheek that way, his thumb caressing the soft skin underneath your eyes as his other fingers wrap around your ear, his gaze loving and tender.

"And I always asked Frank about you. When he was the one on the radio I'd always sneak in and ask about you. I always made Tess ask about you. She said you were always on your porch," He smiles. "looking beyond the gates, trying to see me... I felt so bad, baby." He cries, looking down at you, his lips trembling.

There's the vulnerability that only shows up when you're around.

"Joel..." You whisper, cradling his face, trying to soothe him.

"You didn't deserve to go through any of that... Any of that." He says, his eyes closed in shame.

"Joel... Baby... Look at me, please." You purr sweetly, gently squeezing his face so he looks at you. "I'll tell you what I told my dad." You sigh to calm yourself down before speaking. "I only hurt the way I did for you because I love you. Because you mean so much to me. And I don't regret a thing. Not even the pain I felt. Because now that I have you... The pain is gone, and I know what I feel for you is real, because the pain I felt was real. And I'll never feel that pain again as long as I have you." You say tenderly, and he kisses you again, his mouth silently pouring all the pretty words he can't formulate to express just how much he loves you, just how much he feels for you as he finally allows the roots and branches inside his chest to grow and flourish, to set themselves now that he knows you're his forever, and he can almost feel his chest expanding just to fit all these new feelings you're sowing on his heart.

"You're my everything." He whispers lovingly. "You make me happy in a way I thought I'd never be again. In a way I know I don't deserve to be." He says weakly. "But you make me feel like I'm worthy of it." He cries. "Because if such a sweet and special angel like you can see through me, can love me... Then I'll try everyday to be the man you deserve." He says, and you smile.

"You already are the man I deserve, Joel. You're the man I want. The man I love. And I'm so glad you were the one to visit us. I'm so glad you found me." You say lovingly, and he kisses you again, his hands squeezing and caressing your soft skin as he tries to convince himself that he's not dreaming with you again.

"I wanna hold you all night long." He whispers against you lips.

"You can hold me under a warm shower first." You whisper, smiling, and he smiles back, getting off the bed and pulling you up to your feet as well.

You gently undo the buttons of his shirt and pull if off him, seeing his strong and sturdy torso again, remembering how good he looked that day, the water droplets glistening in his chest and stomach. You slowly run your hands up his arms, kissing the little "v" shape between his collarbones, and he groans softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Angel..." He whispers, gently tangling his hand on the hair on the back of your head and making you look up at him. "We've got the rest of our lives for that..." He kisses you gently, just a peck before he guides you to your bathroom, turning the shower on to let it warm up and watching you stand in front of the sink, looking at yourself in the mirror as you remove the ribbons from your hair.

He comes behind you, wrapping his big arms around your naked body and pressing his own skin against your back, just kissing your shoulder and caressing your stomach and your sides, his touch gentle but still possessive.

"It's gonna be good, I think." You smile, looking at his reflection in the mirror, caressing his arms.

"What's gonna be good?" He smiles, looking at your reflection, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"Spending the rest of our lives together." You say lovingly, and he chuckles.

"I couldn't make better plans myself." He kisses your neck before pulling back to check the water. "Come on. It's nice." He smiles at you, offering his hand, so you tie your hair up and join him.

He envelops you in his embrace, the warm and soothing water calming your muscles and soothing your mind as he gently washes your body, holding you with your back close to his chest, his touch feather light, careful around your most sensitive areas, and still your body jolts slightly when you feel his rough fingers.

Then you wash him too. His back, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his legs. He only doesn't let you wash his cock "To avoid not going straight to bed." According to him.

He wraps you in your towel and grabs one for himself. You both walk back into your room, and you put on a pair of pink pajamas with red hearts. He dresses something out of his backpack, just a plain t-shirt and some boxers.

You lay down and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest and caressing your hair.

"Promise I won't just wake up tomorrow and this is gonna have been a dream?" You whisper, and he smiles.

"Only if you promise me I won't wake up in the QZ without you again." He says.

"I promise." You whisper. "You're not going anywhere, and even if you went, I'd go with you... You're mine." You smile against his lips.

"I'd never take you out of here, my angel..." He says lovingly. "But I promise I'd always find my way back to you."

You kiss him again, a more simple and intimate kiss, the type of kiss that says a lot without doing much, and he holds you close with his large and warm hand on the nape of your neck, not wanting to lose your warmth just yet.

"I love you, Joel." You whisper again. You're never gonna get tired of repeating it.

"I love you, my angel... my baby... my..." He finishes with your name, his voice as soft as ever, and you nestle even closer to him, feeling safe, loved and happy in the arms of the man you longed for so many nights. Indulging in the warmth you missed so much, a warmth that no blanket could replicate as you shivered, falling asleep with his name on your lips and your eyes wet.

"Goodnight, Joel." You whisper against his chest.

"Goodnight, my angel." He whispers back, kissing your forehead and sighing in happiness. His chest full again for the first time in... Twenty years.

Finally!!!

Finally I was happy and proud of this, and finally it is yours! I'm once again so, so happy and so grateful for each and every single one of you who supported me through this year and a bit that I'm around here. This story is over a year old, which just comes to show how patient you all are and how much we love Joel Miller 🤧

I'm really honoured and happy to have received every message, every comment, every like and every reblog in this series. I hold it really kind to my heart (I wish I could show it to my friends) and having you to share it with means the world to me.

I love you all and I hope this met your expectations 🩷

See ya 🩷🎀

Tags:

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #dirty hands #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #joel miller smut #ghostfanwriter

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