#Timber Ridge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 2 months ago

Text

❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs.

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color. The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago�� He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about… a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn’t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together — drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

“But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you.

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

595 notes · View notes

lefteagleblizzard · 1 month ago

Text

𝔘𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔢𝔡 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Joel’s wound tight when the silence Ellie left behind grows too heavy. One night, you give him the relief he won’t ask for and he takes it, rough and unrelenting.

Tags: a request that I received <3. Set in The Last of Us Part 2. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Established relationship. Age Gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. bottom male reader. Size difference. Blowjob (R giving). Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 3000

He hadn’t told you what happened with Ellie, hadn’t so much as looked at you after he got back until tonight. The house creaked with the slow stretch of old timber settling in for the night, the fire crackled low in the hearth.

Everything was muffled, but not silent. The walls groaned with age beneath the distant push of the wind outside and the floorboards beneath your knees creaked like bones remembering movement. There was no low strum of his guitar, no trace of the music he played so beautifully, just the wet, rhythmic muffles of your mouth dragging over his cock.

Knees planted wide on the scuffed hardwood, thighs sore, spine bent in that perfect forward tilt to keep your throat aligned as his cock stretched your mouth open, slow but insistent, weighted heavy on your tongue and dripping thick, bitter precum across your palate.

His head was tipped back, resting against the worn cushion of the couch. The flannel shirt he had on was shoved open and barely hanging on, the sweat at the center of his chest cooling in slow rivulets, catching in the dips of scar tissue and hair that dusted the ridge of his sternum. His abdomen flexed in soft tremors beneath the planes of his stomach, tightening every time your nose kissed his pelvis. The firelight painted his throat in copper shadows, glinting off the slight stubble and the edge of his gritted teeth, where every grunt and half-muttered curse threatened to break loose.

Every few strokes he let out these groans that caught in his chest, or that stuttering Southern fuck drawn out on the exhale when you swallowed around him just right. It was low, broken, like he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of hearing him lose control.

You felt it in the twitch of his thighs under your palms, in the way his hand stayed locked in your hair, not pulling but just holding.

Your nose pressed into the coarse thatch at the base of his cock, breathing in the sharp musk of him, throat pulsing around him as you took him deeper than was smart.

You were drowning in the weight of him, tongue aching from the effort of flattening, curling and milking every inch you could manage. Your jaw ached from the fullness of him, from the effort of staying open wide enough to take the length and girth that Joel Miller carried.

Fuck, you loved the way he sounded when he hits the back of your throat, tongue curled along the underside of his cock, mapping the pulsing vein that ran from base to head. His hips jerked too rough for a second, but you forced yourself to hold steady, let your throat spasm tight around him.

“S’tight, shit—look at you,” he muttered, voice gravel and ash, one hand dragging down to cradle your jaw as you bobbed slowly and messy.

“Been down there so long—Hnnnh… thass it, fuckin’—shit, so good to me,” he grunted, breathing through grit teeth, one hand still braced in your hair, keeping you close and locked down.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch and hiss, hips canting forward again too fast. You choked a bit that time, throat clenching tight around the girth of him and the sound you made went straight through him. Joel’s thighs tensed, his breath stuttered and his hand slid down the back of your neck like he was grounding himself more than you.

“Easy,” he rasped. “Mouth on you’s fuckin’ dangerous.”

You couldn’t speak, so you showed him by hollowing your cheeks and let your tongue curl just under the ridge, let him feel the slick glide and tight suction.

He was close. You could feel it in the way he stopped fighting the groans now, letting them fall from his mouth with each slow pump of his hips. In the way his hand tightened, his fingers trembling against your scalp.

“Gonna… fuck, you better—hnnnhh—” He never finished the warning. He didn’t need to.

You buried him deep, held him there and felt the full spurts of hot come flooding the back of your throat as his whole body went taut. He groaned something wrecked and guttural, teeth clenched, hand cradling your jaw while you swallowed and didn’t stop until you milked the last drops.

Head now tipped back against the couch as he fell back down slowly, the thick column of his neck exposed in the golden hush of firelight, the muscles taut beneath the sweat-slick skin like cords straining to hold something heavy in place.

The light from the hearth flickered across the hard edge of his jaw, across the deep lines carved into his cheekbones, across the thick stubble that dusted his throat and jawline in silvered streaks. He looked drained but too stubborn to admit it.

That distant, hollow stare stayed fixed to the ceiling, that faraway look that made the whole room feel colder.

So you crawled up slow, palms brushing against the meat of his thighs, then his abdomen, the hard plane of his stomach twitching under your touch. You moved like someone crossing a minefield: respectful, careful, but with no intention of stopping. Not until you were straddling him properly, bare thighs draped across his as the weight of your body settled on his lap.

Joel made a low sound in his chest, something between a grunt and a sigh, but didn’t move. Not until you leaned forward, chest brushing his, breath ghosting along his jaw.

He grumbled at that, which rumbled through him like distant thunder. His head rolled forward slowly, neck muscles flexing and he stared down at you but not at your face.

His eyes landed on your chest, gaze dark and unreadable, lashes thick and shadowed by his brow.

Wide palms settled on your waist in a firm grip, callused fingers curling around your hips like this was where you belonged.

Your hips rolled forward in a slow, deliberate grind, the bare curve of your ass dragging lazily over his thighs, brushing his softening cock. Your own slid up the faint trail of hair on his abdomen, all of this to stir the bear.

Speaking of which.

Joel exhaled through his nose with disbelief, his head lolling back again for a second as your weight ground across him. The muscles in his jaw flexed tight and when his eyes cut down to you, it was possible to see that twitch again at the corner of his mouth. A subtle, exasperated smirk that wasn’t quite fond, it was equal parts warning and affection.

“Give me a second, for Christ’s sake. ’Less you like the sound’a my hips crackin’ when I roll you over.” His voice was rougher than usual, the Southern drawl thicker than molasses from the strain of release and memory.

You bit your lip at that, chuckling low, not backing off in the slightest. If anything, you rolled your hips a little harder, enough to shift the angle of pressure and feel the twitch beneath you, the involuntary kind that meant part of him was already thinking about giving it to you again.

“You’re a whiny, cranky bastard. All that muscle and no stamina.” you scoffed, and brought your hand up to cradle his cheek, dragging your thumb across the bristle of his beard, slow and teasing.

His eyes narrowed and you watched that flicker of challenge pass through them, the way it always did when you gave him shit.

“You keep talkin’ like that, I’ll make sure you’re walkin’ funny tomorrow.” He muttered, the threat in his voice dry and almost lazy. His hand curled tighter at your waist, thumb digging harder into your hip as a hint of warning there.

You grinned, fingers curling deeper into the coarse line of his beard, thumb dragging up to the edge of his mouth, where that smirk was twitching into a scowl.

His eyes pierced right through you like you were the problem he needed to solve, that intimidation wasn’t an act.

Joel Miller was scary.

Terrifying when he got that look in his eyes like he was seconds away from either fucking you senseless or dragging you out by the scruff of your neck.

And it made you want him more.

Because under all that rage and steel, was a man who’d forgotten how to ask for anything. Help, comfort, love. He shoved it down until it festered and hardened and cracked around the edges.

That’s why you didn’t flinch when his eyes bored into you like he was trying to figure out why the fuck you cared.

You shifted in his lap, your hand never left his cheek, your other still firm on his shoulder, thumb dragging along the dense muscle under his flannel. Now, as you leaned in a closer, forehead nearly brushing his, your tone changed.

“Did she have fun?”

For a second you saw something flicker behind his eyes, a crack in the stone.

“She laughed,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. “At the start.”

Just that. Just enough to bleed with implication. You didn’t press further. Would never push him for what he wasn’t ready to give.

You leaned your head in until your brow pressed to his, breath mingling and let the silence stretch for a second.

“She’s a good kid,” you murmured. “Hell of a lot like you, too.”

He tensed, the frustration coiled again in his jaw, the flicker of doubt re-light behind his eyes like a match struck too close to an open wound. You pressed on anyway, slow and calm.

You let your fingers drift along his temple. “You keep everything locked in like that makes it easier. You think if you keep quiet, you’re protecting people. But really it’s you who’s paying the price.”

His eyes closed. Just a second. As if those words pressed a thumb right into a bruise.

“I know you think you’re too far gone, or too broken, or too—fuck, I don’t know—too old to be fixed. You’re not a bad man, Joel. You’re someone who’s been through hell and still gives a fuck. She still loves you, y’know. Even if she’s hurt.”

He finally looked at you again and his stare wasn’t blank anymore. It was burning. Like something finally broke open behind his eyes and he couldn’t shove it back down.

His hands jerked tighter on your hips, spine no longer slack against the cushion, the muscle in his arms flexing under your touch as he dragged you closer until he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His beard scratched across your throat, bristly and warm, the coarseness scraping a low gasp out of your lungs as his breath rushed hot against your pulse. You felt the wet drag of his exhale on your skin. The tremble in his grip as his fingers dug so deep into your waist they left dents.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You just gave her time. A chance.”

His breath came slow, warm against the sweat-damp skin of your neck, each exhale threading with heat that curled down your spine and settled heavy in your gut. Joel hadn’t moved from the crook of your neck, his beard scratching softly every time his mouth shifted.

You weren’t moving anymore, just sitting in his lap, your cock pinned between your stomach and the iron weight of his abdomen.

His hands hadn’t loosened and his face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed tight to your skin like he couldn’t get close enough and you felt his shoulders tremble, not a sob, but that edge, a brutal restraint that defined him.

He made a low, guttural growl that vibrated against your throat, a sound scraped up from somewhere deep and gutted inside him. His grip crushed tighter on your hips, fingers digging hard enough to make you ache in the best way as he dragged you down, forcing the full weight of your body against his throbbing, thick and hard cock.

“Quiet now,” he muttered, an husky, grounded drawl of his voice curling around the words. “Ain’t wanna hear nothin’ but my name off your lips.”

A crooked smile formed before you could hold it back and he knew it was there. Could hear it in your voice when you leaned in to whisper, “You really want me quiet?” you murmured, cocky even as your breath stuttered from how hard he was beneath you.

That was all you got out before Joel’s teeth sank into the junction of your neck and shoulder hard enough to rip the breath from your lungs. His mouth dragged back with a rough scrape of beard and you swore your hips bucked down against him without your permission against the thick heat of him and he groaned, deep and feral, nose flaring as he pulled back, tongue flicking over the teeth-mark left behind like he wanted to taste the defiance out of you.

Hot breath dragging across your skin as he ducked his head and buried his face in your chest, biting your pec, sucking dark marks into your skin, lips closing hard around your nipple and tugging until you hissed through clenched teeth.

“F-fuck, Joel—”

You arched back, spine bowing as his hands worked you open from behind, thumbs circling, pressing deeper, coaxing your hole open with rough little twists. Those wide, callused palms engulfing the swell with no hesitation or softness.

He squeezed once to feel the whole shape of you. Fingers sank in deep, parting your cheeks with a bruising pressure that left you gasping. The heel of his palm dug into the small of your back, forcing your hips forward as his thumbs dragged along the cleft of your ass, parting you more for him.

Your head dropped forward against his, teeth grit as he breached you with one thick finger.

“Sh-shit—Joel—” you grit out, jaw tight, fingers scrabbling into his shoulders. You weren’t trying to stop him, just brace yourself. He groaned into your sternum. “That’s it,” he muttered, teeth draggin’ lower, tongue hot on your belly. “Tight like that—shit—hold on to me like that, boy…”

Every drag of his beard stung like fire, but you were shivering now, muttering curses that broke into moans as he worked the finger deeper, pumping slow, twisting cruel when he hit a spot that made your thighs spasm.

“Fuuuck,” you hissed. Your eyes flew open, but no more words came when that second finger slidin’ in thick and deep. Teeth sank into his shoulder due to the burn that tore up your spine like a live wire and you grunted into his skin as your hole stretched around him.

The pressure from his fingers built, twisted, drove into you harder and when he curled them just right, you cried out and his hand on your thigh gripped like a vice.

“There it is,” he ground out, voice tight and breathin’ heavy. “Right there, huh? That’s the fuckin’ spot.” His jaw flexed while his fingers curled deeper, meaner.

You choked, mouth open, hips grinding against his hand before you even realized what you were doing.

When he pulled them out, the loss made you whimper. His hands were already back on your hips before you could even shift. Big and brutal, thumbs pressing into the meat of your ass, fingertips digging sharp into your waist like he was physically restraining himself from flipping you over and fucking the breath out of you then and there.

But he didn’t move, just stared up at you from beneath that heavy, furrowed brow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the flex of tension beneath the beard.

You braced one hand against his shoulder, the other sliding down to grip his thick shaft, still slick from your mouth, flushed and leaking. His breath hitched when you lined him up, the tip dragging hot across your rim, your own body trembling from the stretch to come.

You pressed down slow and he grunted, deep and low, his hands crushed into your waist as the head of his cock slipped in, tight and unforgiving, dragging every inch of frustration through the ring of your body.

A sweet burn that brought pleasure and agony as his cock split you open with that blunt, unforgiving girth and still you pushed, forcing yourself down until your ass was flush against his lap and his cock was buried deep inside, pressed snug against that spot that made your breath catch and your eyes roll back.

Joel’s head tipped forward, breath catching in his throat and he groaned against your chest. A hot, shuddering exhale of air that made you throb around him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice muffled against your skin. You couldn’t speak, just clenched around him, muscles fluttering at the stretch and his hips jolted upward instinctively, driving deeper into that already brutal press.

Your thighs tensed as you rose, only to sink back down with a wet slap of skin on skin, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your voice come out in choked, bitten-off moans.

Joel cursed under his breath, hands locking tighter around your waist. Your thighs slapped against his, every thrust downward shoved a groan from him, sometimes muffled into your neck, sometimes dragged out through clenched teeth.

One of his hands slid to your ass, cupping it hard, spreading you open to take more. The other stayed firm at your waist, holding you in place. His breath was ragged now, teeth grazing your throat between murmurs.

“Goddamn… keep goin’. Just like that.” he growled, one hand sliding up your back, holding you tighter, voice hot against your neck, beard scraping raw against your throat.

You fucked yourself on him harder, bouncing now, thighs flexing as you rose and dropped, walls wide as he rearranged your insides and forced every nerve open.

Fingernails dug into his shoulders as you gripped them for dear life, sweat dripping from your jaw down onto his chest. He met your rhythm with short, brutal thrusts from below, matching your bounce, driving up into you with every slap of flesh on flesh.

“Joel—fuck—I—” you whimpered and he cut you off with a growl, lips hot on your ear, one hand slipping up to the back of your neck and gripping.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice thick, grinding. “Don’t talk. Just feel it. That’s what you need, ain’t it?”

His cock hit that spot again and again and again, every thrust pushing you closer, dragging your orgasm up from your spine until you were shaking in his lap, voice cracking with every downward thrust and when you came, your frame jerked, back arched, cock spurting thick, white ribbons across his stomach, painting his abs and the trail of hair leading down to where you were still taking every inch of him inside you.

His mouth clung to your throat when his whole body jerked, a sound punched out of him that was half groan, half growl as his cock pulse inside you, thick spurts spilling deep and hot. He clutched you tight against him as he came, arms like steel bands enveloping your frame.

You stayed seated on him for a longer time than either of you needed to, really. Your chest pressed to his, breath slipping out in quiet, broken pulls. His face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, breath cooling the slick trail of sweat he’d left there with every grunt and curse.

“Y’okay?” you whispered, one hand moving slow to comb through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Should be me askin’ that,” he muttered, his stubble scraped along your collarbone as he exhaled hard. His voice was low and hoarse, worn thin by all the breath he’d forced out with every thrust.

“Y’done brooding now?” you teased gently, shifting your hips just a little to feel him again. He hissed a breath through his teeth and gave your waist a warning squeeze.

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only that low, tired affection that you’d learned to read through his roughness.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and lingering. “Might not know what’s goin’ on in that thick head of yours,” you whispered, “but I do know you don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

Joel didn’t move. But his breath hitched before sliding one hand up the back of your shirt and splayed it there, holding you flush against him.

“You keep sayin’ that,” he murmured, voice rasping at the edges. “One day I might believe it.”

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something sad. Because he meant it, he wanted to believe it. But Joel was built out of loss and sacrifice and he hadn’t learned yet how to let anyone else carry the weight.

“Could barely sit straight before you even finished,” you teased, trying to keeping it light, knowing he’d bristle otherwise. “If you ask me, I think you’re tryin’ to break me in half.”

That got a reaction. A faint huff, almost a laugh.

His hands twitched like he meant to lift you off but didn’t quite follow through. “I gotcha,” he murmured instead. “Hang on.”

You shifted with a quiet groan, lifting yourself slowly off him slick and slow, making you both hiss at the stretch. His hands caught your hips on instinct, holding you steady as you dropped beside him on the couch, legs shaky, body still pulsing.

Neither of you spoke for a bit, room quiet and full of the aftermath. Joel sat there with his legs still spread, streaks of your release painting his stomach, glistening through the coarse trail of hair leading down his abdomen.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting your fingers trace lazy circles on his thigh and he didn’t push you off or pull away.

His hand slid around your back, palm splayed warm between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there against him as he let himself rest with you and, for a man like him, that was as close as he’d ever come to saying he was safe.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x male reader #joel miller x you #joel and ellie #x male reader #male reader #x bottom male reader #bottom male reader #the last of us x reader #the last of us x male reader #the last of us x you #ellie the last of us #the last of us #gay smut #gay #video games #game joel miller #male!reader

305 notes · View notes

thebekerslegecy · 10 months ago

Text

👑 MEDIEVAL MODS + CC | The BEKER LEGECY

I am currently playing Morbid’s ULTIMATE Decades Challenge. Below is a list of all of the Mods + CC I am using in my game🐝

🍯 MODS: Wicked Whims (+18) MC Command Center MC Woohoo More Traits in CAS Royalty Mod Medieval Interactions Ye Olde Cookbook + Stoves +Fires Require Wood + Hunting & Foraging ModHome Region +Townie Demographics by Kuttoe Fashion Authority 2 by Lot51 Functional Broom Functional Loom Functional Pottery Wheel Archery Skill Blacksmithing Skill Historical Simolean Override - English Shillings Children/Toddlers Can Die of Anything Playable Harp + LuteFunctional Horses & Carriages, No Helmet Create Campfire Bonfire Anywhere Arranged Marriages Custom Farm Animals Purchase Custom Animals Zero’s Historical Mods (pickpocket, disease, etc.) Phone to Notebook Replacement Sippy Cup + Toys Default Replacements Stuff for Pets Natural Knitting Stuff PreTeen LittleMsSam Mods ( Pick what you want) Sims4me

🐝 CC:

🍯Build:

TSR Ye Medieval - Ligna Windows Set TSR Ye Medieval - Timber Frame Walls TSR Ye Medieval - Framework Walls TSR - Broken Wood Door TSR Ye Medieval - Soil Terrain TSR Ye Medieval - Hay Ground Terrain

🐝Objects:

Lili’s Palace - Folklore Set No. 1 Linzlu’s Frontier Items TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 1 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 2 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 3 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 4 TRS Ye Medieval - Tristan Bathroom TSR Ye Medieval - Tavern Part 1 TSR Ye Medieval - Candle Holder TSR - Skara Stool TSR - The Old Garden Boat TSR - The Old Garden Quay Fish Market Decor Fish Rack Fish Crate V1 Fish Crate V2 Bohrium Vegetables I Old Rustic Well (“Eco Living” version) Stable Set by Moriel Rustic Animal Shed Rustic Chicken Coop Rustic Bee Box Bassinet + Infant Crib SimsHistoricalfinds tumblr (directory) SIMS 4 MEDIEVAL CC TheSenseMedieval Allhistorical cc tumblr Medieval & Fantasy Mods List | Notion Kosmic Hippie's CC Finds — 👑 MEDIEVAL MODS + CC | The Sims 4 antiquated plumbobs : Directory CC Finds Navigation

🍯CAS:

TheSimsResource (Ye Medieval) TheSimsResource (Sifix) Simverses Melancholy Maiden | creating Historical Sims 4 CC | Patreon satterlly | creating The Sims 4 CC | Patreon

🐝 SAVE FILE:

Srsly’s Blank Save Map Replacement Medieval Windenburg Medieval Map Replacement

🍯MY SIMS 4 MEDIEVAL WORLDS:

How to change sims4 world names (for existing save)How to change sims4 world names ( for new save)

Kingdom of France – Willow Creek’ Mali Empire – Oasis Springs’ Kingdom of Norway – Newcrest’ Inca Empire – Granite Falls’ Holy Roman Empire – Windenburg’ Kingdom of Denmark– Magnolia Promenade’ Republic of Genoa – San Myshuno’ Kingdom of Hungary – Forgotten Hollow’ Grand Duchy of Lithuania – Brindleton Bay’ Aztec Empire – Selvadorada’ Kingdom of Sicily – Del Sol Valley’ Ottoman Empire – StrangerVille’ Hawai’i – Sulani’ Kingdom of Scotland- Glimmerbrook’ Duchy of Milan – Brightchester’ Maya city-states – Evergreen Harbor’ Tatooine– Batuu’ Goryeo– Mt. Komorebi’ Kingdom of England – Henford-on-Bagley’ Republic of Venice– Tartosa’ Duchy of Burgundy – Moonwood Mill’ Kingdom of Aragon – Copperdale’ Mongol Empire – San Sequoia’ Mamluk Sultanate – Chestnut Ridge’ Kingdom of Ayutthaya – Tomarang’ Kingdom of Castile - Ciudad Enamorada kingdom of Moldova - Ranvenwood

#MyCCList #1300s #decades challenge #historical challenge #sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 historical #sims 4 legacy #ultimate decades challenge #THEBEKERLEGACY #the1300s

320 notes · View notes

dvchvnde · 6 months ago

Text

Carmacks, Yukon. 1995.

"You shouldn't have come here," he growls, hand tightening around your throat.

The force pushes you hard against the wall of the bar, and as you fall, he follows. Leveraging the thick spread of his body to smother your smaller frame. With him boxing you in, there's nowhere to go. No escape—

"You should have run—"

He shakes you when he finishes, knocking your head into the wall as he glares down at you, lip curled into a snarl beneath the beard. Anger is writ over ever dip, every line, every pore of his body. He seems to thrum with it. Muted trembles. Little quakes. Grinds his teeth together because he knows despite the carnage you inspired inside of him, you just don't get it.

The danger you're in.

All you can do is gasp at the blunt, tight spill of pain bubbling under the dig of his fingers into delicate flesh. Blink through the haze clotting around, black fingerprints smeared on the edges of your vision. Hypoxia, you think. And then: oh, old friend. We did it again.

But it offers no comfort, no succor. It just burns. Oh, god, it burns—

Your body aches down to your marrow. Fire in your veins, burning you up from the inside out. Agony like you've never felt before. Could have never imagined—

But through it all, the sutures hewn inside your soul thrum. The fire is liquid. Molten. It settles in the pit of your belly when he kicks his boot between your ankles, knee bending to rest on the faded oak wall behind you. Holding you down as you heave, and gasp, and whimper around the tight cinch of his hand swallowing your throat up in his palm—

His head turns sharply towards you. Fingers spasming once. Twice. It loosens. Grows lax. You gag on the air you gulp you gulp down too fast, watching him with watery, blurring eyes as every muscle in his body snaps.

His shoulder tense. Drawing into a tight line. Nostrils flaring. Fluttering. His broad chest expands, and—

A rumble. A low groan.

It doesn't make sense. You don't understand it. But his thigh slides up, denim clad leg pressing tight to your core—

It hits you when his lashes flutter. When his eyes roll as he breathes in deep again, and again.

He can smell it, you think. The stickiness between your thighs. Arousal dripping into the gusset of your panties as he heaves above you. So close. Too close. You can't think with him this near—can only feel. And feel you do—

"John—" it's desperate. Raw. He shudders. Blinks his eyes open, stained, wet lichen rimmed and lined red. Desire thickens in those cesium depths, frothing over until his iris is drenched black. "I don't know what's going on—"

"Don't you, sweetheart?"

You've never heard him sound like that before. So low, it dredged the bottom of his chest. Scraping charred sediment and gravel into a loose fist. Felled timber thrown over a fire. The snap, snap, crack of sap burning in the kindling. A hoarse roar.

The heat of it melts you. Liquified. He keeps you up with his hand around your neck. Sat on the thick of his thigh like a child. Wax in hands. You can't move. Can't think—

"I'll tell you," he rumbles, his hand slipping between your bodies to snatch your wrists up in his fist. He brings them up above your head, pushing them into the wall. The hand around your neck tightens again. "But only once. So pay attention, love."

Your head spins. Mind melts. It's a slurry—soporific, molasses-thick. You can't think around this ache inside of you. This tug. This thing that brought you here. To him. Thoughts scattered. Rusting by too quick.

But when he moves, every molecule in your body snaps to attention. Freezing in a tight, tense line.

You catch the quirk of his mouth when he closes in, reshaping around the ghost of his snarl. He likes your submission. You don't know why you know this. You just do.

(just like you know you'll roll on your belly if it pleases him—

no. no. you wouldn't. stop stop stop—)

The unnatural warmth of his nose bleeding into your skin before it even kisses the appled ridge of your cheek. He breathes in the sweat-slicked scent of your syrupy skin. Another groan. You feel this one deep in your bones.

He slides his nose down your cheek until his mouth is pressed against your jaw. The touch is brief, but all you feel is heat. Burning you up, burning you—

"m'gonna eat you alive, Bambi."

SYNOPSIS: fated mates. Yukon in the 90s. John Price may or may not be a man. you're an inexperienced wildlife biologist sent to the Yukon to explain a series of strange animal attacks that have plagued the small community. it all changes when you meet a local hunter named John Price. a man everyone seems to warn you away from, and one who seems to want nothing at all to do with you at all. you're keen to do just that, but something keeps pulling you closer.

#okay admittedly this is an og story but the mml is john price anyway so #john price x reader #captain john price x reader

352 notes · View notes

honeyandruin · 10 days ago

Text

Between the Shadows

Chapter Two: One Step Inside

"You don’t believe in peace until you’re standing in it. And even then, it feels like a trap."

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: PTSD, emotional distrust, mild violence, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

"You're safe now—at least, that's what they say. But your hands won't stop shaking."

----

The snow crunches louder the closer you get to the valley.

Your legs are stiff from the last stretch—four days of cold air and quiet trees, ribs bruised from the last close call you don’t talk about. You’ve got a tear in your coat from a fence post and a knife hilt that keeps bruising your hip. There’s dried blood under your fingernails you haven’t had the luxury of washing off.

And still—you keep walking.

Because on the other side of the next ridge, something breaks the trees.

A wall.

It rises massive out of the mist, built from timber, scrap, and silence. You slow without thinking, gloved hand braced on your thigh as your boots grind to a halt. It doesn’t look like much from a distance—just another collection of defenses pretending to be civilization—but you know better. He told you about this place.

Jackson.

If it’s real. If he wasn’t delirious. If this isn’t just another dead promise someone bled for.

You approach from the south, crossing a thin frozen stream and a field dusted in bone-colored snow. No movement. No voices. Just your own breath fogging the air and the slow ache building behind your knees.

Then—movement on the wall.

A figure. Rifle slung across his chest. He watches you from the tower, then disappears. A second later, a smaller door near the main gate creaks open.

And out comes the welcoming party.

Three of them. One with a shotgun. One with a walkie clipped to his chest. One—closer—carrying nothing but an attitude.

He steps forward first. Tall. Pale. Thin-lipped and narrow-eyed, like he’s always half a second from assuming the worst.

“Stop right there.”

You do.

“I’m not armed,” you say, lifting your hands. Slow. Controlled.

“Don’t care,” he snaps. “What the fuck you doin’ walkin’ up to a settlement alone?”

“I’m looking for someone,” you say. “Tommy Miller. He—”

“Convenient.” His tone sharpens. “That’s a name we all know. Makes it easy to lie.”

You don’t flinch.

He circles you slowly, boots grinding into the snow. The other two stay near the door, but their eyes are sharp. You keep yours forward.

“I helped him,” you say. “A few weeks ago. He told me if I made it here—”

“That he’d let you in?” The guard chuckles low. “That’s cute.”

You say nothing. Your hands stay up. But your knife is a breath away. Always.

He stops in front of you, close enough to smell his sour breath and see the red in his knuckles. His jaw tightens.

“You could be infected,” he mutters. “You could be lying. Could be anything.”

“I’m not—”

The butt of his rifle slams into the side of your head before the sentence’s done.

Pain flashes hot-white behind your eye. You stagger, foot sliding sideways in the snow, and hit your knees hard enough to rattle your teeth. The world shifts. Tilts. Your ears ring.

You gasp, one hand bracing on the ground.

“Let’s check her bag,” the guard mutters. “Bet she’s hiding something.”

He reaches toward you.

You move first.

Your knife is out before he touches the strap—blade pressed to the inside of his jugular. Not deep. But enough to warn.

“I wouldn’t,” you whisper.

He jerks back with a curse.

“You bitch—”

“Hey!”

The shout cracks like a gunshot.

You freeze, the guard turns.

Tommy.

He’s already halfway down the path from inside the gate, coat open, rifle slung. His boots kick up snow and gravel as he storms forward.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He barks.

The guard steps back instinctively. “She was armed—she didn’t answer, she came at me—”

“She saved my life,” Tommy growls. “She’s the only reason I’m standing here, and you just clocked her like she was carrying spores in her fuckin’ blood?”

Tommy reaches your side in seconds. Drops to a crouch. His gloved hand hovers near your temple.

“You alright?”

Your head throbs. Your teeth ache. But you nod once. “I’m fine.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Then stands again, turning toward the others.

“Get him off the wall. Now. Go tell Maria.”

They don’t argue. The guard who hit you mutters something under his breath, but backs off. The others follow.

Tommy helps you up—not rough, not careful. Just steady.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That’s not how we do things here.”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t believe him. But because the gate is behind him now—open.

Inside: rooftops. Smoke curling from chimneys. The faint sound of children laughing.

It doesn’t feel safe. Not yet.

But you’re here, and you’re not about to turn back.

The gate shuts behind you with a clang that echoes all the way down your spine.

You follow Tommy in silence.

Your boots leave slush prints on the salted stone path, your shoulders still tense, blood still drying under your collar. The blow to your head throbs dull and slow, but you grit your teeth and walk anyway.

Because this—this whole place—can’t be real.

But it is.

At least, it looks like it.

The houses are close together, each one painted in faded tones like a Norman Rockwell painting left out in the sun. Pale blue. Moss green. Soft yellow. Window boxes hang crooked but full, stuffed with dried herbs and early-spring frost. Quilts flap gently on clotheslines strung between porches. Firewood is stacked neatly beside doorways.

It smells like pine and ash and, impossibly—fresh bread.

You pass a woman sweeping her steps with a worn broom. Two children race past with scarves trailing behind them like flags. One of them laughs—loud, high, unafraid. It hits you harder than the rifle did.

No one’s watching you with suspicion. Not anymore. Not since Tommy waved them off. But you feel eyes anyway. Like a muscle memory you can’t shake.

You keep your hands at your sides. Not near your blade. But close.

Tommy walks ahead with that familiar limp, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“We’ve got over two hundred in here now,” he says. “Give or take. It shifts when we trade with other groups. Or when winter does what winter does.”

You don’t answer. You’re trying to memorize everything.

There’s a garden off to your right, protected by a chicken-wire fence. Frozen now, but tended. You see labels sticking out of the ground. Carrots. Kale. Beans.

Solar panels line the roof of one building, and a rust-streaked windmill creaks softly overhead. Someone’s hung fairy lights between the eaves of a community center, blinking gently against the late-afternoon gloom.

It’s too clean.

Too warm.

Too quiet.

You scan every alley. Every second-floor window. Every stranger’s hands.

You don’t breathe easier.

Tommy glances back once. Like he knows.

“This ain’t a trap,” he says gently. “It’s not a trick. Took us a long time to get here.”

You say nothing.

He stops in front of a two-story house near the end of a long, sloped lane. The roof’s a little caved on one side, but the porch looks solid. There’s a swing on the corner, wrapped in a wool blanket to keep it dry. Two boots sit beside the front door, mismatched and mud-streaked.

It looks lived in, but not claimed.

Tommy steps up to the door and pulls a key from his pocket. “We’ve got a rotation,” he says. “When people leave or don’t come back… we clean it up. Reset it. Make it available.”

He offers the key to you.

You don’t take it at first.

He waits.

“You sure?” You ask finally.

He doesn’t blink. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You take the key. It’s warm from his hand.

Inside, the house smells like cedar and something else. Lemongrass, maybe. You stand just inside the doorway, boots still on, pack still on your shoulders. The place is quiet, dim, full of furniture that doesn’t look like it’s been touched in months.

A fireplace. A battered armchair. A bookshelf filled with mismatched titles and faded spines.

There’s a rug under your boots that muffles the echo of your step.

It feels like a memory. One that you don’t trust.

Tommy hangs back near the doorway. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Bedrooms upstairs. We’ll get you some clean clothes, food, whatever you need. Maria’s on her way.”

You nod once.

It’s all you can manage.

“I’ll give you a minute,” he says. “Lock the door if you want. It locks from the inside.”

He turns, walks down the steps, and disappears into the street.

You stand in the quiet a long time before you move.

Then you lock the door.

And for the first time in years—You are alone in a room with four solid walls.

And no one is coming to take it from you.

----

You don’t sit down.

You pace the edges of the house instead—boots still on, pack still slung tight over your shoulder. You haven’t unclenched your jaw since the gate. Your hands twitch every few seconds, searching for a threat that never comes.

There’s dust on the shelves. A mug left near the sink. A faint, unplaceable smell—like old soap and cedarwood, something untouched but not unloved.

The windows are clean.

That’s what makes your throat ache. You haven’t seen a clean window in two years.

You’re halfway through opening the hallway closet when the knock comes.

Three taps. Polite. Not urgent.

You don’t flinch—but you do go still.

You open the door to find a woman standing there, bundled in a green coat, her long hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid.

Maria.

You know it’s her before she even says it.

“I brought some clothes,” she says simply. “Figured Tommy wouldn’t think of that.”

She offers the bundle—folded jeans, a thick wool sweater, socks, and a fresh towel. You take it without speaking.

Maria’s eyes travel over your face. Not judging. Just seeing.

Then she nods toward the hallway. “There’s hot water,” she says. “Plumbing’s been steady the last few weeks.”

You blink.

She softens, just slightly. “Take a shower,” she says gently. “You’ll feel better.”

The words hit something you didn’t expect.

Not because they’re cruel.

Because they’re not.

You swallow hard, nod once, and step back. She doesn’t follow. Just hands you the last item in her arms—a bar of soap, wrapped in wax paper and twine. It smells like lavender and something sweeter. Almond, maybe.

“Lock the door if you want,” she says. “No one’s coming in without a key.”

You don’t believe that. But you nod anyway.

Maria gives one more look—not pitying, not soft, just steady—and then turns and walks away.

You close the door and slide the deadbolt into place.

The bathroom is small. Lined in tile that’s chipped in a few places but clean. The mirror above the sink is foggy in one corner. There’s a towel hook behind the door. The shower curtain is blue, faded, dotted with soap scum and time.

You strip slowly.

Everything is stiff—your coat, your shirt, the pants you haven’t changed in who knows how long. The fabric scrapes your skin as it falls. You peel the bandages from your arm, the bruises from the road still yellowing at the edges.

Your body doesn’t look like yours anymore.

Too many scars. Too much lean muscle, too many memories cut into the skin. You press a palm to your side where the blade slid too close last month. The scar’s healing wrong. Doesn’t matter.

The water comes on with a clunk in the pipes and a groan of metal. Steam hits the air.

You step in.

And freeze.

Not because of the cold, the heat is immediate. Wrapping your shoulders. Clinging to your ribs. Scalding your scalp. You stand there for a moment, unable to move. Your hands pressed to the tile like you’re trying to find your balance.

It’s too warm. Too easy. Too much.

You grip the soap. It slips in your palm.

You wash slow—one limb at a time. Dirt turns the water brown. Blood slides off in streaks. You scrub your arms, your chest, the back of your neck, your legs, your hands—twice.

The smell of lavender fills the air.

And before you can stop it—your eyes burn.

You don’t cry.

But your chest tightens. Like the grief wants to come out but can’t find the space.

So you let the water run. And run. And run.

Until the silence hurts less. Until you’re able to muster enough strength to pull yourself from the hot water.

You towel your hair dry in slow, steady passes.

The sweater fits. A little loose in the shoulders, soft at the wrists. The jeans ride high on your hips, stiff with new seams. The socks are thick, the kind you haven’t worn in years—stitched without holes, untouched by cold or blood or desperation.

You sit on the edge of the bed and press your heels to the rug, grounding yourself. The house creaks. A board somewhere upstairs ticks as it adjusts to heat. The walls smell faintly of soap and cedar.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel like a person again.

You hate it, because it makes you want to believe this place is safe.

That’s when you hear it.

A sound.

Not the wind. Not the pipes.

A footstep.

Downstairs.

Your heart stops—then hammers so loud it drowns out everything else.

You stand fast, wet hair clinging to your neck. Grab the knife from your pile of clothes. No shoes. No jacket. Just the blade and the weight of your breath.

You step into the hallway slow. Silent.

Your bare feet barely whisper over the wood.

Another sound. A low clatter.

Someone in the kitchen.

You grip the knife tighter, slipping along the banister, moving like you did before—all instincts and calculation. Every step downward is practiced. Controlled. You keep to the wall where the boards don’t creak. Your pulse is in your ears.

The kitchen comes into view around the corner.

And you freeze.

She’s standing with her back to you—Maria, stocking the cabinets.

You don’t lower the blade.

She doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You’re quiet.”

You don’t respond.

Maria places a can on the shelf, then slowly lifts her hands. Open. Calm. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stay in the hallway. The knife still raised between you.

“I locked the door,” you say flatly.

“I’ve got a key,” she replies. “Tommy asked me to bring some food over.”

You eye the shelves—now stacked with cans, dry goods, a box of tea bags. There’s a cloth sack on the counter with apples inside. Real ones.

Maria finally turns. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of the knife. Just looks at you, her expression unreadable. “You can put it down,” she says gently. “Or don’t. That’s your call.”

You don’t move.

She watches you a moment longer, then steps aside and picks up the empty crate from the floor. “I’ll knock next time.”

The silence stretches.

You want to speak. But you don’t trust your voice. Or the tears that are burning behind your eyes.

Maria walks toward the door. Before she leaves, she pauses. Glances back over her shoulder.

“People here won’t hurt you,” she says quietly. “But I get it if you don’t believe that yet.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

You stand in the doorway of your kitchen with a knife still shaking in your hand and a throat that refuses to open.

You’ve been given warmth.

Kindness.

A roof and a locked door.

But trust is harder to give back.

You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, knife still in your hand. The scent of tea and apples fills the kitchen.

And for a moment—you breathe.

Just once.

And it feels like drowning.

----

You don’t answer the door when Tommy knocks.

You just wait. Still. Silent. Knife in your hand, not because you need it—just because. You don’t move until the porch groans and you hear his boots retreat. Only then do you open it and step outside, pack on your shoulders like you’re not staying.

Like you never do.

He doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Just walks. You guess he wants you to follow him, so you do.

It’s quiet again. This whole damn town hums too soft. Too still. Like it’s waiting for something to snap.

You pass a woman hanging laundry. She smiles.

You look away.

Tommy clears his throat once, low. Nervous? Or just unsure. “Was thinkin’,” he says, finally, “might be good to show you something.”

You say nothing. Your breath clouds the air between you. You follow anyway.

He stops outside a small brick building that doesn’t look like much. Old. Square. Rust stains down the sides like blood that didn’t wash out.

There’s a white cross on the door.

You know what that means.

“This was the clinic,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Had someone here a while. She… left.”

You don’t ask why.

He hesitates, hand hovering over the latch like he’s not sure if he should even open it.

“She was good,” he adds, quietly. “But you… I saw what you did. With me.”

You blink.

Not because you’re flattered.

Because you feel the walls pulling closer.

“Thought maybe you’d want to see it,” he says. “If nothin’ else.”

He opens the door.

The smell hits first—dust, and something sterile gone stale. The inside is all shadows and sharp edges, old tile underfoot and sun slicing in through narrow windows.

It’s small. Cold. Quiet.

But not empty.

You step inside.

Dust kicks up with every footfall, thick in the air. There’s a counter, a few cracked chairs, a shelf of bandages turned yellow at the corners. A rusted tray still holds a pair of tweezers, long forgotten. The air smells like copper and memory.

You keep walking.

There’s a cabinet that sticks. You tug until it creaks open. Inside, someone left a bottle of pills and a photo—curled with age, the corners torn. A man smiling in a white coat.

You close it like you didn’t see it.

Tommy stays by the door.

He doesn’t follow you in. Just stands there like if he crosses the threshold, he’ll spook you.

Smart.

“This place needs someone,” he says. “Someone who knows what they’re doin’. Someone people’ll trust.”

You laugh. Just once. Dry. Sharp. “Don’t know if that’s me.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. You get to decide.”

Your fingers twitch.

The counter is chipped in places. There’s a ring on the surface where someone used to leave their mug. You touch it. Just barely.

You haven’t had a place like this since before.

You haven’t let yourself want one.

But now…

Your chest tightens.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

You don’t say anything at all.

Tommy doesn’t wait for it. Just gives you one last look and steps out into the light again.

The door clicks behind him.

You stand alone in the middle of that room.

Breath shallow.

Hands still.

And for the first time since the world ended, you think:

What if I stayed?

#tlou #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #tlou joel #tlou x reader #tlou fic #between the shadows #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel x ellie #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfiction

57 notes · View notes

lemon-popp · 11 months ago

Text

Spending time with the Sith: episode iii

Pairing: Qimir x Black! female oc

Warnings: swearing, NSFW smut (intense making out, fingering in the pool), fluff, mention of cancer and death. PROBABLY GRAMMAR AND TYPING ERRORS (not proof read)

Word count: 4,9k

masterlist

The sun has risen, the fiery ball shining its yellow hue through the length of the cave, giving it a dreamy glowy haze. The light creeps deeper in the cave, making its way to the bedroom in which Luna laid peacefully on her back. The wrapped messy bun that once sat atop of her head was now let loose due to the lack of a bonnet and her insufferable tossing and turning last night. Deep brown curls fell across her face and sprawled out against the pillow she used. As if her faced was framed by a chocolate cumulus cloud. Her body stretch out like a starfish, one leg hanging off the bed and out the duvet, the other bent like a hook. This was the best sleep she has gotten in a long time.

The planet's main light source finally reaches Luna's eyes, begging her to get up and start the day. She answers to nature's alarm clock with fluttering eyes, adjusting to the change of the darkness of behind her lids. A yawn escapes her as she stretches, a loud groan escaping her mouth. She was sure she had sleep marks littering her face as she sat up straight, immediately noticing the lack of presence of a certain someone. The spot next to her was vacant, Qimir no where to be found.

Luna furrows her brows with confusion, wondering if she illusioned him climbing into the bed last night. Conjuring the mahogany scent he carried after his bath in the pool. The warmth she felt radiating from him even though they were easily three feet apart. He was there. There's no doubt. Then why dd he leave?

Was I snoring? kicking him? Or worse...what if I stunk? I mean I haven't taken a decent shower since I was home.

Luna grimaced, lifting her arms up to take a shameful whiff of her pits. The smell wasn't awful, definitely manageable, but compared to his polished state last night it was probably way more noticeable. Luna cringed hard, noting that she must take a dip in that pool of his before being met with him again.

With one final stretch, Luna shimmies off the bed, lighting testing if she could put more pressure on her foot. Nope. The defeated girl sighs. Although she didn't want to admit it, hopping into the bedroom and changing clothes with one foot was a pretty demanding activity that she didn't want to go through for the rest of today. Especially with her helper randomly running off like this.

Luna's eyes scan his cluttered room, filled with various trinkets from different planets that gave the assumption of his being well traveled, searching for something to use to help her walk. After, a couple look throughs, her eyes catch something. A cane.

ha, gotcha

Luna hobbles her way to the wooden cane that leaned against the stone wall across from the bed. Dust littered the handle signifying its obviously very frequent use. The young woman slender fingers wrap around the handicap tool, feeling the smooth naturally carved ridges.

perfect

Luna leans on the cane, using it as a crutch to freely move herself about the stoned home, unbothered to change back into her tactical gear since she was alone apparently. Her short stature limped to the main room clad in her black tank top and matching shorts that rode up high on her plump butt.

Luna walks toward the stove, wondering if there was more of that soup to eat for breakfast. To no luck, the pot was empty causing a disappointed sigh to leave her lips.

i’ll make sure to ask for the recipe before i leave…if he ever returns

Her mind trails off of her growing hunger going back to the man that took her in yesterday. Where had he run off? How come he trusted her to be alone in his home. She could snoop. Steal his valuables.

Was he stupid? or did he just trust me?

“Trust is a strong word, young one,” Qimir’s deep, timber voice echoes off the walls into Luna’s not-so-sharp ears, causing her to jump. Her hand clutches at her chest feeling the race of her heart that thumps from being startled in such a way. Taking her time to catch her breath before processing what Qimir just said.

How did he-What? Did he just answer my question? How? How did he know?

Qimir smiles, with his signature smirk, from the entrance of the cave, his muscular arms crossing, taking in the girl’s confused face as her mind races. The man has been standing there for a while, watching Luna make her way to the stove in her undergarments that made her look ravishing. The black spandex shorts clinging onto the curve of her ass like a second skin. Ass that bounced gently with every crippling step she took. A part of Qimir. A rather large part, wants nothing more than to shove his face in it. But that wasn’t really appropriate at the moment.

So instead, he stood there broodingly, using the Force to read her mind. To gauge her true intentions. There was a an initial doubt in his mind when it came to her, that temporarily washed away with her (possible) ‘mom has cancer’ crying act. But the unsure feeling that was subdued quickly crawled back to the forefront of his mind upon waking up at the crack of dawn.

Qimir rushed out of bed, a strange feeling rumbling in his gut telling him to search the immediate area for possible jedi. He still believed this was a trap.

A girl this perfect. A heart so sweet, but careful fortified with fearlessness. A face and body that could entangle any man, woman or creature in a dangerous web. She’s too good to NOT be a trap.

After hours of trekking he found nothing. They were still the only ones on this planet, but he still had one more trick up his sleeve to find out her true reason for being here.

“I know. I just—that’s just how i felt,” Luna regained her composure with a grip on her cane, bringing Qimir back to the present. Instead of overthinking and coming up with impossible realities, Luna chalks up his strange statement to a recall of her sleepy words last night.

“I trust you” The words from the last night rushing back into her memory that Qimir reads.

If she was working with the Jedi she would know that he was reading her mind. Hell, she would even attempt to fortify her mind. Not give him easy access like an open book on a table.

Maybe she’s really not an enemy.

“Anyway, you bring any food back?,” Luna fills the silence with a large expecting smile. Hoping that he had returned with the ingredients to make that delicious goopy soup.

Qimir rolls his eyes reluctantly letting her brightness infect him. The way her lips curled into the smile, showing the straight teeth she had, it made his heart flutter. He reached into the bag he carried, grabbing a yellow banana to which he tosses across the cave in her direction, watching her stumble to catch.

“hopefully that’ll hold you over until dinner,” Qimir officially makes his way deeper into the main room. Dropping the bag that hung from his bouldery shoulders with a loud thud to the ground, taking a seat on the lonely chair. He gazed up at the woman in front of him who held the fruit in her grasp, clearly disappointed that this was all there was to eat.

“How’s your ankle?,” Qimir points his shoe covered foot towards her, motioning to her injury. Luna shakes her head slightly taking a bite from the banana.

“I don’t know. The pain keeps going in and out. It’s annoying,” The gorgeous woman sighs, clearly defeated. She wanted nothing more than to be better already and get her hell out of here.

Qimir takes in a deep breath hoping to ease the churning feeling in his stomach. Guilt rush over him from knowing that he could heal her with a quick graze of his fingers if he really wanted to. I mean, It’s not like he didn’t want to, the selfless part of him truly did want to. But his self-serving side overshadowed that thought.

If he were to share his power with her, it would require him to reveal who he really was. For her to accept him. To accept the arguably terrible things he’s done. To give him her trust. And for him to accept that trust.

He wasn’t ready to do that.

She’s just gonna have to wait until nature takes its course and heals her.

“You’ll be healed soon. I do have medicine,” The seated man swallowed trying to ease the sickening sensation that brewed in his stomach. Although he felt this way, Qimir did a successful job at acting cool and smug like usual.

Luna rolls her eyes at his nonchalant statement, heat rising from the passion of her chest to almond of her eyes.

“Soon?! I need to be healed now! She’s out there waiting for me,” She wailed with tears starting to stream out of her eyes, down the plump apples of her cheeks. Staining the brown porcelain skin of hers. Voiced quivering as her tone was now raised to a soft yell. Even when upset her voice still sounded sweet like a perfect jar of honey.

Qimir’s heart clenched, but he stayed silent. Unsure of what to do to help her. To soothe her. They meet each other’s eyes, sharing a look of sorrow before Luna’s suddenly becomes overcome with anger that is followed by her ‘storming’ towards the cave’s exit.

“And you’re off to?,” The powerful man’s eyes never left her, following her movements that seemed to be leaving.

Luna stops briefly.

“I’m gonna wash myself. care to join,” Her voice drastically less sweet than before now laced with malice as she spoke sarcastically, mocking his words from last night. It hurt Qimir at first, confusing him.

What did i do? I didn’t twist her ankle. Granted, i could heal her, but she doesn’t know that.

Thinking quickly, Qimir uses the Force to get into her mind once again. The words lingered in her head, feeling bad for the delivery but the statement holding true. She was on her way to take a dip in his ocean pool, hopefully to relieve herself from the intense emotions that filled her. Another statement held true as well. Well it wasn’t a statement but rather an invitation. Despite her awkward response to his inquiry last night, part of her wished she answered with confidence. That reflected what her body ached. So she mocked him. half doing it out of spite, the other genuinely open for him to join.

The ache that tortured Qimir eased upon acquiring this information. If she wanted him to join, he’ll join. It was the least he could do for her if he wasn’t going to heal her.

Qimir peels himself off the chair, sauntering his way to the same direction Luna has gone, immediately seeing her in the middle of the shore, back turned to him as she stared at the glistening blue water.

Luna begins with a drop of the cane, the thudding sound muted by the sand. Her delicate hands then grabs the bottom of her black tank, pulling it over her head. Her curls being ruffled even more with this action. Next were her black shorts which she climbed out of awkwardly, trying to avoiding damaging her foot even more.

The girl now stood bare. Only her backside unknowingly exposed to Qimir who stares unabashedly. Admiring the deep line that started between her defined shoulder blades and stopped right above the dimples of her back. Her ass even more perfect outside the shorts, so round and plump, like a nice pillow.

The extraordinary sight afar has a dramatic affect on our man standing ten feet away. All the blood that was used to function quite literally his whole body, rushed to his appendage that now strained against his briefs. He groans out quietly to himself to not disturb the clueless lady as he rubs the growing ache.

Luna feels the breeeze blowing against her nipples, causing her to shiver slightly before taking her first gentle, limping, steps into the water. The soft liquid wrapping around her like a warm blanket, her body melting into it, almost becoming one with the powerful element. Her eyes close, focusing on keeping her breathing steady to keep her emotions at bay. But not even this relaxing bath could help. Visions of her mom flashed through her mind. Visions of her worrying about Luna’s whereabouts. Worrying if her daughter was dead. The worrying ultimately worsening her condition, expediting the punch in date.

Luna’s chest tightens around her pounding heart, constricting the vital organ. Her throat closing slowly as if hands were clutching tightly to it. making it hard for her to breathe. Her head swaying from dizziness, until a large, calloused hand lands on her shoulder, pulling her back to the real world. Her breath hitches in the tight airway of her esophagus.

Luna’s head glances back at the hand that touched her, surprised that Qimir followed her especially after her tone. His towering presence burned behind her, a realization run through her mind that they were both bare. She wasn’t uncomfortable though by this realization though. Just surprised.

Qimir notes how her body slightly relaxes at his touch, fully expecting her to probably lash out again. He sighs, still seeing how her overthinking tormented her endless mind.

Sure he had no clue how it feels to go through a pain quite like this. To have a mother at all. Let alone a mother you’ve spent your whole life with who you’re about to lose.

Luna drops her head in defeat, letting drops of salty tears drop into the large cast of salty water as she cried silently. Qimir takes the opportunity to help her clean as her. His large hands cup together, gathering a pool of water to which he gently pours down her back, washing any grime that littered her deep skin. The water trickles down the line of her back. A line he desired to lick.

Qimir stood behind her. Decorated with perfectly carved muscles, strength used to kill anyone who cross him. However, the strength that was shown right now was his restraint.

Qimir has seen countless of women in a similar fashion. A fun past he did have indeed, but none of them had an effect quite like this on him. A woman suggesting anything remotely related to sex, he would pounce on her. Taking them quick and roughly, fulfilling his own pleasure. Although this was…different. Yes, he found her alluring, which was an understatement. He craved almost nothing more than to ruin her. key word being almost, what he craved more was taking care of her. protecting her.

His fingers massages her skin with his nimble fingers, starting at the nape of her neck climbing up to the curly thicket of her hair. His left hand takes a handful of her thick hair, making a makeshift ponytail to full expose the length of her neck. The other unused hand graze up her damp arm tantalizingly slow up to her shoulder, feeling her buttery skin on his tips.

The little action setting Luna’s skin on fire.

Qimir bends slightly at his waist, bringing his face next to hers, his pink lips centimeters away from the conch of her ear. Light breaths escapes his lips, breathes that make contact with her exposed neck. Her glossy eyes close to full take in his touch. To focus all of her senses on the gentle touch Qimir gave her.

“you will see your mom again,” Qimir’s deep voice vibrates into the shell of her ear, the affirmation soaring through her mind. A light smile grows across Luna’s face as she appreciates the reassurance, especially after just beating herself up minutes ago.

“you promise?,” She whispers with a rasp that resulted from how much she has been crying. Her eyes remained close fearing that once she’d open them her mind would go back to forging false realities of her mother. So Luna keeps them closed, opting for the relaxing touch of Qimir’s gentle but possessive grip on her.

do i promise??

In the very short time Qimir has known Luna, he has definitely grown to care for her. Even in his paranoia that she was a Jedi spy, he still took her in. Fed her. Offered his bed. Which terrified him. Caring for someone terrified him. Because caring led to betrayal. Caring leads to loss. it could lead to love…which, in his case, was a deep vulnerability. Him promising was a test, a test to see how far he’d go for her, how much he cared for this girl.

Qimir stayed silent to avoid answering, using the tips of his fingers that grazed down the side of her body to distract from the unanswered question. His large vascular hand untangles from her curls and breaks through the surface of the water, following the path of his other hand. His palms descend lower and lower down her body, feeling the deep curve of her waist, before landing on the protrusion of her round hips. The digits on his hand grip tightly, not one tight enough to cause the girl pain, but one that would require a skilled maneuver to escape.

Qimir twists Luna by this advantage point, forcing the beaut to now face him. A gasp emits from her lips, stumbling from the quick and sudden movement which inadvertanty send her falling into his chest. A fall that she breaks with gentle hands placed firmly on his defined chest. Feeling his hammering heart beat.

As her wet miniature hands made contact with his body, it was almost as if an electrical current punctured his heart and traveled down south. Inflating his cock. The hands that once had a gentle grasp on Luna’s hips to become much firmer as he pulled her lower half away from his growing appendage.

Luna's eyes climbs up the man’s upper body slowy, unabashedly taking her time to take in the detail of his olive skin and the scars that littered him. She wondered where they all came from, considering that he lives alone on this planet.

He probably hasn’t ALWAYS lived here, Luna. The man has a past.

The girl shoos off the thought, continuing her visual climb until she finally meets her destination. His eyes. His eyes that were already closed on her. Eyes that peered through his perfectly fallen strands of black hair that tickles her forehead. Eyes that were clouded, laced with a feeling way stronger than lust at the moment. Eyes that make Luna gasp.

Their eye contact doesn’t waver. Even with the fact that the water they stood idle in was crystal clear. Allowing a HD view to the others full front side. What Qimir’s v-line was pointing to underneath those black pants. Or the taut breasts that was covered by a flimsy tank top. Neither of their eyesight faltered. The passion and the intensity from the stare being more than enough for them.

Qimir gives her his infamous smirk, one that intimidates many, but was currently being used to hide the absolute control this woman has over him.

The left hand that was previously placed on her hip, was now under her jawline, his thumb caressing the silky skin of her face. Wiping the remaining streak of tears that stained her golden skin before placing his thumb flat on her pillowy full lips. Fighting to urge to part them, sticking it in, or anything else.

“Of all my years. You are the most beautiful woman i have ever met,” Qimir’s drops his voice down to whisper, as if it was a secret, as they literally weren’t the only two here right now. Similar to the affect of Luna’s touch on Qimir’s chest, The words the leave his mouth enters her hear and immediately reaches her womanhood which was already throbbing from the moment Qimir entered the pool. In an attempt to ease the pulsating, Luna squeeze her thighs together causing a soft moan to escape in turn before she could catch it.

“What do you say…when someone gives you a compliment?,” Qimir’s head dipped lower, finding the crook between Luna’s shoulder and neck and buring himself there. His breath tickling her with every spoken word. Dominance oozed out of him so naturally, dominance that lured Luna in like a worm to a fish. His pink lips first pressed gently on her thumping artery, laying continuous pecks up the length of her neck to her jaw, and across her cheek, just barely missing her lips.

He knows what he’s doing

“Than—Thank you,” Not only can Luna barely breathe, but apparently she could barely speak. Stumbling over her words once again like an idiot.

Qimir’s smiles grows, his control slipping completely out of his grasp due to her innocent stuttering. The wide gaze of her almondy eyes that sent him down a spiral and without hesitation he kisses her.

Their lips crashed into each other that the waves did in the distance to the rock shore. The feeling of Qimir’s lips on Luna made her lightheaded as he kiss with such vigor and experience. His hands gripping the back of her neck, keeping her in place as if she was trying to escape. Kissing him was a feeling like no other, a feeling she didn’t know she was missing out from all this time. The way his free hand caressed her body under the water, completely avoiding the places she deeply craved that he touch out of respect. The way he nibbled at her juicy lips and then licked them to soothe the pain. Luna was already fully at his mercy.

Qimir’s now busy hands, allowed for Luna’s hip to float freely in the water, which of course gravitates towards his body leaving no space inbetween. Their bodies clashed together, similar to their lips. Luna’s breast pressed tightly on Qimir’s brute pecs as she wraps her arms around his neck. Qimir’s cock know fully laid flat against her soft stomach, heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

The horny woman gasps at the feeling of his length on her, daring not to glance down to see just how big he really was. Instead using the sense of touch the feel how his base started at the top of her mound and the tip ended well above her belly button.

of course he’s big. i mean look at him. look at those arms.

His hands travel down the length of her back resting on the rounding of her ass as he grabs a handful with no warning. All while still devouring her stunning face.

Loud moans overtake what once was a quiet, relaxing evening as Luna’s body is sent into overdrive. Her skin burned as if gasoline was poured on her and she was sent to the sun. Her mind was foggy like and early morning in the forest, forced to only think about Qimir. She ached for him. She wanted him.

Luna breaks the kiss to flip around back to the position they started in. Qimir stands there partially upset at her abrupt ending of their make out sesh, but that quickly subsided when her plump ass push perfectly against his dick. A deep groan leaving his pink lips to let her know as such. He has the desire to insert himself from behind, taking her passionately in the water. But before he has the chance to, Luna grabs both of his hands, placing one of her full breast and the other on her throbbing mound.

Qimir’s eyes widened at the girl’s assertion, surprised that she had this confidence in her because the blabbering girl she was earlier didn’t show that one bit. His shock, however, faded away quickly, being replaced by determination. She had officially given him permission to touch her intimates. To fully please her. To claim her.

Qimir’s finger begin to work on the bundle of nerves down south. His middle finger drawing precise, agonizingly slow circles around her clit. Her knees buckle at his action, but it brought back up with a squeeze of her nipple.

“This is what you wanted pretty girl? For me to touch you like this?,” His teasing words makes her grind into his pleasing hand. She was already so close. So close to relieving all the aching she felt. Starting from the ache of her mother’s health, to the literal ache of her ankle, to the ache between her legs caused by a stranger she just met yesterday.

what am i doing? A doubting thought rushes through her head.

“You’re relaxing. Let me help you,” Qimir’s voices breaks through, answering her question once again. Her eyebrows furrow in wonder, mind completely unfocusing from the magical work going on under the water.

okay, once was a coincidence, but twice now? Something is up—

Luna’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by Qimir’s finger entering the hole that was already begging to be filled. He took his time inserting one finger, unsure of how far she was willing to take this and the amount of experience she had. A pleased squeal that escaped her lips give him reassurance as he continues to pump in and out, now using his thumb to rub her clit.

A knot formed in her stomach that was getting ready to snap, her precious moans growing louder and more frequent. Hands reaching to grab Qimir’s bulging biceps for balance.

“Q—Qimir. I can—i can’t. I’m cumming,” Luna buckles as an orgasm rips through her, tears running down her eyes, but this time not in sorrow. Her shaken body grows limp by the second, the grip she had on Qimir still lingered but very weak.

Their chests heave in unison, reeling from the events that had just occurred. Luna, finally able to catch her breath, stands dazed in the water with Qimir still wrapped around her. His single digit still inside of her warm cunt.

He didnt move. Still recovering from the hearing her angelic, heavenly moans. From how she placed his hands on her warm cunt and how she quivered under his touch. From the warm feeling of her wrapped around his finger, how he wanted nothing more than to feel her tightly hugging his cock that still throbbed for her.

The girl leaned her head back, resting gently on his chest with her eyes closed, her long eyelashes touching the top of her apple cheeks. She was in complete bliss and Qimir observes this, taking in the new glow this girl possessed. His heart swells knowing that he completed his task. He made her relax. He eased her mind.

Qimir slowly removes his lonely finger from her womanhood, afraid to disturb her from this pure state and lifts her up bridal style. A shocked sound leaves her as her body was now fully out the water, exposed to the breezy air, but Qimir pays no mind. His eyes stay trained on hers as he walks them towards the shore, neither of them speaking a word, a comfortable silence fillings the air as he wades through the water.

The couple finally reach the shore to which he gracefully places Luna down, avoiding her hurt foot. The sun was near set, golden hour doing its work on the gorgeous man that stood in front of her. The water no longer a barrier, his sculpted body was now in full display, the orange sun defining every shadow of his abs, the veins of his arms and the monsterous size of his dick.

that was what was underneath the water?!

The flutters start to make a return, but are quickly pushed to the side.

don’t get greedy now. this was just a one time thing. he probably only did it out of sympathy anyway.

Qimir reaches behind him, grabbing a cream robe that was laid out neatly on a nearing boulder. He opens the linen fabric towards Luna’s direction, offering to put it on for her. Her eyes meet his. The dark clouds that once lived in his irises vanished, replaced with a genuine softness that makes her feel…safe.

She turns around accepting his offer and he slides the thin material over her arms, bringing it to hang at her shoulders. His fingers tickling her skin the entire time, His breath lingering at her neck.

Luna takes over the finishing touches of tying the robe and in the meantime, Qimir wraps himself in one of his own. They both matched. Except one was perfectly fitted, tailored made and the other one extremely oversized. The sleeves ended way past her hands and then hemmed end nearly went over her knees. She looked like a nun.

Luna turns around to face Qimir with a smile and a funky pose, modeling the unique fitting robe. A laugh brewing in his chest at seeing how his clothes swallowed her whole. A laugh that is stifled, offering a humorous smile instead.

“Okay, let’s get you inside. I can hear your stomach growling,” Qimir shakes his head at the girl as he wraps him muscular arm around her waist to help her back into the cave.

episode iv

198 notes · View notes

ninibeingdelulu · 1 year ago

Text

Hidden ✧

Plot: You’re the president’s daughter he came to rescue, and you both need to hide in a small hole.

A/N: the president’s daughter reader is back y’all yeahhh

As your frantic footfalls echoed through the derelict cabin's dimly lit halls, Leon's calloused grip clamped vice-like around your wrist.

Forcibly dragging your stumbling frame towards a promising crevice of safety tucked along the far interior wall.

In one fluid series of motions, he shoved you into the musty shadows of that nook before barricading the open space with an ancient wardrobe wedged against the crumbling sheetrock.

Effectively sealing you both inside that makeshift sanctuary from whatever evil forces still lurked beyond those creaking timbers...

"Stay low and keep those pretty lips zipped if you know what's good for you," Leon's gravelly baritone hissed out mere inches from your face through the suffocating blackness enveloping your curled forms.

Just the thought of whatever merciless terrors he was willing to unleash in order to uphold this mission's integrity sent a tremulous shiver rattling through your shoulders to silently obey.

Until that spoiled, entitled nature of yours simply couldn't resist one final petulant sigh of displeasure over the cramped captivity.

"There's barely any room at all to-"

Before you could finish that complaint, a single broad palm slammed over the part of your lips while his forearm pinned you firmly against the damp wall.

Body caging yours in as the former RPD officer issued a scathing reprimand on a rough whisper skimming along your jaw.

"Shut up if you want to live, princess ..."

Within the next breath, you were being hauled up against his rock-solid frame until your backside suddenly landed against the cradle of those corded thighs wrapped around your waist.

Heat instantly prickling under your cheeks at such scandalous proximity to those taut muscles bulging beneath his battle-worn fatigues.

"What are you doing ?" you indignantly mumbled against the leather-scented palm still locked over your gasping mouth as Leon shifted and adjusted your positioning atop his bunching arousal trapped beneath those cargos.

"Just giving you what you wanted, princess..." he rumbled out on a hissed breath fanning your hairline. "More space to wiggle that restless body around in without blowing our cover entirely."

In a true testament to Leon's pragmatic stoicism, he simply pulled your squirming form flush against his torso once more.

Then wrapped one solid appendage around your ribs to silently signal he'd tolerate no further fussing over the matter.

Crossing your arms with an indignant huff, you were left silently stewing about the fact that at least in this shadowed intimacy...he wouldn't be able to witness the furious bloom of crimson staining your cheeks at such close proximity.

But of course, your pins-and-needles started kicking in from supporting all your weight on those throbbing legs less than a minute later - leaving you fidgeting ceaselessly to find a more comfortable position once again.

A deep, guttural hiss of air sliced past your cheek as Leon's rock-hard abdominals spasmed beneath your restlessly shifting weight - only realizing belatedly that your churning rear end kept grinding against the rapidly swelling ridge suddenly tenting the front of his heavy-duty garments.

Instantly freezing in shock when you craned your neck up to search those inscrutable features hovering just overhead...

Without warning, a powerful hand was cupping the nape of your skull while calloused fingertips threaded sharply through your tangled locks to jerk your focus frontwards again.

"Don't move. A muscle" came his sandpaper growl against your temple - syllables nearly lost amidst the roaring drumbeat pulsing beneath your own frantic pulse points as your thighs instinctively clenched around his.

Too shaken to disobey, you simply swallowed back your shuddery gasps and meekly nodded.

Practically tasting those electrifying waves of primal aggression rolling off his hulking frame while he waged whatever internal war against himself.

Close enough in the darkness for the heat gusting from his flaring nostrils to fan across your cheeks in tandem with each strained exhale.

And then...there was nothing but bristling tension coiling tighter and tighter between your suspended forms until even Leon's very bones seemed to thrum with it - scarcely allowing either of you to cycle air into your lungs.

At least until the droning swarm beyond your flimsy barricade quieted for more than a few minutes' respite, signaling your opportunity to extract yourselves from this debauched tangle of limbs.

"Break’s over, ...use your feet and shove that dresser out of the way."

Leon finally ground out once that punishing grip eased from the back of your skull.

"We need to get moving before I give those freaks an even bigger reason to hunt us down."

Bobbing a rapid nod, you braced your calves against the barrier until it gave way enough to slither back outside into the fading twilight hues.

Every breath hitching raggedly into your constricted lungs as the dark, woodsy scents finally chased away the aroma of leather and gunpowder consuming your senses.

From there, Leon slipped back into that hardened survivalist on autopilot - all traces of those searing undercurrents wiped clean from his expression save the barely perceptible flush tingeing those razor-etched cheekbones.

So you had no choice but to fall back in step behind his long, purposeful strides guiding you deeper into the night's embrace without so much as sparing you a sidelong glance this time.

"Come on, princess...we lost enough time back there." His signature endearment for you practically snarled out with customary disdain.

"The rendezvous coordinates aren't getting any closer dawdling around like this."

Rolling your eyes, you simply complied in silence with those unspoken orders.

157 notes · View notes

gorejessx3 · 2 months ago

Text

Been working on downtown lately. Here's the latest update - the children's section of the public library. Slowly but surely....

#the sims 2 #ts2 #ts2 gameplay #ts2 maxis match #ts2 pictures #ts2 simblr #timber ridge #ts2 decor

9 notes · View notes

outdoorovernights · 2 months ago

Text

TIMBER RIDGE Instant Cabin Tent Review

Have you ever found yourself longing for an uncomplicated camping experience, where setting up your tent doesn’t feel like scaling a mountain? If the thought of spending precious outdoor moments fighting with tent poles fills you with dread, then you’re in for a treat with the TIMBER RIDGE 4/6/8 Person Instant Pop Up Cabin Tent. Why You’ll Appreciate the Speedy Setup Imagine arriving at your…

#Cabin Tent #Camping Equipment #Outdoor Gear #Tent #Timber Ridge

0 notes

red-doll-face · 6 months ago

Text

Snow Angel 6

Chapter 6: hostile Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader and an allusion to slut shaming. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry, arthur is a bit of a jerk on this chapter but hell make up for it WC: 4175 Hey ! Ive finally finished chapter 6! Its been through quite a bit of editing and ive read the thing to death so i figured id post it. Nothing too bad in this chapter but arthur shows that hes not always so nice and when provoked can say things that are out of pocket lol, more naive fawn response reader, and mentions of alcohol and spousal abuse but none in reference to arthur or reader. Thanks for all of the lovely kudos! enjoyyyy : ) Tags: no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur is sort of delusional omg, reader and arthur get into a little lovers spat, not too serious

You get a glimpse of how jealous Arthur can be.

You come up on the town Arthur was speaking of around 1 o’clock. West Ridge is not much to look at, the basics really. A saloon as always, a stable, a general store, a law man's office. There are lots of comings and goings, mostly out of the hotel in town and the other boarding houses. One main way directs the horses and wagons that stop here. The western side of the town is on a hill, and the other side dips downwards, wooden walkways bridge most things together to keep ladies from getting mud on their beautiful heeled boots and skirts piled high. Most of the working men stomp through the mud, especially the stable boys who smoke cigarettes outside of the large stable which Arthur stops at first. The smell of horseflesh makes your nose scrunch but Arthur has no flinch for that sort of thing.

In the stable, Arthur arranges for a cart to be fitted over Lucky and pays the boarding fee to stable Currant for a few days. He takes you around town as they fulfill his request. He has you by the waist, a big hand is your guide as he passes by the drunken cowboys, the timber mill workers, and some hunters. You've never had a man guide you the way he does, not letting you go for a second. Perhaps because of the delicate nature of your relationship. He fears you should bolt at any time if not fenced in by his arms and hands. You settle nicely in his palm, fitting the shape of his fingers to the dip of your lower back.

Your feet creak over the wooden boards that keep you off the main street. He nods to the propped door of a saloon with plenty of places to sit, some people eat meals and other sad looking men drown their sorrows in whiskey. Arthur stops at the bar, asking for two drinks, something sweet for you and two of the meals they have on the menu. You can count the number of times you’ve eaten at a saloon on one hand. And the times you’ve had a drink at one is certainly a big zero. You stare around, some men play a gambling game with cards and working girls fan themselves, waiting for customers. They don’t bother with Arthur, no doubt with you on his arm. You wait patiently at a table while Arthur retrieves and pays for what he ordered. You watch out of the dusty window at the town and its people.

So much activity makes you realize how sheltered your family was in Long Pine, a densely wooded area, lots of wild game and harsh weather conditions. Hot summers, fertile springs, and the occasional cold snap that had a week of snow falling, nowhere near as heavy as the snow where Arthur lives, nearer to the mountain which dominates the landscape. You rarely had visitors, perhaps a letter from your mother’s distant relative. A man coming to sell furs or animal feed. You had gone to town a few times but rarely to do much, buy some things you couldn’t get from home, couldn’t grow or trade. This is different from the small trading post your father usually went to to sell his wares and buy feed for the chickens. You liked going to town more but your Pa never saw the point. Arthur sets a steaming plate of roast carrots and beef in front of you, interrupting your thoughtful silence. The priciest thing on the menu. Then he has a glass of some sort of lemonade for you and whiskey for his own palate. Your 'homesteader's daughter' manners kick back in. “Thank you, Arthur,” you say over the chatter of people nearby, an appreciative smile pushes at your cheeks. He nods and looks at you, an almost surprised expression passes over his face, a genuine smile he tries to hide. This one isn't so cocky and easy.

“Course,” He responds, slowly but not apprehensively. He never takes his eyes off of you. Even when you look away to look at the piano man, or out of the window at the sunshine. You don't have any comparisons to make besides the relationship between your mother and father, stiff and very respectful. He was just a rigid man with hard set values and your mother was the same. Though you saw glimpses of their closeness, they never stared so intently at one another, enraptured by each other. Your mother was happy to mend torn shirts and your father happy to whittle figurines and polish his varmint rifle. Maybe your grandmother and your very presence stopped them from sharing such intimate moments. Or you haven't seen young love or in the case with you and Arthur, some sick 3 day whirlwind in which he has given you no other choice but to have him as your husband.

As always, he is quick to empty his plate. You are a bit more sluggish. You quite like hearing snippets of other people's conversations, the music. Patience seems to be one of those things about Arthur. He has such a grasp on it, he has no complaints, only watches like a hawk, scratches at his jaw and has his long legs spread open on his chair. Everyone seems to look over at least twice when you start to look at other people. Perhaps they noticed the gleaming pearl handled guns in his holsters or the darkened silhouette of a man sitting with a plain woman wearing pants. You sigh, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. You haven't said anything but Arthur acts as if you've told him exactly what you're thinking. A man looks over at the wrong moment and Arthur has terse and grizzly words for him.

“Hell are you lookin’ at?” The man whips his head away, intimidated by Arthur. He adjusts his hat, looking at you, deciding that whatever needed to be done was done. “Finished?” His voice is softer now and you nod. Briefly, you worried that Arthur might start something but his presence is enough to have people looking away. You both stand and he's right behind you. Crossing the road has you walking into the general store, the store keeper greets you. Arthur’s heavy footsteps cause his friendly smile to droop but he welcomes you both anyway. You smile back, taking a look around. Arthur has his hands on his belt following you around, his spurs click and ring. The store is a humble place that stocks the essentials and some fresh produce. Everyday items line the walls and tin cans gleam in shining labels.

“Let me know if you need any help,” the storekeeper is kind and you nod, it’s only natural for you to be polite in return.

“I will, thank you,” too bad you aren't quite aware of Arthur’s possessiveness.

“If the lady needs help then she’d damn well ask for it,” His tone is dark and a strange upset to the calm exchange. You look at him, not understanding his sudden input. The store keeper sputters, offended but also entirely aware of how capable a man like Arthur looks, how inclined to violence his tone is. “Should learn to mind your own business,” his hands seem to twitch as they grip his belt, just over the rows of bullets. You grab Arthur’s forearm. Sending an apologetic smile to the clerk, you try to rush along. It's obvious that Arthur doesn't play nice with others. He tells you to pick something to eat on the road. That you might not pass any towns on the way. You nod, picking bread rolls and cheese, some fresh fruit and carrots for Lucky. Cans are also hoisted into Arthur’s arms. Strawberries and corned beef. He pays at the register, a cold look on his face. It's incredibly awkward, the air is stale with the residual unpleasantness. You thank the clerk before leaving. Outside, you look at him, a bit appalled. You should know better than to think you can correct him with any efficiency.

“What is the matter with you?”

“Not sure what you're talkin' about,” His hand on your hip is taking you to the stable. But you wrestle from his grip.

“In what world do you live in where you threaten people in passing?”

“Hey, I ain't never claimed to be a nice feller, not even a decent one,” He has that wry smile, his hands return to trying to touch you and when you stiffen and try to wiggle away again, he has a firm hold on you. “Gettin’ flighty with me, sweetheart? My little bird feel like flyin’ away?” He has a sneer on his face, a cruel smile twists his features.

“You’re threatening me now?”

“You know, you ain’t gotta go lookin' for a new man, you got one already,” he’s talking about the store keep. He’s trying to hide it but he’s afraid that you’ll just walk away with the next man. That you’re easy. Tears gather so quickly, spring forth from you. You feel like you’ll be sick. Tongue tied and disgusted with him, with yourself, you turn and walk away. You want to get on Lucky without him and ride home. He makes a frustrated gesture as you try to rush away from him, his arms tense up before he pinches the curve on the bridge of his nose. You can hear the spurs of his boots jingle as you turn away.

“Wait!” When you don’t stop, he’s in close pursuit, hurrying to catch up with you. “I said, wait, girl,” his voice is rough and panicked. He catches you and holds you between two buildings. He sees your tears. “Calm down,” he’s commanding you, making you meet his eyes. He hurriedly walks you down behind the hotel, almost no one meanders back here. You can’t wiggle from his grasp no how, your hands continue to push at his broad chest, his corded shoulders. He looks down at you with ease, trying to pull you close.

“Arthur, stop, let go,” his hand blocks the knee you were about to shove at his crotch in all of your thrashing and panic. His face before wasn't set in such a severe expression, merely worried. But now, you feel the precarity of his mood. The lines around his eyes naturally settle into this narrowed glare, like he's pulled snarls many times before, bared his teeth like a hungry brush hunter, a beast of prey.

“Honey, that’s enough now,” his words are deadly serious, so gruff and low, they slither down your spine. You still but you refuse to look at him.

“I don’t- I can’t do this. I don’t know why I thought-“

“What did I say before all this? I said you wasn't leaving me,” he’s so short sighted, his thumbs attempt to wipe your tears, to hold your face. You frown and look at him.

“Just…” you struggle with your words, troubled by the mess that is this arrangement, this tumultuous peace you try to keep with your mind and your heart. “Arthur, get off of me,” after all he’s done, this is the most emotional you’ve been with him. Even then, there is no real force behind your words. You don’t kick and scratch. All you would do is waste your energy and upset Arthur who has no qualms with holding you down.

“Listen to me,” you have a small act of defiance for him, doing your best to keep the air of disobedience but he’s quick to correct you. His forefinger and thumb grab the fat of your cheeks, guiding you to look at him. He has your back up to the wall, looking down at you; you can feel the press of his belt into you. “Gonna give you one or two chances to listen before you try my patience too many damn times,” As much as you wish you could turn away from this, you know Arthur would never let you.

“Just say what it is you mean about me, that I-I’d walk away with any man so much as looked at me,” you left some of it unsaid but Arthur knows what you mean, the word that he keeps saying in pseudo reference of you but skirting around directly saying it about you. Your voice is meek, whiny. But you don’t care.

“Can’t say something that ain’t true,”

“What are you so afraid of, then? Is this how you treated that woman?” At the mention of his other girl he winces, like the last thing he wants is to think of her. His eyes pinch shut, his hand is on your hip, as if to comfort himself. He tries to calm down, as he commanded you to do as well. He looks away, adjusting his stance. Stalling before he has to tell you what bothers him so.

“Other nobodies sniffing around my woman don’t exactly put me at ease,”

“He is trying to sell to me, not- do whatever you want with me,” you’re exasperated, unable to see how Arthur could be so threatened by other men when he looks the way he does; over six feet of him and well over two hundred and fifty pounds of musculature and fat keeping him strong looking. You're sure he could lift any man and throw him through a window. No man in his right mind would try and take anything from Arthur after having seen him.

“You don’t know what men are like,” he chuckles but with little humor. Your mind rushes to excuse him; he’s only trying to protect you.

“I know what you’re like,” you murmur, close to him, accepting him as you soften to his advances.

“And what did I do when I saw you smile at me, talking all sweet, your please and thank you’s, hm?” He hums to emphasize his question, bowing to trap you against the wall and tuck his kisses onto your neck. You sigh and grab at the back of his hair, the longer strands are softer than you thought. “Stripped you naked and put you on my bed. You were such a good girl, sweetheart,” his hands grip you tight, up your waist and suggestively skimming over your breasts cupped behind your undergarments, all the way to your neck and jaw.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a jealous man,” you huff up at him. He scoffs and cups your face, gentle over the leather riding gloves he wears.

“Don’t try and find out just how jealous,” he dips down to kiss you, a soft one, like he’s never kissed you before. Everything he hasn’t said to you, you think, he tries to put in this kiss. His whiskers tickle your lips, tilting to touch as much of you as possible. Keeping yourself upright isn't so hard, leaning against the wood of the building. He ignores any discomfort he gets from kissing you like this, but you acquiesce, trying to put yourself on your tiptoes. It's hardly any help. You part and he has one big hand sweeping your hair back.

You follow him back to the stable, most of the things you and he needed from Lucky and Currant’s saddle had been removed, put into the cart behind you where you sit as Arthur’s passenger. He keeps looking at you but saying nothing. He nods at the stable master as he opens the door and lets you both out onto the main road and then onto the road that goes to Long Pine. You sigh, the sun still quite high in the sky. You don’t have a hat, you left your home with a woolen scarf wrapped around your head. Instead, Arthur plops his hat down on your head, far too big for you. You shake your head, letting him have his way.

You think of what should happen when you get there, what your family would say. You can’t stop letting it come back to you, the anxiety of your father seeing you on a wagon with a man who you will say saved your life. It circles around like a scavenging bird to a carcass. But for now you try to distract yourself with the scenery of the ride.

The chill comes back as you have to cross back over to the wintry depths of elevation to make your way back to Long Pine. You missed the brief warmth of dipping into the river valley. Arthur is an expert at steering the cart up some pretty rough trails. He’s slow when he needs to be and lets Lucky move at his own pace sometimes. He seems to be just as anxious, he hasn’t said anything; grips the reins so tight that it squeaks against the leather of his gloves. You rummage through the things in the back and Arthur watches curiously. You pull a cigarette out of the pack that you know he brought. You struggle to light the match you need with your fingers starting to get stiff from the cold but Arthur grabs it and strikes it against the wood of the cart. He waves his fingers and you hand him the cigarette. He has it between his lips when he lights it, waving the match against the frosted air.

“Go get your coat on,” he tosses the match easily, slowing the cart down so you can pull on his ram skin coat and he can put his own coat over his shoulders. “Said you didn’t like the smell of these,”

“My father smokes his pipe all the time. You’ve been antsy since I told you I didn’t like them,” he takes luxurious puffs, relishing in the relaxation they bring him. You usually tell your Pa to go outside but you always end up opening the window and staying in your room.

“Know just what your man needs,” he has that self-satisfied smile, slouching down and holding his cigarette. He has the courtesy to at least blow the smoke away from you. You’re getting much closer to the familiar paths and small trails that lead up to your home but you know you still have quite a few hours to go. He was right, you’d have to stop, daylight would be fading soon. Arthur has mostly driven quietly. Looking at you in his hat and giving you his smug little face. “This horse ain’t so bad,” he says quietly over the crunch of the cart over the dirt and light snow that dusts over the forest and rocks.

“He’s the perfect man,” he huffs.

“How come you don’t already have a wife?” You ask Arthur. He exhales as if you told a half funny joke. You look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, as if minding the empty road.

“Only woman I asked to be with me said no. Or at least her daddy did,”

“I don’t get the privilege of a choice?” He’s quiet for a while.

“I ain’t letting this go sideways, it's okay with me if you don’t get it, if you don’t like it. Guess I never had the proper chance to do right by a woman,”

“You think you’re doing right by me?” He heaves an exasperated sigh. He likes to float nicely with you, living in the moments of time where you aren’t questioning his actions, when he gets to feel as if he hadn’t given you an ultimatum. Marry him and keep the honor your family thinks you have or marry him while your father and mother think you a harlot.

“I am right now, aren’t I? Lettin' you see your folks, go and get what precious little you have to your name?” He gives you a bit of a harsh look. “Could'a chained you to my bed but even I ain’t that sick, could’a really treated you like nothin’ but a whore,” His words stun you into a silent gap. You’re surprised there’s a step more severe than what he’s already committed but it’s true. Arthur comes to a stop and surveys what looks like somewhere to camp for the night while you sit, weighing his words in your mind.

“Did you- did you think about that?”

“If that’s what I wanted then that’s where you’d be,” he says, jumping down and helping you off the cart. You’re reluctant to take his hand but put yourself in his arms anyway as he places you on the ground. “We’re camping here tonight, I’ll get a fire goin’,” you help him unload some of his supplies, a basic canvas tent and bedroll with a blanket. He’s got a bit of firewood lit while he adds some tinder. Arthur is meticulous, every bit an outdoors man. Dutiful and attentive, he’s built a small fire, crouching by the area where he dusted the snow away. You don’t want to sit on the cold ground so you squat as best you can, trying to keep your balance. Now that it isn't so bright, you pass Arthur his hat. You arrange your provisions, making something of a cheese roll and placing the can of beef over by the fire to warm it up a little. You give him his allotted portion and eat quietly with him, the fire quickly burning through its fuel. Arthur had pulled the wagon down to a nice clearing, only some light snow, mostly bare ground. Grass would sprout soon for the spring, bringing all kinds of grazers. The dusk pulls in fast, it’s already completely dark. You listen as Lucky jingles around in his tack, not so used to being tied to a cart. He could survive one night but tomorrow he would be grumpy. You’ll give him some carrots for breakfast to lift his spirits.

“Tell me ‘bout your pa,” he says, a command more than a question. You look up to think.

“Well, he’s a very serious man, hard working, a trapper by trade. He’s… he’s nice, always been sweet on my Ma,” you think of your father sitting by the fire in a rocking chair with your mother, how he always had time to read you a story or bring you something he found out in the wilderness. Many nights you thought he may have been robbed and left for dead or fallen off a mountain but he always came home. Your Ma would be worried sick and livid when he came through the door as if he had come back at a reasonable hour.

“Sounds like a good man,” his gloved hand rubs at his chin, over the light stubble growing there. He tilts his head down so you can only see the deep tone of his hat.

“He’s not so bad, he’ll like you if he thinks you want to take care of me. He’s always wanted me to be a married woman, not some lady of the night or a spinster,” He used to say that he had only wanted a daughter of the “marrying type”. No grifter or prostitute or even a school teacher. You think he wanted the life your mother had for you.

But even married women faced problems. Men taken over by liquor who hit their wives, men who spent every last cent on a bad hand of poker. Men who sold their wives to pay off debt. At least Arthur didn't seem the type. He didn't drink much, didn't hit you even though he could if he had wanted to; unless you considered his spankings which weren't nearly as violent as some men could be. Paltry compared to stories whispered between women in town, at trading posts.

Arthur wasn't like that. He seemed vulnerable but unwillingly so. He had shown you his journal against his better judgment. Let you peer into his thoughts, see his mind on paper. He was embarrassed but sorry that he had snapped at you. Arthur is a man of contradictions; cocky and smug yet self conscious. Hardened yet soft, rough and mean but kind and gentle. He confuses you at every turn, constantly trying to make sense of his actions.

He nods slowly, gazing at the fire and feeding it more things to burn up, trying to keep it alive. You’re sure the fire will die soon. Arthur is serious but not morose. Only thinking much too hard. You dust the crumbs away and help him finish the corned beef. He notices you stifling your yawn.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” he rolls his bedroll out within the confines of the tent.

“Where will you sleep?” Your concern for him seems to make him smile at you as you crawl within his tent.

“Gonna keep watch for a while, I’ll squeeze in there with you soon enough,” you nod and lay down. Perhaps he thinks you’ll run away if he falls asleep. You curl up under Arthur’s coat. It’s warmer than you thought. You fall asleep quickly, feeling safe with Arthur keeping watch at the fire.

i love him !!! no smut this chapter sadly… jealous arthur just messes with my head omggg hes such a weenie. need this man to yell at people for looking at me wrong 😵‍💫 also need him to grab me by the face so i can look him in his eyes… cant wait to write more! Thank you for all of the feedback, im so glad to hear you guys like my characterization of this ooc arthur and all the little situations i put reader and him in!!! im always glad to talk more about this story so drop any thots in the comments :) tysm for reading !!

#red writes #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x you #low honor arthur morgan x reader #❄️ snow angel #arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan #tw dark content #tw dark fic #tw dubcon #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption

57 notes · View notes

drahtphotography · 2 years ago

Text

Look at this! Eric has some words to share! Draht Photography

New Post has been published on https://www.drahtphotography.com/the-wedding-at-timber-ridge-trails/

The Wedding at Timber Ridge Trails

Nestled amidst the rustic charm of Timber Ridge Trails, the wedding was set against the backdrop of nature’s beauty. The venue’s serene landscapes, tall pine trees, and open fields provided a perfect setting for a heartfelt celebration.

const searchread_650d10e1789bf916d4324243 = ``;

#love #okanagan wedding #timber ridge trails #wedding

1 note · View note

marigoldenblooms · 1 year ago

Text

Unica Semper Avis - Chapter 1

Pairing: Cleric!Wanda x Fem!AvianShifter!Reader x MonsterHunter!Natasha

Prompt: Ever since you’ve come of age, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from transforming into a monster. Whenever the sky would dim with a New Moon, you’d ravage the world with a fury unknown by many. Such is the bane existence of your species. This time, however - something was different. Now, you need help. On the feeble doorstep of the so-called ‘Spirit Healer,’ you found yourself both at the mercy of a cleric, and of a monster hunter’s blade. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

MINORS DNI - 18+

TW/General Tags: No mention of Y/N, slow burn, stranger to lovers (Wanda), enemies to lovers (Natasha), eventual smut (lord have mercy), Swearing, Fantasy violence, occasional descriptions of light body horror during transformation, slight self harm, slight restraint, angst, fluff, will add tags as they appear!

Chapter Warnings: Angst, canon-level violence, use of medieval weapons, body horror description in transformation, magic use, slight dissociation/self harm, restraint, fluff (for five seconds), R is a simp, so is W, N is not here to play, etc.

A/N: I’ve been working on this next chapter ever since the previous. Chapter two is coming along quickly as well! I want to keep a bit of a backlog for my longer fics, so updates will be as frequent as I can manage. The name established in this chapter for R will be used sparingly, but I loved what Missmonsters2 did with Between the Lines when I read it months ago, and thought it’d be pertinent until nicknames/pet names are established (and for as long as I can avoid conversation where names are necessary).

R’s monster form brought to you by bearded vulture inspiration! Feel free to imagine your own version of avian horror to your heart’s content. Enjoy, y’all!

Word Count: 3.1k - Read Length: 11 minutes, 18 seconds. Pictures aren't mine, credit to their owners!

~~~ The healer’s home was nothing short of overwhelming.

Multi-colored knick-knacks were strewn on every surface, perched below gatherings of drying, braided flowers which hung from the rafters. Beneath your feet, woven rugs of alternating sizes dotted the cabin’s cool wooden floors, like islands between a chilled sea of timber. The front door lead further into a sitting room, offering glimpses into a small, quaint looking kitchen, adorned with a single well-worn table and chair. Within that same place, a large pot was held still on the counter by wisps of scarlet magic, another more opaque plume coaxing a wooden spoon to stir whatever was inside.

Paintings hung along every wall, although you could never get a full glance at one, as though they’d subtly shift and change muses whenever you’d look away. The sound of a shutting door would heighten your senses enough to break from the scenery, turning on your heels to face the home’s owner once again. She’d pry at you with a half-smile, and you’d solidify your gaze at the floor before her eyes could have the chance to meet yours.

“What brings you to my home?” She’d question evenly, her words a pleasing rasp- smooth molasses which could easily cloud your senses if you allowed her to. You’d see her form move to the side of you in your peripheral, yet you’d remain still, your stare continuing to bore a hole into her carpet.

Wordlessly, you’d tug at your shawled sleeve to show the back of your arm. Running along the skin’s expanse were thin ridges, pin feathers prickling beneath taut flesh. A light down speckled your skin in odd patches, consolidated mostly on your neck and shoulders for now. Your hair had begun to fleck and grow waxy and silkish, akin to dense ostrich feathers, tousled from your trek to her abode. You’d watch the ground as her shadow would shift around you, a curious tsk showcasing her intrigue.

You wouldn’t see her raised expression, eyebrows furrowed as she’d take your wrist without warning, raising it up so she could see the indentation better in the light. She’d drop your arm as soon as she’d grabbed it, falling limply to your side, and her smooth voice would threaten to carry you off again. “Fascinating..your affliction isn’t something I’ve seen recently.”

“Can you help?” You’d mumble, the few phrases coming to you sounding choked from lack of use, and you could hear the healer’s grunt at your lackluster response. You’d swallow thickly, trying to find the words to explain all that you were, but none arrived. She’d circle around you once more, and before you could flinch away, would capture your chin between her thumb and forefinger, wrenching it to make you look at her- green irises narrowing as you’d shut yours, unwilling to look her in the eye. You’d half expect her grip to be cold like the Matron’s, but her touch’s pleasant warmth was something you almost missed as she’d let go of you, the shuffle of her arms crossing heightened behind your closed eyelids.

“I can’t help a patient I can’t trust,” She’d muse with a teasing lilt, rolling her r’s in a way that made your chest flutter. Was this another symptom of your molt? It had been a long time since you’d been with another and the thought made your heart ache, albeit not more than your bones. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The scoff that came in response to her was almost too easy, opening your eyes after directing your head to the floor again, “Because I am no threat to you.” “And why would I assume that?” She’d retort immediately, and you’d glare into the ground. Why was talking so easy for her? Why couldn’t she understand that you weren’t like her? You’d raise your arm aloft again, the skin burning now as you’d twist the plumage under your flesh for her view. The rage that had been festering in you for days unlocked a torrent of your words, finally finding purchase in your mouth- frustration evident in how each phrase was ripped from your throat. Your larynx would be useless beyond a breathing tool soon, so you better use it now. Your nails clawed at your arms, doubling into yourself, “Because you are human and I am not, healer- is that not something you’re able to understand-?!”

“Relax for me-” she’d grit, and you’d feel your stomach plummet at her words. Something in them begged obedience, and for a second you felt as though you were back in your nightmare. You’d twitch, glance immediately circling the ceiling as something would restrain you- thin tendrils of crimson magic, keeping your arms from flaring out at your sides. As if seeing your frustration, your panic, the healer’s sorcery would calm, soothing both your body and your mind into an unnatural lull. “You’re…using-” you’d begin, yet words would evade you once again, no longer fueled by anger. There was only a different feeling- regret, and uncomfortable stone in your stomach that you shied away from, wanting to cower from its weight. You didn’t like yelling at this woman, even as she cradled you with her witchcraft.

You’d feel her heat again, warm hands placing tentative touches to your shoulders, slowly coaxing your glance to hers. “I’m sorry,” she’d breathe, shallow as you’d feel her palms shake against you, “I didn’t want you… to hurt yourself-” Her irises, blooming with clouds of red, would drain into green as you’d feel her magic loosen around your body like unraveling ropes. You wouldn’t shy away from her this time, panting as her gaze would share her soul with you. She, too, held that stone in her gut. Perhaps she didn’t fear you.

You’d part as her back would stiffen, adding a few feet between the two of you. “What is your name?” She’d ask, and you saw the way her head tilted since you looked at her face. Your words came easier now that you were less tense, muscles losing their rigidity, and yet you didn’t have an answer for her. You still pried into her windows, eyes flicking across the expanse of her garden from the view you could get from her living room, but it was a start. “I met your gaze, healer..I’ve done my part, you first.”

You’d see the way her nose crinkled at your response, flecks of mirth illuminating her expression, a grin finding its place there, “Talking now, are we? I’m Wanda.” “I’m..Margo.” In truth, you hadn’t had a name in years, the few decades you’d been alive focused more on survival than memory, especially when your molts made it difficult to discern who you really were- humanoid or avian. You’d forgotten your birth name ages ago, and it was a blessing that your words left your mouth as cleanly as they did. She’d tut at your response, taking it in as satisfactory, “Sure…Margo. Would you like to sit down?”

Wanda would guide you to her kitchen table without much fanfare, settling you on her single chair. With a focused look and a wave of her hand, however- a duplicate would reveal itself from a cloud of scarlet mist. “Your magic is red?” You’d inquire, tilting your head as you’d seen her do, “It’s a violent color. Why is that?”

“Do you really want to toe that line?” Her phrase were humorous, yet you swear a flash of indignation peppered her visage. You were not going to mess with that line, whatever she meant by that. “No, Wanda.” She smiled at that, her name seemingly pleasing in your mouth. You felt the flutter in your chest again, heart drumming a little faster against your shifting ribcage. If this was a sign of your incoming succession, then you had to finish this fast- to return before you transformed in Wanda’s house. And yet, why was the feeling almost pleasant?

“You said you haven’t seen my ‘affliction’ in a while,” You’d recount, finding her term for your molt unremarkable. You’d offer her a glimpse of your arm again, hesitating to touch the quills beneath. It was always tender before a lunation, and you didn’t want to aggravate the transformation further, “It doesn’t normally happen so soon. In hours before the new moon, maybe- not over days.”

“And what happens after those hours?” She’d coax your arm down with a gentle wave, seeing how your movements grew stiff as your skeleton hollowed out. You shrug, “I transform.” Wanda’s expression would sour, yet curiosity prickled underneath. Why did she look at you like that? “Can you help me? You said you're familiar with my kind.”

“..In truth, I’ve never met someone like you,” She’d murmur, expression bashful, and if the circumstances were different you would’ve taken it as a compliment. Instead, spiked embers of dread seared in your stomach, heart beginning to thrum in your ears. She didn’t know. Could she even help you? Her voice would raise a little louder, “However, if you tell me about yourself, perhaps I could figure it out.” With a twirl of her fingers, two cups of..something floated towards the table. Her gaze was an offer, “Thirsty?”

You’d nod, your throat suddenly dry. The drink was smooth and warm, with a bite of something fresh and crisp. It was much better than your rainwater. Gulping more of it down, you notice how she’d smile at your eagerness, careful not to spill as you’d raise the cup from its saucer. “Cider,” she’d mention, motioning to her mug, “Where are you from?” “My cavern is far from here. About half a day’s walk.” Wanda’s eyebrows would raise. “Cavern? You live in a cave?” Her interest was a delight, and you wanted to keep it for as long as you could. You didn’t answer her question, instead throwing one back at her, “Why do you live far from your town?”

“Bellmoor?” Amusement would blanket Wanda’s expression, snorting as she’d shake her head, twisting in her chair so she could lean forward towards you, “Because I like my peace and quiet. I assume the same for you, Птичка?”

“What does that mean?” You’d ask, and she’d tut again. “Now now, that can be your next question, but it’s my turn.” She’d scrunch her nose at your grumbling acquiesce, and you couldn’t help but smile with her. You liked this game. Wanda rested her hands on her table, and your eyes were caught on the shimmer of her rings as she’d speak, “Can you control your transformation?” That one was easy. “Fuckin’ wish I could...” Wanda’s brows would reach her hairline at your curse, but you wouldn’t give her time to comment as yours would stream from your maw, though it’d stop early, “No Aegypius can. What does..”

“‘Птичка’ mean?” She’d grin, rasping her knuckles on the wooden grain at each syllable, “Little bird, birdie, you have feathers underneath your skin, yes?” You’d send her a taunting look, one that she met in equal measure. You’d smile back at her, “Is that your question?”

Wanda would balk, gotten so caught up in teasing you that her words just tumbled out with no direction. You’d see her cheeks grow pink, clearing her throat with a stuttered breath, and you swear she felt like you did when you felt that flutter. “No, it isn’t-” She’d respond smoothly, but you caught how her eyes shimmered, and you took another sip of cider. You knew why when her words made your mind double-take, “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

You almost spit out your drink, coughing on it as you’d sputter, blush alighting your face. You felt it warm and you tried to hide it away, your flustered reaction seemingly pleasing Wanda. She certainly didn’t know what that meant to you, “I..you want me to stay with you- I’m going to molt tonight, Wanda.”

“And if I am to help your transformation, then I must see it in person,” She’d respond, never losing her smile. It soothed you, that richness in her tone and that calm in her expression, and you’d feel a new pull in your heart. One you hated.

Your instincts wanted you to ruin her. Wanted her vulnerable as she was, to splinter her bones into shards you didn’t even have to chew.

To take advantage of her weakness, your hunger eating you alive unless you picked her clean, consumed-

You’d swallow, a shaky breath leaving you. Wanda had blinked, and your voice acted quicker than your mind would comprehend, “I don’t want it helped, Wanda. I want it gone.” You’d feel your skin itch at that, and a cold dread filled your gut, like the Matron’s chill held you once again. Your words were a whisper. “But I don’t think my body will let me.”

“All the more reason for you to stay. Do you have anything that helps you calm down?” She’d ask, leaning forward with a gentle lilt. Her hand would’ve come across the table, offering her palm to yours. It was calloused, warm skin juxtaposed with smooth metal, and you took it in yours gratefully. You were starting to really like her company.

------------------------------------------

The hours would’ve floated by you, a subtle bliss filling you as you and Wanda would’ve enjoyed the rest of your evening together. You could feel your body shift by the hour, and yet a part of you didn’t care if you were with her. You’d show her your chains, mentioning their unknown inscription and how they’d keep your form….distracted. You would be kept in the barn once the moonless night had begun, the sky within a period of tranquil dusk. She ghosted her hand across the rim of your shackles, and you were surprised they didn’t burn her like they did you. An Aegypius trait, you supposed.

Wanda had made you stew using that pot from earlier, while you hovered in the vicinity, chopping up carrot and onion into more manageable pieces. The meal was finished after it had boiled for a long time, and it was only when you sat down to enjoy it with her that a blink of movement would catch your eye. The bay windows curved in a beautiful shape that let the last vestiges of light in, and you’d register the sight of silver metal piercing into the glass before you heard it smash.

A figure leapt through its shattered remains, thick cloak blanketing their form to protect them from the glass. Their armor and longsword was polished beautifully, and they would be regal if it wasn’t for their war shout and barred teeth. You could see their face beneath their hood, just before the glint of their weapon as it’d slice down towards your chest.

You’d dodge, rushing backwards until your back hit the other end of the wall. As the longsword would finish its downward arc, Wanda’s magic would cradle its blade, her hands outstretched and bent as if trying to push it up. Her voice was strangled and thin, heard between the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears, “run, Margo- go!”

Turning to bolt, you’d hear the clatter of boots against wood as a rougher hand would grab you by the scruff of your neck. Writhing in their hold, you’d shove your elbow into the ribs of your attacker, before grabbing their hand from your nape to sink your teeth into it. “Fuck, you гриф-” The knight’s heavy breath was audible from behind your back. You’d bite harder, feeling their skin break beneath your jaw as you’d thrash, trying to cleave flesh off. They’d tear their hand from you, kicking your legs with a force that sent you barreling down.

Your head would hit the hardwood floor, and you could hear the ringing in your ears as you’d look up, vision swimming as everything looked double. Your hooded attacker brandished their longsword with two hands above you, although it looked like they had four. Before they could stab the blade downward, Wanda’s hand would lurch out to their neck- pressing the kitchen knife into their throat as her other palm would scratch towards the knight’s eyes, the pair barreling backwards which left you an outside view that made your pupils retract into pinpricks.

The sky was dark, illuminated with bright swaths of stars. Tears pricked at your eyes. The few treetops you saw couldn’t even reach its height, blanketing the world in an awaiting gloom. You knew the moon was out there, but you couldn’t see it. Your mind reeled, thoughts growing famished as you’d stare into its expanse. You licked your lips. The sky offered you reprieve, and who were you to deny its feast?

The wheezing pop of bone into stronger sockets would startle Wanda and her assailant into a tense standoff, your witch pinning the stranger to the floorboards while the knight tried in vain to grasp at their longsword that had been kicked many feet away. Your breath heaved with strength you hadn’t felt before, seizing as the voice that came from you was no more than a guttural hiss. Your skull would reshape, mouth widening into a curved beak, hooking into serrated edges, while your skull would become angular, bird like. Anything but human, you were no longer recognizable. Feathers would blanket the creature’s shifting musculature, tearing from roughened skin as they’d fan into shape. Its arms and legs grow as its fingers would lengthen, bat-like wings creaking before they’d be covered in plumage; ivory white on it’s neck and shoulders, cascading into darker blacks and blues elsewhere. The monster’s feathers wouldn’t remain unpigmented for long, as they’d begin to warm on its skin- sparks flying from where they touched, growing into a burnt umber. The beast would groan as its wings crashed to the floor- bipedalism was no longer an option, the force cracking the wooden boards. Horns would thunder from shaking its monstrous head, the beast’s eyes blinking into pale gold with a crimson ring surrounding them. A black line of feathers ran down the side of its face and to its gaping maw, tufted at its chin. Its feathers had heated into shades of orange, flecked with flame- while cyan speckled where its temperature had reached an apex.

Silence would still the room, the shaky inhale of breath marking the presence of living beings in it’s fray. The demon would blink again, a gnashing sound emanating from inside its cavernous beak. It’d then raise itself on its haunches, spread its twelve meter wingspan (shattering the walls in its wake), and echo a deafening, reverberating call into the night.

The hunt had truly begun. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

~~~

214 notes · View notes